“These are the gardens of the desert,—theseThe boundless, unshorn fields, where lingers yetThe beauty of the earth, ere man had sinned,—The Prairies.”BRYANT.
“These are the gardens of the desert,—theseThe boundless, unshorn fields, where lingers yetThe beauty of the earth, ere man had sinned,—The Prairies.”BRYANT.
On the side of a green sloping hill, along whose base murmured a little rivulet, lay the temporary camp of a roving band of Indian warriors. It was situated within that region of country which now forms the state of Illinois, but over which, at that time, they roamed with all the freedom of undisputed sovereignty. Peace had reigned for many years, and apprehending no danger, they had selected their situation, a regard being had more to comfort than security. Somewhat elevated, it commanded a fine view of the surrounding scenery, and surely eyes never beheld a prospect more beautiful.
In the rear of their camp, and at a short distance, lay a boundless forest, wild, grand, and imposing from the deep stillness which reigned throughout it. There was no undergrowth, the Indians having regularly burned it every spring, and in its place, there sprung up a soft velvet grass, so green and luxuriant, that to the weary it seemed to invite repose; and upon this, far from the wigwams of the red men, fed herds of buffalo, deer, and elk.—Before it lay in all its silent beauty, a prairie, of whose extent the human eye could take no note. While you gazed searching for its boundary, the eye would sweep the greater segment of a circle, still there it lay illimitable; there, spread out before you, it undulated with the heavy swellings of the sea; yet it was not monotonous, for from its bosom arose many little islands as green and fresh as foliage could make them. The whole prairie was covered with grass of luxuriant growth, and adorned with every flower to which the climate gave birth, and when set in motion by the winds as they swept over it, it assumed the appearance of a gently heaving ocean, while the odour from the flowers, borne on the passing breeze, shed abroad so many sweets, that a stranger would have looked upon it as the land of promise.
And if there was a moment in which the prospect was more beautiful than at another, it was when the sun, near the western horizon, seemed pillowed on clouds of fire, or else sinking beneath it, grew large, and round, and red, shedding abroad a softer light, as if sorrowing that even for a time he was compelled to leave a scene so lovely.
Overlooking this, lay the Indian camp. A large buck which swung against a tree, and a buffalo from which several Indians were stripping the hide, indicated that they had just returned from a successful hunt. Yet you soon saw that hunting was not regarded as their sole occupation, for upon glancing round, you beheld stacked up in various piles, rifles, unstrung bows, and all the implements of Indian warfare; while the military dresses of the red men told plainly, that they were holding themselves in readiness for some warlike excursion.
The camp presented many scenes, several of which were strikingly impressive from their contrast. Scattered about in every direction, lay groups of warriors, some sleeping, others telling of battles, or cleaning their arms; while hard by, leaning over a log, might be seen several feathering their arrows, and decorating them with hieroglyphical characters. On the outside of the camp, burned a bright fire, over which several squaws were preparing their morning meal, and still farther without, rose up a bower, formed by the weaving of oaken boughs.—In this were reclining two female Indians, evidently of some distinction, from the manner in which they were treated. They were Netnokwa, and her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa.
Netnokwa was by birth an Ottawa, and notwithstanding her sex, was recognized as chief of her tribe. She possessed great energy of character, blended with ambition; bold, ardent, and indefatigable in her exertions, she had obtained an authority over her tribe which few of the opposite sex could have wielded. Conspicuous for her savage virtues, she also possessed those which would have shed lustre over any character; several times had she in former days led her warriors on to mingle in the exterminating war which then raged on the upper branches of the Wabash, and as often had she been successful. In the defeats of Generals Harmar and St. Clair, her warriors had been conspicuous, and she had also in person led them on to the decisive battle of Presque Isle, which marked its termination. From that time to the present, peace had reigned; but now clouds of war were again gathering, and Netnokwa, incited by the martial recollections of the past, had repaired from her distant home in the north-west to the scene of former conflicts, to learn the truth of flying rumours, gaze upon the far-famed Prophet, and acquaint herself with the situation of the tribes along the frontier.—In this journey she had been accompanied by her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, whom she brought with her to bestow in marriage on a Shawanee, whose growing reputation had already spread far abroad.
Having arrived in his country, she had ascertained the location of his encampment, and had with her daughter come to seek him. Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, or, “the Red Sky of the morning,” which her name implies, was as pretty as a dusky maid can be; beautiful in proportion, timid in appearance, and as easily startled as the fawn; with eyes so expressive, that they seemed to say a thousand things, while her hair, darker than the raven's wing, fell without a curl in rich luxuriance far below her shoulders.—She sate within her bower neatly dressed, and decorated with wild flowers, the snow-white petals of which, interwoven with her hair, wore the appearance of spotless gems.
She was embroidering with her needle a deer-skin slipper, or rather tracing thereon with beads, some fanciful figure, when ever and anon she would let it drop, and gaze upon the deep blue heavens, as if endeavouring to read therein her fate; and then her whole frame would tremble, and in her agitation she would again resume her needle.
“Mother, I fear I shall be left alone.”
“The ‘Red Sky of the morning’ is the fairest maid of the forest; where is the chieftain who dares refuse her?”
“Mother, I have seen chieftains decorate themselves with large and gaudy flowers, when the sweet-briar was opening its buds to the morning.”
“And is Netnokwa nothing? Proud may be the chief who calls me mother. Rest, my daughter, the fawn is troubled at its own image.”
“Mother, I know not the chief. Some Shawanee maiden will enter his wigwam. Your name is great among the red men, but I have seen a warrior strike with his hatchet the old oak tree which shades our wigwam, and it bled. Is not Netnokwa to her tribe, what the oak is to the forest?”
“Then be it,” said the mother, “as the Great Spirit wills it; we must await the hour.”
It is easy for us to conceive the feelings which agitated the breast of the Indian maiden. Young and diffident, she was frightened at the ceremony she was about to go through; and moreover feared a repulse with its attendant mortifications. She had never seen the man to whom, if it pleased his fancy, she was about to be united; nor had even a rumour reached her ears from which she might form any conjecture as to his decision. The hour for the ceremony had not yet been announced, although it was known that it must take place before the close of the day. Leaving Netnokwa and her daughter for a few moments, let us return to the camp.
Directing our attention from that part of it which we have been describing to another, the eye reposed upon a group of warriors, most of whom were earnestly engaged in conversation. There was one, however, of a dark and ferocious countenance, who spoke not, but sate apart, brooding on the visions of his own fancy. He was clothed with power, and not a glance that rested on him, but was quickly averted, as if from some dread object. This mysterious being was the Prophet of the Shawanees.
Next in rank was a character of a different order, whose dress bespoke him chief among his tribe.—His wrists were decorated with gold and silver bands, while rich ornaments of the same metals hung suspended from his neck and ears. Beside him on the grass lay a beaver skin, fancifully gathered up, somewhat after the fashion of a Turkish turban, and from it waved over with much grace, a large plume of white ostrich feathers. His tomahawk was keen and bright, its handle inlaid with silver, and with it his hands were playing for the want of some other amusement; his lower limbs were encased in leggins, on which were traced many grotesque figures, and which fitted him so closely, as to show the beautiful symmetry of his figure.—He was of fine stature, and his face, but for its dusky hue, would have been thought handsome, even by the pale faces. There was nothing dark or lowering in his aspect, but an ease of manner, and a grace which marked him one of nature's nobles. In gazing on him, the surprise was, that one possessing so few of what civilized man deems advantages, should by the power of genius alone, have already connected his name with a system of policy, which could only have originated in the deepest wisdom, and the most profound sagacity; a system, by which nearly all the tribes in the great valley of the Mississippi were made subservient to his purposes, and their power concentred for one great design.
Yet who was there, who had not heard of Tecumseh, the Shawanee warrior, who so often had foiled the whites, and like an eagle stooping from his eyrie, so often struck, and was gone, no one knew whither. Even when a boy in years, he had associated his name with so many tales of frontier massacre, that in the settlements it would blanch the cheek of a maiden, or hush a crying child into silence.
When the war which terminated with the humiliating peace of Greenville, was still raging, Tecumseh was the leader of a roving band which often swept down upon the settlements, and marked its path with the most desolating ravages. Nor, in the long interval of peace which succeeded, did his restless mind continue inactive, but was constantly engaged in meditating schemes of vengeance, and devising plans for concentrating the scattered energies of his countrymen, weakened as they were by petty jealousies, and by divisions among their tribes;—the particulars of which shall be shortly unfolded.
It is said that even when a child he gave marks of the prowess which was to distinguish his riper years. Oft time had he listened to the chiefs of his tribe, while they detailed the proud descent of the Shawanees, and described their once princely dominions, and had wept upon hearing their change of situation attributed to the perfidy and aggression of the whites. Like Hannibal in his infant years, who swore eternal enmity to Rome, Tecumseh vowed that all his energies should be directed to resist the encroachments of the whites; that never would he move from the lands which his tribe now held; but that there, on the graves of his fathers, would he make the last stand for the rights of his countrymen. It seemed as if all the wrongs his race had suffered were glowing in him alone:—he felt them, and had been in part avenged; for in early life, his path was like a tornado sweeping through the forest, plainly visible from the destruction that marked its course; and how faithfully he carried into effect the resolves of his early years, let the sequel tell.
Still, great as he was, Tecumseh was not alone, but was one of three brothers at a birth; and a more remarkable one, the annals of history never recorded. Tecumseh, Elkswatawa, and Kumshaka, were born near Chilicothe, on the banks of the Scioto, in the year 1772. Their father fell in assisting the unfortunate Logan in the battle of Point Pleasant, which was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanawha, in 1774, and for instruction they became entirely dependent upon their mother, who was by birth a Cherokee. She early made them acquainted with all warlike sports; instilled into their minds a deadly enmity against the whites; narrated the sad catastrophe which led to the battle of Kanawha; and breathed into them that spirit of vengeance which had led their father on to the battle in which he fell.
Every thing surrounding them tended to make them warriors of the first class. They belonged to the tribe of the Shawanees, decidedly the most warlike, and, at one time, the most powerful on our continent. For fifty years previous to the date of which I am now speaking, they had, with scarcely any intermission, been engaged in hostilities. They had fought every tribe of any note, residing in that extensive district of country which reaches from the Floridas on the south, to the great lakes of the north, among which may be enumerated the Creeks, Choctaws, Cherokees, Yemassees, and Delawares. Leaguing themselves with the French, they had fought as their allies from 1755, to the termination of the war in 1763. Recruiting for a few years, they allied themselves with Logan to revenge upon the people of Virginia the wrongs he had suffered in the murder of his family. Defeated in this attempt, and the war of the Revolution breaking out, they became the steadfast allies of the English, their former foes; remained so throughout the war, and continued up to the treaty of Greenville to wage an unrelenting warfare along our entire frontiers, notwithstanding the peace of '83. They never sued for peace, but time after time, to stay the wave of advancing population, had they swept over the frontier settlements. They alone had preserved unadulterated the Indian spirit of indomitable savagery; forming the forlorn hope of the numerous bands which had been continually driven westward, they had within their own minds marked out the boundary beyond which they would never retreat.
This was the tribe from which descended Tecumseh and his brothers, and where could they have found a better school for the exercise of all warlike propensities? where have found a situation better calculated to arouse them to action, and to make them the distinguished men they afterward became?
Nothing could be more different than the dispositions of the brothers. Tecumseh was noble in appearance, firm in purpose, gifted in speech, daring in design, burning with the love of glory, and reckless of personal aggrandizement. He was frank, open and manly with his friends, kind, just and humane to his enemies. Elkswatawa was tall, too slender to be finely proportioned, with sharp piercing eyes, and a thin, lowering visage. He was dark, crafty and subtle; wavering, nor in a stranger to mercy; and in purpose not less undaring less bold than his brother. Kumshaka had not the qualities of either; he was a good warrior, but wanted that comprehensiveness of mind, and fixedness of purpose, which characterized his brothers. With regard to him it is needless to enter more into detail, for his early death prevented him from playing any conspicuous part. Let us now return to our story.
The camp which we have been describing, was that of the Shawanees, and Tecumseh was its chief. Collected around him, his warriors seemed to be discussing some subject of great interest.
“The clouds are gathering,” said Tecumseh—“the red torch must shortly be kindled; the whites will not let us live in peace.”
“No,” said a warrior, “they kill our people and take away our lands; we must fight or starve.”
“Fight,” cried another, “and the whites shall be scattered like leaves by the wind.”
“Know you the number of the pale faces?” inquired the first warrior who had spoken—“they are like grains of sand on the shore of the big Lake:—they are like leaves on the trees.”
“Yes,” said his companion, “but the leaves on the trees sometimes fall.”
“They do”—chimed in Tecumseh. “But when the old leaves fall, new ones come; so is it with the pale faces. This country cannot hold us both, and when we battle again, it must be until they, or we, no longer struggle for dominion.”
“Before the treaty,” said the warrior who last spoke, “the red men went to battle, and the ground was covered with the whites;—will it not be so again?”
“It shall be so:”—said Tecumseh, “but the time has not yet come. When we again gather our warriors, the pale faces shall fly—we shall trample them down—and the wild beasts shall feed upon them. Did not the Great Spirit give these hunting grounds to his red children?”
While thus conversing, they were interrupted by a messenger from Netnokwa, who bore a bundle of presents, and said to Tecumseh, “the Red Sky of the morning wishes to make her appearance.”
“Let the messenger retire, while I hold converse with my warriors,” said Tecumseh; then calling them more closely around him, “Tecumseh would hold a talk with his brothers,” said he. “The pale faces are cleaning their guns and sharpening their knives. They wish to drive us from the hunting grounds of our fathers. Tecumseh never will go;—his thoughts are for his country; he has no time for a wife, and would have his brothers tell him the best way to refuse Netnokwa's daughter.”
“Netnokwa,” said a warrior, “is chief of the Ottawas; you had better tear a cub from a bear in its den, than refuse the offered hand of her daughter.”
“Netnokwa is great;” said Tecumseh. “She is a woman, and I fear her. Her tongue is like a knife. But before another moon we may go to battle. What would Tecumseh do with a wife?”
“Red Sky of the morning hath travelled far;” said a warrior, “her step is like that of the bounding roe; her moccasin leaves no print on the grass; her voice is sweet as the singing of birds. There is nothing like her in the forest. A maiden likes not to be turned away.”
“I have not seen her,” said Tecumseh, “and though she be beautiful as the sun when first he rises up from the prairie, and walks out to make every thing glad, yet, I want not a wife.”
“Shall she be laughed at by the chieftains of her own tribe,” said a warrior, “for having been refused by a Shawanee brave? She is young; her heart will bleed.”
“Tecumseh is sorry,” was the reply, “but he has spoken. The maiden must return to her own lodge.”
“Stay,” said a warrior, whose years entitled him to great respect, “will Tecumseh listen? My eyes have seen many snows, and my ears have drunk in many sounds:—something whispers me put it off.”
“Tecumseh would be glad if he could do so,” was the reply. “If the tomahawk were deep buried, and the pale faces would let it stay there, the daughter of Netnokwa should live in his wigwam. But it cannot be, and it is better to refuse at once, than to delay until the long shadows fall and then refuse. The maiden would dream she was a chieftain's bride. No.”—Then, turning to a warrior, he said, “get ready the presents, let them be rich, and such as should belong to a chieftain's daughter. To-morrow the maiden returns to her own country.”
The preparations were soon made, and “Red Sky of the morning” was seen coming towards Tecumseh's tent, leaning for support on the arm of her mother. As they approached, they were met by Tecumseh, who treated them with great courtesy; nothing indicated his purpose, no marked dislike, or even coldness of manner told that the maiden was to be refused. Never was a girl of the forest more fair, and never did so much delicacy and timidity encircle a dusky form. Shrinking from the ardent gaze of the chieftain, she caused her hair to fall over her face, serving as a veil behind which her virgin modesty retreated, while she awaited his advances. Tecumseh had never seen any thing so beautiful, and for a moment faltered in his determination; yet, with a recollection of the situation of his country, he was himself again, and taking the maiden by the hand he led her towards his tent, that he might accompany his refusal with a sufficient number of presents.
Netnokwa, during this time, calm, dignified, and majestic, had been supporting her daughter, without ever for a moment dreaming, that she was to be refused; and when Tecumseh, taking hold of her hand, led her on to his tent, she observed, “‘Red Sky of the morning’ will be the bride of the greatest brave.”
Tecumseh heard the remark, and felt deeply; for besides the passions of the mother which were now to be aroused, there was the daughter so retiring, modest, and gentle, that he was pained to give a pang to one so good. How sadly would she be mortified, not because she loved him, for until the present moment her eyes had never beheld him, but because of the ridicule which would be cast on her by the chieftains of her own tribe, for having been refused by the Shawanee. Without her consent, her mother had projected this match, in order to secure a strong ally; she was likewise apprised of the growing reputation of the Shawanee chief, and doting upon her daughter, had been anxious to connect her with one, whom fame had already exalted far above his companions.
Tecumseh, accompanied by Netnokwa and her daughter, had now nearly reached his tent; another moment and the costly pile of presents would have told his determination, when suddenly there arose a cry, that a runner was coming. The camp was instantly in motion, and all minor things forgotten in a general desire to hear tidings, whose import none could conjecture. Great was the relief to Tecumseh; it enabled him for a time to postpone the ceremony, and flattered him with the hope, that its purport would compel him to defer it until some more opportune occasion.
“What tidings are these borne on the breeze?” asked Netnokwa, “Shawanee brave, think not now of a maiden, but gather your men, and receive the runner.”
“I will,” said Tecumseh, as he hurried off, “return to thy bower;—I will tell thee the tidings.” A moment passed, the warriors were assembled in council, and the runner introduced. Addressing himself to Tecumseh, he stated that he left a band of Indians assembled on the Wabash, who were so excited against the whites on account of a murder recently committed, that he feared they would make a sudden irruption upon the settlements, and call down the force of the whites before the Indians were ready to oppose them. That being apprised of this, he had stolen away to tell it to the chiefs of the Shawanees, and see what they in their wisdom would do.
At the close of this speech the air resounded with yells of vengeance. When they had died away, and silence was again restored,—“where gather our brothers” said Tecumseh, “and what are their number.”
“They are assembling on the forks of the Wabash,” said the runner, “and warriors are gathering like pigeons at a roost.”
“This must be stopped,” said Tecumseh, “our fathers who have gone to the world of spirits, shall have more white men to wait upon them. But the time has not yet come; a little while longer, and the war whoop shall ring.”
Again the yell of savage delight broke forth; each warrior rose upon his feet, brandished aloft his glittering tomahawk, and made it whistle as rapidly he moved his arm through the air.
“Silence!”—cried a voice which had something in it of an unearthly sound; they were hushed as still as the grave, and the Prophet rose.
“Warriors, listen; it is the chosen of the Great Spirit who speaks to you. We are not ready for battle. When we strike, all the red men must know it. We must move like a great flood over the land. We are now but a small stream. Our brothers on the Wabash must be calm. They must suffer a little longer if they wish to see our rivers run red with the blood of the whites. Tecumseh, hurry away, and tell them the time has not yet come. They must disperse. It is the Prophet of the Great Spirit who commands it.”
He then seated himself, and Tecumseh, making no reply, for the words of the Prophet were by his followers deemed as unchangeable as the laws of the Medes and Persians, the council then adjourned.
“But stay,” said Tecumseh, addressing his warriors, “what will become of Netnokwa and her daughter?”
“We will away to our own country,” said Netnokwa, who, with her daughter, was standing a little apart from the crowd, “‘Red Sky of the morning’ would not detain her chief from duty:—when the sky is clear, the Shawanee brave can find our wigwam.”
“Yes,” said Tecumseh, “if I live, I will find it, but does Netnokwa look for a clear sky? Clouds are thickening; there may be peace between the red men and white, but, I fear, it will only be, when the white man's plough runs over our graves; never before. The pale face, like a lean dog, is always hungry.”
“The red man is strong in battle,” said Netnokwa, “let him go forth; when roused to vengeance who can withstand him; the Great Spirit is with him.”
“We are strong,” said Tecumseh, “and were all united, we could sweep over the settlements like a fire over the prairie. But we are divided, and must not strike till all are one. Then the earth shall tremble under the tramp of our feet, as we march along. We must stop our brothers on the Wabash. The Prophet orders it. I must away. You will return. Some of my warriors must conduct to her lodge ‘Red Sky of the morning.’”
“Let your warriors stay;” said Netnokwa, “the clouds are darkening. The pale faces may come down upon our lands. You may need them. I, and my daughter can thread the forest.”
“But my Ottawa maiden will want for food,” said Tecumseh.
“‘Red Sky of the morning’ is fleeter than the doe,” said Netnokwa, “her arrow never misses it's mark.”
Pleased by this compliment from her mother, she gracefully bent a bow which was near her, “will the Shawanee chieftain bring me that bird?” said the maiden, pointing to one which was sitting on a tree hard by.
“The distance is great; before I approach, it will fly:—” said the warrior.
“No,” said the maiden.
“I may not hit it,” said the warrior.
“I will,” said the maiden.
The warrior became confused, and hesitated.
“Will you bring me the bird?” said the maiden.
Still more confused, he bent his bow, and started forward.
“You need not shoot,” said the maiden, and drawing her bow, she let fly an arrow. The bird dropped beneath the tree; then, awaiting the return of Tecumseh, she said, “thinkest thou the Ottawa maiden will want for food?”
“Thou art the daughter of Netnokwa,” said Tecumseh, gently taking her hand; “when the pale-face is no more, we will together hunt the deer and buffalo far from our wigwam.”
With Tecumseh, this at the time was his determination; for never had he seen a maiden more lovely, or one more worthy than Miskwa to become a warrior's bride. Yet, dark as his forebodings were with regard to his country, he saw not how great and deadly was to be the coming struggle, nor how sad its issue, after having worn out in its defence the energies of his own great spirit, and covered its plains with the bones of his warriors.
But the time having arrived for him to set out, as ordered by the prophet, Netnokwa said, “hast thou heard of Pontiac, Tecumseh? His blood flows in my veins; at his name the settlements would tremble, not one, nor two, but all; his voice in battle was like rolling thunder; his path on the frontiers like the whirlwind's sweep; make him thy light, thy guide, thy north-star.”
“It is well,” replied the warrior; “but let Tecumseh live, and his country shall be respected and at peace, of the red torch of war shall blaze from the big lakes to the far south; and the red men from the setting sun shall hurry on to feast in the wigwams of the pale faces; farewell.”
“May the Great Spirit bless thee,” said Netnokwa. “Tell me, when will the Ottawa maiden see the Shawanee chieftain?”
“When there are no clouds in the horizon,” said Tecumseh, “and the war-whoop ceases to ring through the forest;” then disappearing for a few moments he returned equipped for a journey, and bidding his warriors a hurried farewell, was soon hid with the runner in the recesses of the forest.
“Where is the stony eye that hath not shedCompassion's heart drops o'er the sweet McCrea?Through midnight's wilds by savage bandits led,Her heart is sad, her lover far away.”DRAKE.
“Where is the stony eye that hath not shedCompassion's heart drops o'er the sweet McCrea?Through midnight's wilds by savage bandits led,Her heart is sad, her lover far away.”DRAKE.
The leader of the party which Rolfe and Earth were following, was named Yanatah, who only halted for a few moments, that he might consult with his followers as to where they should rest; when again setting off, they soon emerged from the woods into an open prairie, and seeking a small elevation, which was no other than an ancient mound, they prepared to pass the remainder of the night. The spot which they selected commanded a view for some distance in every direction, and as the grass was too short for concealment, the hunters were obliged to content themselves with lying on the edge of the prairie under cover of the woods.
Each one of the Indians as they left the forest, picked up some wood, and in a few moments they had a large fire blazing, around which they gathered.
“We are not all here,” said Yanatah; “where is Begwa?”
“He had a heavy pack,” said a warrior, “and stays behind; he is tired.”
“Give the pale face a blanket,” continued the chieftain, “and let her sleep; she wants rest; she must travel to the Prophet's camp.”
This was done; but her heart seemed breaking, and death for her had no terrors. From the first moment of her capture until the present, she had been hurried along without time for reflection; and now, at rest, began to doubt whether she was dreaming, or whether her situation was really what it appeared to be; and when consciousness came with its sad reality, she gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears.
Some time elapsed, and yet Begwa had not arrived. His absence occasioned much anxiety, until some one hinted that he had gone off in order to secure to himself the plunder with which he was loaded. There being no other rational way to account for his sudden disappearance, the suggestion was agreed to, and vowing vengeance, they were silent.
After a few moments, Yanatah said, “while we sleep, let two warriors keep watch; I fear the pale faces are on our steps; I doubt if Begwa would have left us for the sake of plunder. Begwa was a good warrior.”
“Begwa,” replied one of the party, “would not have fallen without a struggle. If the pale faces were on our steps we should have heard them.”
“Can you hear an eel,” asked Yanatah, “when it moves through the water? say no more, but let the watch be kept.”
Soon after this, they were all reposing by the fire, save the two warriors on duty, who were perfuming the air with kinny kaneek, and inhaling its odour through the handles of their tomahawks, the heads of which were fashioned into pipes. The captive maiden soon sank into a troubled slumber, for although she slept, her frame was often violently agitated, and there were moments, when her limbs quivered as in the agonies of death; with this exception, the Indian camp was quiet.
The prairie, as we have before observed, was too naked to allow the hunters to approach nearer to the Indian camp, than the outer edge of the woods; and nothing remained for them, but to rest where they were as mere spectators; for although at some distance, they had it entirely within their view.
Having seated themselves with their backs against a tree, whose widely spreading branches kept off the dew, they gathered themselves up and adjusted their garments that they might be as comfortable as possible.
“There is as yet no chance to benefit the captive,” said Rolfe.
“No,” said Earth, “see! those two devils are wide awake; but let them fall asleep if they dare, and we will not have crossed the river for nothing.”
The feelings, like every thing else, require relaxation, and Rolfe and Earthquake forgot in a few minutes the excitement under which they had been labouring.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “the dews are very heavy, I feel a little chilly.”
“That is, you would like a little back-warmer,” said Earth, “come out like a man, and don't be so mealy-mouthed.”
“I thought it was all gone.”
“No,” said Earth, drawing from his pocket a small, flat,stone tickler, and shaking it, he smiled as he heard it wash up against its sides. “I'll try it first, to convince you 'tan't poison,” and throwing his head back, he emptied a part of its contents into his throat, and smacking his lips, passed the tickler to Rolfe.
Rolfe went through the same ceremony, and as gurgling out, it pronounced the words,good,good, “there's no lie in that,” said Earth, “it speaks the truth every wordonit.”
“It's alllie, I believe,” replied Rolfe, “for it has taken the skin from my tongue, why did you not put some water with it?”
“What! wade through water in order to get at the liquor! no, no, Rolfe, never do that when you have any respect for the spirit.”
“Earth,” said Rolfe, changing the subject, “how little do the people in the States know of the life of a Western hunter; here are we sleeping night after night without a bed, often without food, and now lying in an enemy's country, watching a party of Indians four times our number.”
“Not quite four times, I think,” said Earth; and so saying, he looked archly at Rolfe.
“I understand you, Earth; I saw it all, but did not like the deed; there were eight.”
“I could not help it, Rolfe, 'twas so good a chance. Moreover, I thought I might as well put him out of the way, that there would be one less, in case we have to take a brush.”
“I have no objection if any good is to result from it,” said Rolfe, “they are now seven to two, and I don't think we have gained much; I can't say that I liked it.”
“But, Rolfe, tell me, did you not think the operation was performed very neatly?”
“Yes, I must give you credit for that, Earth, it was certainly a very cool murder.”
“Oh! no, no, don't call it a murder, Rolfe, I only killed an Indian; it was over so quick with him, I didn't hurt him; he only said ‘humph!’”
“What did you do with the bundle he was carrying?”
“I hid it, thinking we would examine it on our return.”
“You did well, for from it we may learn the name of the family murdered. Earth, ever since I caught a glimpse of that poor girl's face to night, I have thought of nothing else; she is so much like her I loved, that if I could divine a reason for her father's having emigrated, I should think her the same. But her father was rich and happy; and surely he would never have left a quiet and peaceful home, for the wild woods of the west.”
“God only knows who she may be,” said Earth, “I pity her from the bottom of my soul, for she has suffered a thousand deaths to-night. You know she is a stranger to me, Rolfe, but if there be any such thing as truth, I would, to restore her to her friends, willingly take her place.”
“Poor girl!” said Rolfe, “she will never see her home again; doomed, perhaps, to the torture, or else to fill the office of some Indian squaw.”
“It is hard, hard, Rolfe! yet such is their savage nature; no one escapes. But if they carry her to Tecumseh, and all things be true which they tell of him, she will not suffer. 'Cumseh and I have seen some hard times.”
“What do they say of him?” inquired Rolfe.
“Why, that he respects the treaty, is famed for his humanity, and has never refused to surrender a murderer; moreover, he is the only Ingen whom I have heard of as being perfectly disinterested. He is very different from his brother.”
“And do you know his brother?”
“I have never seen him, but know him to be cruel in the extreme. He is the man who has lately become a Prophet, and you know he has been burning his own people until he is tired of it. Now I think it more than probable that he is at the bottom of this murder.”
“Then God forbid,” said Rolfe, “that she should fall into his hands, her fate will be bad enough without.”
“You may say that,” said Earth.
“But from your statement with regard to Tecumseh, Earth, I should think he was a noble fellow, and if they carry her to him, he will restore her to her friends.”
“Yes, he is as noble as a red skin can be, and that's not much; I don't trust any of 'em. I suspect he is our worst enemy, and every thing that his name implies.”
“What is that?”
“Why, Tecumseh, in the Shawanee tongue, means ‘tiger crouching for his prey.’”
“Look, Earth,” said Rolfe, pointing to the fire, “what are those Indians at?—making baskets?”
“No,” said Earth, “they are twisting those twigs in order to make small hoops to dry their scalps upon. Do you not see between that fellow's legs something that looks like small hoe-cakes? Well, they are scalps stretched upon a hoop and placed there to dry.”
“Tell me, does the maiden see them?” inquired Rolfe.
“No, I think not,” said Earth, “see, she lies covered up, and, I hope, is asleep.”
Much desultory conversation occurred, which whiled away the time till day began to dawn. The hunters were now getting drowsy, and yet the Indians showed no disposition to move. But when the eastern sky began to grow red, and the sun rose up, the Indian camp was in motion, and soon after the red men with their captive were treading their way across a prairie, boundless in extent, and beautiful as the imagination can conceive.
For the hunters to follow on, was now a perilous undertaking. The country was so open, that they could not keep near enough to watch the movements of the Indians, without detection; and the only plan was, to allow them to get out of sight, and to follow on to their trail, hoping for some fortuitous occurrence.
To this plan Earthquake was opposed, and he urged the great risk that must be run without the probability of doing any good. But Rolfe had become so much interested in the fate of the captive, that he begged his companion to continue the pursuit, if only for that day; and if no opportunity should offer for assisting her, that he would then return.
“Were we in the forest,” said Earth, “I would willingly follow for a week, but in an open prairie there is risk and no benefit; however, since you so much desire it, follow on.”
“Earth, you talk of risk; you know war is not declared, and that the Indians still profess peace. Now suppose we show ourselves and demand the maiden, they will perhaps surrender her.”
“I thought of that,” said Earth;—“there is peace, 'tis true; but, Rolfe, you see what sort of a peace 'tis. Were we to show ourselves, instead of getting the maiden, we should have our scalps taken off. They have done this to pay for some murder committed on 'em, and it must lead to war, and sooner than we wish, if we are to remain long on this side of the river; but if they carry her to 'Cumseh's camp, we may venture, and if he be present, perhaps we may succeed.”
“Then,” said Rolfe, “let us follow for a time, and see where they are going.”
“Agreed,” said Earth.
Suffering the Indians to advance for some distance, the hunters crawled up to the fire which they had left, and there remained until the party dwindled down to a few dark spots on the surface of the prairie; when, rising up, they followed fearlessly on their trail.
“How beautiful are these plains,” said Rolfe. “Earth, do you blame the Indians for not surrendering them?”
“No, I cannot say that I do: nor do I blame the whites for endeavouring to take them away.”
“Why? are not the Indians the rightful owners, and have not their fathers owned them time out of mind?”
“Rolfe, it will not do to argue this matter: we have treated the Ingens so badly, that we cannot now live in peace, but are obliged to add insult to injury. You know I've a great many grudges agin 'em, and use them up on all occasions, for I well know they would have killed me long before this, if they had had a good chance.”
“And because you have treated them badly, you think you ought to kill them? Is that your argument?”
“No, I never argue about it; if one comes near me, and he gives me a cause, I'm very apt to kill him. Somehow or other it is bred in me, and I hate them; for you see they are always straggling along the frontiers, and committing murders.”
“Yes, and you see our frontiers are always extending, so that the Indians are compelled either to move or else to be continually at war.”
“The fact is,” said Earth, “I believe I think as most of the whites do, and that is, that these lands are too good for them; they should be cultivated instead of lying waste for them to prowl over.”
“From present appearances,” said Rolfe, “it will be a long time before they are cultivated; the Indians, I think, are preparing for a general war.”
“They are,” said Earth; “and it would still be a hard fight if they were all united; but their dissensions and our enmity, will root them out at last.”
“I have often thought of this,” said Rolfe, “and also of Pontiac, the Ottawa chieftain. He was a great man, and would have been great, even among the whites. Had he lived on the sea-board when this country was first discovered, a settlement would never have been formed by the whites in his day.”
Nothing occurred worthy of note during the progress of the hunters across the prairie. Not being able to mark particularly the movements of the Indians, they merely followed on at a distance. It was now evening, and a dark line was seen on the horizon in the direction the Indians were travelling, which, increasing as they journeyed along, proved to be a forest bounding the prairie.
“They must be near their journey's end,” said Earth. “See the smoke how it hangs over yon wood; it is there they are encamped.”
But before we introduce the predatory party, let us again return to the camp of Tecumseh. That chief having left some few hours before, all was quiet, and his warriors now lay lounging idly about. The sun was fast sinking in the west, the trees were casting their longest shadows, and birds were hurrying by to roost, when from the depths of the prairie came a scalp yell floating on the breeze.—All were silent, for none knew its exact import, and in an instant the camp was again in motion, and then again as still as if no living soul moved in it. Anxiety was visible in every countenance. With heads inclined to the prairie, and listening ears, they might have been mistaken for the finest specimens of sculpture; so breathless, so mute, so intent were they upon catching the wished for sound. Then arose another yell;—still breathless they stood. Then another, and another, until the eighth came passing by, drawn out much longer than the first; when from the camp arose one universal shout, each person having found a tongue; and then were seen bright faces, and happy hearts, and congratulations that eight pale faces had gone to their long homes, and then were bursts of joy, and many ran bounding forward to meet the returning party.
While this was acting, the Prophet sat alone in his tent, for he never mingled with the common herd, lest by so doing they should become too much familiarized with his person. The cause of the scalp yell which agitated the camp was also entirely unknown to him, but a smile played over his countenance when the glad sound first reached his ears, and he rubbed his hands and said, “mischief,—good!”—and after a few moments summoned one of his attendants that he might learn its cause. The messenger having retired, soon ascertained the particulars which we have detailed, and returning, told them to the Prophet, who was evidently pleased at the narration; but a moment's reflection told him, that the affair, if not already known, must be hushed up, and not a trace left which might lead to its discovery. “Eight gone,” said he again, rubbing his hands; “it would bring war quick.” He also recollected that his camp was generally believed by the whites to be a place of rendezvous for all the murderers in the country, and he also knew that it had often served them as a safe place of concealment from the most diligent search. The present affair had been one of greater magnitude than had occurred for a long time, and its publication would lead at once to hostilities, for which he was not yet ripe. To prevent this was the first object, knowing that, were the perpetrators of so great a crime found in his camp, it would call down the unmitigated vengeance of the whites, and involve in one common ruin the innocent with the guilty. Furthermore, it was requisite that he should censure their conduct, lest a further commission of such crimes should render it impossible longer to preserve a show of peace, and yet in doing so, policy required that he should cherish the hatred which they felt against the whites. This was a delicate part to play; but throwing a few skins around him, and assuming rather a more mysterious appearance than usual, he adjusted himself in a seat, and ordered before him the party who had just arrived from the Ohio. He was now nearly in the plenitude of his power, and his words were law and none dared to disobey them.
When Yanatah and his party were informed of the Prophet's commands, clouds of fear passed over them, for they knew that they had acted counter to his expressed orders, and committed an act which might involve their tribe in war, and lead to its total extirpation. Hurried away by revenge, these thoughts had not before suggested themselves; but now that they were about to stand in the dread presence of the Prophet, they all swept past, and they saw before them only the ruin into which their rashness had plunged them, and trembled, not with personal fear, but at that intangible something, which gave character to the Prophet, and rendered him the dreaded object of their hopes as well as fears. With downcast countenances, and in dogged silence, they moved forward to his tent, and making humble obeisance stood uncovered before him. He seemed not to regard their entrance, but remained for a time muttering with his lips, and rolling his eyes towards heaven, as if repeating some prayer, then turning on them a savage gaze, he looked as though he would have looked them through. When his scrutiny was over, he said, “why the scalp yell, Yanatah? Has the Great Spirit sent red war upon our lands, or does the Prophet, his agent, preach peace unto the tribes?”
Yanatah cast his eyes upon the ground, and was silent. “Speak,” said the Prophet, “whence these cries of murder in the air? Who dares lift the tomahawk? Shall battle rage, and I not know it; I, the chosen of the Great Spirit? Speak!”
Yanatah paused for an instant, then nerving himself for the effort, looked the Prophet in his mighty face, and spoke: “Chosen of the Great Spirit, listen! A brother, dear to my heart, was slain by the whites. I sought their wigwams, and demanded his murderer. They gave me promises. I went again; they laughed me to scorn. His blood cried for vengeance, and I sought it.” He was then silent, and the Prophet's visage assumed rather a gentler aspect, and he said: “Thou hast done wrong, Yanatah; the hatchet is buried; the Prophet of the Great Spirit will tell the red men when to strike;” then, pausing for a moment, he continued: “Did no pale face escape?”
“Not one,” answered Yanatah, “darkness was over the land; yet a captive lives, and is here, a slave for my mother, who weeps for her son.”
“It is well,” said the Prophet; then pausing again, and rolling his eyes toward heaven, and muttering with his lips that those before him might see he held converse with the Great Spirit, he continued with renewed energy, “Yanatah, take thy band and away, far, far from our camp. Blood red are thy steps, and the whites follow on, like hounds on the track. Be seen no more, till a runner from the Prophet calls thee to battle. Away!—”
At this speech, surprise sat upon the countenances of Yanatah and his band. The Prophet had told them that they were pursued; though merely a random assertion, the truth of which he feared, and uttered only to serve his own purpose. They believed it, and were unable to account for the manner in which he had received his information; in silence they gazed at each other for a moment, when Yanatah, desirous to know what was to become of the prisoner, pronounced the words “the captive?” in an inquiring tone, for he durst not directly ask the question. “Remains with me,” said the Prophet sternly. “Let her be brought before me. Away. An hour hence, Yanatah must be without our camp.”
There was no reply, and bowing humbly, they left his presence.
In the great excitement of the moment, the prisoner had been in a measure forgotten, and when she first arrested public attention, “Red Sky of the morning” was seen leaning over her, arranging her dress, and doing many little offices of kindness. So resigned was she, so worn with fatigue and suffering, that even the savages, upon beholding her, manifested some slight feelings of sympathy, and the desire which many cherished when she first entered the camp, of seeing her brought to the stake, passed away.
When the order was given that she should be brought before the Prophet to be disposed of by him, Miskwa, who felt assured that, as he had always inculcated peace, he would not adjudge her to death, started to his tent to entreat him to give her the prisoner for a slave. But upon approaching near enough to catch a glimpse of his dark and lowering countenance, she abandoned the idea, and returning, sought her mother and begged her to prefer the request.
No one in the camp possessed more power than Netnokwa, and no one in the camp in making a request, was more likely to succeed. Yet she saw at a glance the difficulty in which the Prophet was placed. He could not order the captive to death; it would not be in accordance with the doctrines he now preached. He could not send her to the settlements; she would tell her story, and excite the whites to immediate war; all trace of the massacre must be concealed, and she knew not that under these circumstances the Prophet would be willing to trust the prisoner out of his own immediate sight. With a knowledge of these things, she accompanied the maiden and stood with her alone in the presence of the Prophet. The captive now, weeping bitterly, neither looked up nor spoke; the world for her had no joys; her life was in the past. She sobbed as if her heart would burst; yet the Prophet regarded her not, but in his own tongue carried on a hurried dialogue with Netnokwa. Not knowing the object of her visit, aware of the influence she wielded, and also of her connexion with Tecumseh, he began to explain to her the difficulty in which he was situated, the necessity there was for concealment, and his fears that the captive would be searched for by the whites; founding them on the sudden disappearance of Begwa, a thing almost inexplicable on any other supposition than that the whites were now on their steps. Saying this, he paid a compliment to the wisdom and experience of Netnokwa, and asked her what was best to be done. She stated the wishes of her daughter, and added, that should the captive be given to her, they would set out with the first light of day, and in the distant regions to which they were journeying there would be no probability of her being discovered. At this piece of intelligence, a feeling of pleasure was manifest in the countenance of the Prophet, and again turning to Netnokwa, he hinted the ease with which the maiden, when far away, might meet with a secret death. Netnokwa seemed not to understand, and suppressed her feelings, whatever they were. The death of the captive the Prophet could have required of Yanatah, and his request would willingly have been complied with; but he feared that the act, if intrusted to him, would be viewed as a license for the commission of any other crime his passions might suggest.
Being foiled in the attempt he had made to make Netnokwa connive at the death of the prisoner, he yielded her up without annexing thereto any condition; for it saved him the trouble of devising some other mode to get rid of her, and he was also satisfied that, provided Netnokwa and her daughter set out sufficiently early, it was the best plan that could possibly be adopted.
Netnokwa having now succeeded in her request, took the hand of the weeping girl, and was leaving the Prophet, when, in an authoritative manner, he again urged her to set out early, and on no account to leave any clue by which the maiden might be traced. Bowing, she departed, and returned with the captive to her bower, and, though in common with most of the Indians, she felt a fear of the Prophet, yet her opinions of his character had been materially changed by the interview.
With the first gray light of morning, Netnokwa and Miskwa rose and began to prepare to set out upon their journey. Waking a warrior, Netnokwa ordered him to bring their horses, and she began to get ready her bundles, while Miskwa was sent to arouse the captive, to whom she had extended all the little comforts of which she was possessed, and whom she now found overpowered by fatigue, and sleeping away as sweetly as innocence could do. But the hour having arrived at which they were to set out, she bent close over her, and hesitated, as if fearing to break a slumber so soft and quiet; when after a moment, she said in her own beautiful language, “Great Spirit! can a pale face who looks as she does, delight in hunting us as dogs, taking away our lands, and driving us far from the graves of our fathers? it cannot be.” Then, recollecting how lonely and unprotected was her situation, she was still more softened in her manner, and laying her hands gently on the captive, she continued, “Sweet Flower, arise, arise, we must be moving.” Her mother, who saw how much her feelings were interested, stood apart in silence waiting for her; when the maiden awoke she gazed about her with a vacant stare, and rubbed her eyes and looked again, and when the recollection of her situation crossed her mind, she called upon her father and mother, and began to weep.
Miskwa was now all tenderness, and throwing her arms around the maiden, she spoke as though each word was understood, saying, “Sweet Flower, weep not, I will love thee, I will take care of thee, thou shalt dwell with me.” Even Netnokwa was affected by the scene, but she was anxious to be off, for the rosy light of morn was now just peering forth, and she ordered her horses to her tent. Miskwa expressed a wish that “Sweet Flower,” for so she continued to call the maiden, should ride with her; in accordance with it, both were mounted on one horse, while Netnokwa on another leading the way, plunged at once into the forest.
She had continued her journey for nearly an hour, when, counter to the expectations of the Prophet, and also to the intention with which she sat out, she resolved not to proceed directly to her place of destination, but first to visit some friends on the Wabash, whom she had not seen for many years; where her wish was to stay only a few weeks, and then proceed on her journey. In adopting this resolution, she saw the difficulty she would have in carrying along the captive, and that she would increase the probability of her being discovered. But then the point to which she was bound was far from the borders, and she trusted to her own wisdom for the power of concealing the captive. This incident, though seemingly trifling within itself, was a matter of much moment, since it was unknown to the Prophet, and his chief object in giving the captive to Netnokwa, was, that in her being carried at once to a distant region, she might the more effectually be concealed.