“It is, my son, but he is kind to the red men.”
She had scarcely spoken, before her son stretched out his arm, as if to strike. It fell feebly, and only gave intimation of what he would do, if he had the power. He then said in the Shawanee tongue, “go away.”
“Do you see that, Rolfe?” said Earth, “that fellow is all pluck; 'tis a pity he is a red skin. I am sorry for him, and I will try and set him up, if it is only to have a fair crack at him some future day, when he gets well.” Then turning to the boy, he said, “when Earth shoots you, my good fellow, he will not leave you to lie suffering for two days; he won't be so barbarous.”
The boy turned his eyes towards Earth, but said nothing. Rolfe, who understood Earth's character, who knew how much kindness and gentleness there was under his rough exterior, gave in to his humour, and said, “you have a queer way of giving consolation, Earth.”
“Did you not hear the mother say I was kind to the red men? you know I am, Rolfe. I never let 'em suffer long, I do the thing genteely. Now, I should like to meet this lad when he gets well, just to show him how much difference there is between being killed, that is, as I would kill him, and that is genteely, and being mangled up and left to die for two days.”
“I don't imagine, Earth, he feels much curiosity on the subject; if he gets over this, he will no doubt be satisfied.”
“Get over it, indeed!—surely he will, the Ingens know the use of so many yerbs, that, with them, I believe they can make a leg, much more cure one that is only shot; they are proper nice hands with yerbs, I tell you.”
While thus conversing, Earth was diligently at work, preparing the litter for the removal of the boy; and having finished it, the hunters approached, and with as much tenderness as if they had been about to remove a brother, lent their assistance. The boy, though evidently very weak, still manifested some displeasure against Earth, and having discovered that Rolfe was likewise a pale face, he grew still more agitated. The mother said many soothing things, and endeavoured to appease him;—the boy spoke not, but pointed to his mangled limbs. The mother then requested the hunters to assist her in placing her son upon the litter; they did so, and though every possible kindness was used, their acts were as wormwood to the Indian boy.
Every thing being now prepared, and the party ready to set out upon their journey, the mother took up one end of the litter, while Earth held the other, and with Rolfe carrying a torch, and leading the way, which the mother pointed out, they moved forward. Repeatedly, however, had Earth to check the ardour of his companion, and cause him to walk more slowly. The excitement, under which he had been labouring for several hours, had imparted strength to his weakened frame, and the hope of soon seeing her, who, for so long a time, had been the theme of so many waking dreams, urged him on;—“Yes,” he communed with himself, “but a few hours more, and I shall embrace her, who has been the guiding star of my earlier days; her, whose recovery is to me the goal of all my earthly hopes.” And then, when he reflected upon the surprise he would create, the pleasure it would give him to restore her to her friends, he grew wild with joy, and could scarcely restrain himself. And then the fate of her family would pass before him, the loss of her friends, and her desolate condition, and seeing her wretched, dejected, and heart-broken, he was plunged in the deepest sorrow. Then these thoughts would fade away, and there would rush by the first moment of recognition, with its wild delight, its joy, its heavenly bliss;—and then would follow on the thought, that she must at once be restored to her friends in Virginia, that his lot was cast in a different land, and then, that she might have forgotten him, and that some one more fortunate might possess her affections. Then again he grew sad. Thus alternating between different passions, he gave full play to the suggestions of his fancy.
While these thoughts occupied the mind of Rolfe, Earth and the mother had been slowly wending their way along with the litter, having stopped several times from fatigue. Rolfe attended them closely, but with them he seemed to have no communion of feeling; his thoughts were of other things, and he heeded not the conversation which was passing between Earth and the Indian mother.
“Rolfe, heard you that story?”
Rolfe was silent.
“Rolfe!”
He started from his reverie:—“What will you have, Earth?”
“Why, I have been talking to you for several minutes, and you hav'nt heard a word.”
“Indeed, Earth, my thoughts have been pretty constantly in the wigwam of the mother.”
“Your thoughts had better rest elsewhere, for from what I have gleaned from the mother, I now have a doubt, if the maiden lives, and if she does, she may not be the same we seek.”
This was perfectly startling to Rolfe, for the suggestion had not before entered his brain.
“How! what! what is the matter,” cried he;—and he made Earth again detail every circumstance of the conversation he had held with the mother.
Here were two additional sources of trouble, and harrowing were they to the soul of Rolfe. But his spirit was a sanguine one, and the examination only served more fully to confirm him in his opinion.
“Yes!” he cried, “she is the same, and she still lives!”
“I wish it may prove so,” said Earth.
Day had now dawned, the Indian boy was gently sleeping, and Earth and his mother were bearing him slowly along, when she announced that her wigwam was at hand. Rolfe, buoyed with hope, eagerly moved forward. A few moments passed, and a small cabin was seen in the forest. Rolfe darted forward,—“it is not mine,” said the mother. He stopped, dispirited, and dejected. A few moments more elapsed, and another appeared,—“it is mine,” said the mother. Again Rolfe bounded forward, reached the cabin, and entered.
Earth and the Indian mother also hurried on, and having reached her lodge, they gently deposited the litter,—the mother, that she might make preparations for the reception of her son,—and Earth, that he might gaze on her who was the object of his search. Having entered her wigwam, what a startling vision met his sight! Stretched on a rude frame, over which were spread a few skins, lay a female figure, but partly covered, and over it, with eyes fixed in horror, bent Rolfe. The figure was youthful and delicate, and her hair, which was damp and cold, having fallen somewhat over her face, veiled her features; but she was pulseless, lifeless; and the cold dews of death had already settled upon her! and yet, no word escaped Rolfe. Still he gazed in the fixedness of horror. Earth, equally incapable of acting, likewise remained a silent spectator, until the mother entering, approached, and removing the hair from the face of the maiden, saw that her eyes were set, and glazed, and cried, “she is gone, she sleeps, and will wake no more.”
At this annunciation, Earth turned away, with tears streaming down his face, while Rolfe, as if waked into life, bent nearer, gazed more intently, and cried, “it is not she.”
The best tidings could not have given Earth more comfort; he approached, and waited with fearful anxiety, a farther examination of her features.—“No,” said Rolfe, “it is not she whom we seek;” and turning away, he also found relief in tears.
Earth seemed happy that things were no worse, and but little time was now allowed for sympathy with the dead; for the mother approached, and told Earth, that the frame on which the maiden lay, she wished to spread with skins, for her son, and added, “to the ‘Drooping Flower’ it is now a matter of little moment, whether she lies high or low.” So thought Earth, for wrapping the delicate figure in the skins which partly covered it, he placed it on the floor, in a corner of the cabin, saying, “mother, let it remain here, until we shall determine what to do with it.”
“While I prepare a bed, wilt thou make a fire?” said the mother. It was soon done, and Earth and the mother, bearing along the Indian boy, placed him on the rude couch prepared for his reception. While these little arrangements were making, Rolfe, overpowered by disappointment, and the rush of feelings which crowded upon his mind, had left the lodge, and afterward Earth having joined him, they withdrew to a short distance.
“Earth, what thinkest thou of the scene we have just witnessed?”
“Indeed, I know not what to think. I am glad, however, she was not the maiden we seek.”
“I scarcely know whether I am or not,” said Rolfe, “if she had been the same, her sufferings would now have been ended, and I should have performed the last sad office she could have required from man. As it is, I shall no more see her, and if she has not already writhed at the stake, pain and suffering, and a broken heart will be her fate.”
“It is sad,” said Earth, “think of it as you will; all hope for the present is gone, and when we leave here, my advice is that we make for the settlements, and by mingling with men, try and forget the past.”
“It is well to do so; but, Earth, did you ever know so many sad events to occur in so short a time? The scene last night, I shall never forget.—Yet, what can be more startling than the one this morning?”
“I have witnessed many sad scenes, Rolfe, and so must every one who lives as long as I have in these woods. I have seen the suffering of years packed into a few short minutes, and yet I must confess, nothing has ever come over me with more icy coldness than the fate of that gal.”
“She is young and beautiful,” said Rolfe, “and, oh! the intense anguish she must have suffered! Did you see how her feet were torn, and bruised by travel? and it seemed to me, that in addition to her other sufferings, she died of hunger. But who is she? and where did she come from?”
“Even the mother can't tell that,” said Earth. “She has been taken captive by the Ingens, and made her escape, or else wandering off from some emigrant family, was lost.”
“Then she is gone,” said Rolfe, “and there is no possible clue by which we can trace her history; and I was about to say, she died, and there was no friend to see her buried; but, though strangers to her, Earth, we are friends in misfortune, and her last sad rites shall be performed by us, as brothers would do it over an affectionate sister.”
Earth's eyes filled with tears,—he spoke not.
“Come, we must perform the last duty,” said Rolfe, “let us select a spot for her grave.”
“I hate,” said Earth, “to leave one so young alone in a wilderness, and among strangers;—even her little spirit will be afraid to go abroad, lest it should meet a red skin.”
“Her spirit, I hope, is in heaven,” said Rolfe, “and though I regret the duty we are now to perform, still, since it must be done, let us begin.”
The preparations were soon made, and the hunters returned to the wigwam, explained to the mother the course they were about to pursue, and demanded the body of the maiden. She gave it up, but was dissatisfied that the burial was to be a silent one, and, in her kindness, suggested the propriety of hiring some Indians to come and weep over the dead.
Earth explained to her, that to hire persons to mourn, was not customary with the whites; “and her spirit will not rest easy,” continued he, “if the Ingens sit howling and yelling over her grave.”
These reasons seemed to satisfy the mother, and she left the hunters to wait upon her son.
The spot, as I before mentioned, having been selected, a grave was dug, and the hunters leaving the mother, bore along, shrouded in skins, the last remains of the stranger maiden. She was, no one knows who;—she came, no one knows whence, and now rests in a strange land.
Yes, on a little knoll, which rose hard by, and which receives the full beams of the morning sun, broken only by the wild vines which creep over it, sleep the last remains of the stranger maiden!—No tell-tale stone is reared where she rests; yet she lives in story, and many a dusky maid has sung her fate in the following lines:
Indian maidens, come and weepO'er this lowly mound;Let your grief within be deep,—Whoop not, howl not, for the sleepOf the pale face is not sound.No mother watched her parting hour,No sister cheered the “Drooping Flower.”Know ye whence the rippling stream,Whence the wintry blast,Whence the mad storm-spirit's scream,Whence the vivid lightning's beam,Or whither it has past?—Thus was the maiden to us borne,Thus from us has her spirit gone.For as she droop'd, and ere she fell,She said her spirit did not loveWith her below on earth to dwell,And oft times has been heard to tell,That it would soar above.It claim'd no home on earth below—It would not stay—it long'd to go.Great Spirit! lend thy gracious ear,Tho' not for dusky maid we pray,Let thy protecting care be here,Let the pale face know no fear,—Guide her spirit on its way.Far beyond the Eagle's flight,To the realms that know no night.Indian maidens, weave the vine,Weave the sweetest blooms among;Plant the rose and eglantine,And a shady bower we'll twine;While each morn shall hear our song:—Blow softly breezes,—gently waveThe wild flowers o'er the stranger's grave.
Indian maidens, come and weepO'er this lowly mound;Let your grief within be deep,—Whoop not, howl not, for the sleepOf the pale face is not sound.No mother watched her parting hour,No sister cheered the “Drooping Flower.”Know ye whence the rippling stream,Whence the wintry blast,Whence the mad storm-spirit's scream,Whence the vivid lightning's beam,Or whither it has past?—Thus was the maiden to us borne,Thus from us has her spirit gone.For as she droop'd, and ere she fell,She said her spirit did not loveWith her below on earth to dwell,And oft times has been heard to tell,That it would soar above.It claim'd no home on earth below—It would not stay—it long'd to go.Great Spirit! lend thy gracious ear,Tho' not for dusky maid we pray,Let thy protecting care be here,Let the pale face know no fear,—Guide her spirit on its way.Far beyond the Eagle's flight,To the realms that know no night.Indian maidens, weave the vine,Weave the sweetest blooms among;Plant the rose and eglantine,And a shady bower we'll twine;While each morn shall hear our song:—Blow softly breezes,—gently waveThe wild flowers o'er the stranger's grave.
“With various converse thus they whiled the way,Till lengthening shadows marked the closing day.”PARNELL.
“With various converse thus they whiled the way,Till lengthening shadows marked the closing day.”PARNELL.
Rolfe and Earthquake deeply sympathized with the Indian mother, and remained with her several days for the purpose of supplying her and her son with food. As their stay was prolonged, each day the aversion of the Indian boy to the hunters, seemed gradually wearing away, and the mother was sensibly moved by their kindness. She expressed great gratitude, was even assiduous in her attentions, and pressed upon them again and again the rude hospitality of her wigwam. Upon conversing with her, Earthquake ascertained that her name was Pukkwana, and that of her son, Oloompa; and observing that she seemed kind in her feelings, he narrated to her the story of the captive maiden.
Her feelings were much enlisted in favour of the hunters by the recital, and she spoke harshly of the Indians who had committed so great a crime. Earth then dwelt upon the anxiety of Rolfe, and begged her, if she could suggest any plan which would probably enable them to find the maiden, to do so, and accept their blessings.
Pukkwana, in answer, said, she could suggest nothing, but again renewed her professions of gratitude, and stated, that as soon as her son should recover, they would cheerfully use all their exertions to discover the fate of the maiden, and if she lived, forward intelligence of the fact to the hunters at their own residence. Earth hearing this, repeated it to Rolfe, who was delighted at having interested Pukkwana in the search, and he begged Earth to try and obtain the same promise from her son, and at the same time to press upon them both his conviction that only through their endeavours was there a hope of obtaining any information. Earth made the request as desired, and the Indian boy readily complied. They were grateful for the kindness of the hunters, and promised not only to extend their search through their own, but also through the neighbouring tribes. The difficulty of conveying the information in the event that the captive was found, was then adverted to. But Pukkwana stated that with not more speed, would the eagle wing its way to its nest, than, if successful, should the tidings be borne to Rolfe. With this the hunters were satisfied, and began to make preparations for their journey.
“Stay, Earth,” said Rolfe, “suppose they were to find her, and some how or other I have great hopes they will, how would she know who it is that seeks her.”
“The boy and the old woman both know your name, and also, where you live,” said Earth, “they will tell her.”
“But suppose I write a line, Earth, it will not take long, and in case it ever reaches her, will explain every thing.”
“Very well, then, do so.”
In a moment Rolfe trimmed into a pen a quill which was lying on the ground, and gathering an oak ball, which grew near at hand, traced on the back of an old letter, the following lines:—
“With what emotions, my love, I now write, you can never know. Am I right in the supposition that your family lately left Petersburg for the west, and that you are now alone and a captive among the Indians? Oh! distracting thought!—how the bare suspicion of it maddens me. And yet, if it be true, know that I witnessed the scene on the Ohio, and have been in constant search of you since. Recollections of the past, connected only with you, are still the most pleasing reminiscences of my life; and oh! if so sad a calamity as that which I dare not mention has befallen you, name it to the bearer of this, who will tell it to me, and I will fly on the wings of love, to soothe, console, and restore you to your friends. I am now residing at Bowling Green, in Kentucky, and should these lines ever meet your eyes, believe me, dearest, I remain, what I have ever been, your most affectionate friend.
“R. ROLFE.”
Then folding them up carefully, he requested Earth to give them to Pukkwana, and enjoin it upon her, that they were to be given to the maiden, in the event of her being found. Firm relations of friendship were now established between Rolfe and the two Indians, and even Earth seemed to forget in his conduct toward them, the deep bitterness of feeling he entertained for their race. Requiring a renewal of the promise, on the part of Pukkwana, the hunters made many kind wishes for the welfare of herself and son, and again resumed their journey.
“Well, Earth,” said Rolfe, “as they proceeded along, the scene we have witnessed here has been a sad one.”
“You may say that,” replied Earth;—“it is to me like a dream. But it is now over, and I say, let us return, and trust to Providence; it is idle to attempt any thing more. If we should hereafter hear any tidings of her, we can then act according to circumstances.”
“God only knows what will or can happen,” said Rolfe. “I fear my fate is sealed. The loss of her for whom alone I lived, will embitter the remainder of my days. Poor girl, how sad must be her fate.”
Earth's eyes filled with tears:—“Come, Rolfe,” said he, “no more of this, let us go home and go to work.”
“I have no spirit for exertion, Earth; my hopes are blighted: the future is to me a dark and dreary waste, and through it I care not what my path may be.”
“Ah! Rolfe,” said Earth, “now you go too far. In the first place, you don't know whether she is the same girl, and you had better write to Petersburg, and learn that; and if she is, pity her, and talk of her as much as you please; but don't talk of giving up; no body ever made any thing by that. If you give up, you have got to live afterward, and one had better go to work, and be respected, than to poke about, and do nothing. But your country needs your services:—man! go, mingle in her councils, and make Earthquake proud of his adopted brother. Though times are rather squally, I hardly think there will be a war, and if there was, you are not overly clever with a gun; and you don't think right about killing Ingens no how; but, perhaps in a legislature or a court-house, you might make the wool fly.”
“I dare say your advice is good, Earth, and we will talk of this matter another time; but it is hard to surrender the cherished hope of years. Earth, were you ever in love?”
“Ah! Rolfe, there you are too hard for me, I hardly know what to say about that.”
“Surely,” said Rolfe, “you must know whether you were ever in love or not.”
“No, I don't,” said Earth;—“I have sometimes felt queer.”
“How? what do you mean by queer?”
“Why, don't you know what I mean by queer?”
“No,” said Rolfe; “how should I know.”
“Well, I mean that sometimes, when I have seen some of our Kentuck' gals, I've felt right funny;—felt as if somebody was drawing a briar over me. Now, if you call that love, I have been in love.”
“Well, I think you have,” said Rolfe, “and that you have felt one of its strongest symptoms. Do you know any body that you would marry?”
“No, not a living soul; nor, for the matter of that, a dead one either. I marry! what for? To be always toating a wife through the woods, or across the swamps, to keep some damn'd red skin from taking her hair off? Wouldn't she see rough times? Fool who?—She'd be all sorts of a gal who catches me.”
Rolfe could not resist laughing, and observed:—“You have queer ideas of wedlock, Earth.”
“Oh! I don't know,” said Earth, “a wife is a queer thing; and getting one is like taking a varment out of a hollow;—you don't know until you have got it into your hand, what sort of a thing it is.”
“That may be the case sometimes, Earth; but how delightful it must be to have for a companion, a lovely woman, whose every thought is virtuous and innocent; and then to have that woman so devoted to you, that her only pleasure consists in doing those things which make you happy.”
“That may be very fine, Rolfe; but I know that there ain't sich a gal in these parts, and I don't believe sich a thing ever happens.”
“Yes, Earth, it happens, when persons of congenial minds and dispositions are united, before they reach that scheming period of life in which interest sways all their actions.”
“Oh! now, Rolfe, you are talking too pretty for me; I don't know what it all means. I can only say this, that if I was to marry, I would pick a wife as I would a horse, and be governed altogether by looks.”
“And then, Earth, you might have just cause to think of wedlock as you do now.”
“Oh! I don't know; its well enough in its way. I shall never marry; I don't like your small gals no how you can fix it, and if I was to choose one for myself,—and you know I wouldn't let any body choose for me,—I should have a mighty heavy team; for, besides going for good looks, I should like a very large wife.”
“Then your taste is fortunate, Earth, and you will be the less apt to be plagued by rivals.—They are troublesome things.”
“I don't care what my taste is,” said Earth, “I will never have a rival; for, if I was to see a lady and love her, and any body else was loving her before me, I would back out. But if I was to see her first, and take notice of her, I should regard her just as I would a 'coon which I had treed:—I suppose you know, Rolfe, what I would do with a man if he was to trouble a 'coon which old Jupe had treed?”
“I think I can imagine, Earth; but come, let us be serious, and talk of something else.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “I never saw a good reason for a man being serious when he could be cheerful.—Now, if you want to be serious, I'll tell you a story:—I'll tell you one that made me serious once for a whole day.”
“Then give it to us,” said Rolfe.
“Very well,” said Earth, “be all attention, and you shall hear it.”
“I am,” said Rolfe.
“Well,” began Earth, “I was living, when it happened, upon that piece of land I bought of the 'squire, and a hard bargain it was,—I think he gouged me in that trade; but that's neither here nor there;—as I said before, I was living on it. I had been hard at work, for several weeks, killing a parcel of trees, and trying to get ready a small clearing for my next year's crop, when I thought I would step over to one of my neighbours, swap a lie or two, and hear what was going on. He lived about ten miles off, by the near way, but much further to go round by the swamp. So, taking the near path, I went over one evening, and, what I hardly ever did before, I forgot to take my gun along. I found the old fellow at home, and as soon as I got seated, I went hard to work and talked him full. After a while he got a chance, and come at me, and he made up for lost time;—he talked me all over and about in spots, until I was tired. Then he was just getting under way, so I turned in and the next morning, rising up very early, I started back.”
“Well, I think it ought to have made you serious,” said Rolfe.
Earth was a little confused at Rolfe's remark, but replied:—“Come, Rolfe, don't judge a man so hard,—you won't hear me through,—I was just greasing a little before starting out.”
“Go on, then, Earth.”
“Well, as I said, I had started back, and had got along some two or three miles;—the sun was rather better than an hour high, and every thing was right still, when I saw 'long the path, where a great big bear had turned over a log,”——
“How did you know that a large bear turned it over?” said Rolfe.
“Because,” said Earth, “the log was a large one, and it was rolled over and over, to some distance—a small bear could hardly have moved it, and then you know he would only have slipped it one side.”
“Earth, what do they turn them over for?”
“Rolfe, you ax too many questions. They turn them over to get the bugs and insects which are generally under them.”
“Then go on, Earth.”
“Well, when I saw the signs, I felt mighty bad;—I had no gun—old Jupe wan't with me, and I never had been known to pass a bear in that way, without taking any notice at all of him; so, I considered:—my knife was in my belt, sharp as I could wish it:—I took it out and drew the edge across my thumb; I felt satisfied that it would stand me good service, and I started off, determining in my own mind that I would at least take a look at him; and, if I couldn't do any thing, that then I would go home. Keeping a sharp look out, I got upon his tracks, and followed on; I kept seeing where he had been feeding, and after going along for nearly a mile, in a thick place, just ahead of me, I come upon him. He didn't notice me at first; so I stood and looked at him, and raised up my arms and took sight off my finger, just as if I had a gun. I could have blowed him to pieces. But 'twant nothing;—Oh! I did hate it.”—Saying so, Earth took off his hat, and rubbed his hair. “He was a peeler; it fairly made my mouth water to look at him. But there was no use in staying there: so I began to talk to him, and treating me with the utmost disgust, he buckled off, and began to let himself out, link at a time. I wan't much pleased at his conduct, and I knowed, if he would only keep out of the swamp, that I could run him to the girth; so I started after him:—he saw me coming, and the way that he and I did curl it for about half an hour, was curious. I tell you what, we made every thing clear the track as we moved along.
“We were going up a hill, and I was gaining upon him right fast, when all at once I saw him jump up, as if over something, and then change his direction; and then sich a rattling I never did hear. I thought there were at least forty snakes all up in a lump. So I forgot the bear, and stopped to look at 'em; and as long as I had been in the woods, I had never seen any thing like it before. As I stopped, they separated, and I saw that there were only two,—that they were the real rattles, taking a regular fight. A fight, Rolfe, you know I always see, if there is any chance; so I jest planted myself, determining to look on, and see that they had fair play. Both of 'em were larger than the biggest part of my arm, and as near as I could guess, about six feet long. When they first separated, they crawled off in different directions a few yards, and then stopping, began to lick themselves, just as if they were a couple of dogs. While they were doing this, they would occasionally raise their heads, and look about 'em for a time, and then begin licking agin. They were so long at this, that I began to think that they were not the real genuine pluck, but that they were getting tired of it, and wanted to crawl off. However, I begged their pardons for thinking so hard of 'em, for after resting a while, just long enough to cool out a little, one of 'em roared; he made a noise like an ox at a distance, and I tell you what, I trimbled all over. I then noticed them agin, and saw that they were very nearly the same size,—that one was of a dark, dingy brown colour, while the other was a bright yaller, covered with dark spots. It was the yaller looking one that first roared; and as soon as he finished, he raised his head about a foot and a half high, curved his neck like a horse, and then bringing his tail over his back, jest as if he had been nicked, he began to wave it horizontally. There was a string of rattles to it, about as long as my hand, and he shook 'em occasionally. It made the chills creep over me to look at him, he seemed to do it so boldly, and I thought he merely did it, to have some music to go to war with.
“Well, when the yaller one roared, it was just like putting a shovel of hot coals on the old brown;—he fairly squalled. He was so mad, that in an instant he raised his body nearly half as high as he was long, and began to peep about him, at the same time, raising his tail up about six inches, and rattling as if he would shake every bone out of his skin. He was proper mad, I tell you, and trimbled like he had an ague.
“But he wan't satisfied with merely squalling and rattling; for he quit that, and opening his mouth about wide enough for me to get my fist in, began to stretch his head out, and draw it back; and then sich hissing, Rolfe, you never did hear. The yaller one stood his ground like a man:—there didn't seem to be any back out about him, and when the old brown began to hiss, he opened his mouth until I thought he would swallow himself, and the way he did blow was nothing to nobody. I thought there was a small hurricane coming up. Well, now their dander was so high, they couldn't stand it any longer:—so at it they went. They glided off,—their heads and tails were both up;—there wan't more than about three feet of their bodies on the ground;—and they began to encircle each other like a couple of chickens. They had now quit hissing and squalling, and only rattled once in a while, looking each other straight in the face all the time. Every time they went round, I saw that they were getting closer and closer, and they looked to me just like two fellows of the true spunk, who had stripped and were eyeing each other, before taking a round. They were going at it so seriously, it naturally made my hair rise up. They were by themselves,—there was no other snake present, to cry hurra for one, or well done for the other, a thing you know which helps mightily sometimes;—but they were going to try it, rough, roar, and tumble for life.
“Well, now I was jest as much interested as if I had come across a couple of men who were going to take a brush. I clean forgot the bear, and if the snakes had fought till sunset, I meant to see 'em out, and give 'em all the fair play that I knew how. I left them, you know, circling round:—they went round, I think, as much as three times, when the first thing I knowed, they were both in a knot, and sich squeezing and swelling, and rattling, and creeping through one another, I never seed before in all my born days. They would lock their bodies together, and twist 'em just like the working of a worm into a screw, and all the time their mouths were so wide open, that I thought each one was trying to swallow the other.
“Rolfe, I don't care what people say, I won't believe that snakes have bones in 'em, for you couldn't have tied a thread into more knots than I saw them get into that day. They may be filled with small gristles.”
“Go on with your story, Earth,” said Rolfe.
“Well, I left 'em kinked up,—they were tangled for nearly half an hour;—and what do you suppose I was doing, then?”
“Ah! God knows,” said Rolfe, “it is more than I can tell.”
“Why, jest looking at 'em, and straining and twisting every joint almost out of place, following them in their motions. I did this without knowing it, and I never should have found it out, if I hadn't begun to feel sore all over.
“Well, to go back to the snakes:—I now saw that the old brown had ketched a double on the bright yaller, and was spinning his neck out, to about the size of my thumb. His body now began to unkink, his tongue come out several inches, and soon after, poor fellow, the old brown had laid him out, straight as a fishhook. However, it had been a fair fight, and a hard one, and after it was over, the old brown blowed jest like he had ris up from a pond of water, where he had been under longer than he wanted to, and crawling off to some distance, stretched out, and began to lick himself.
“Well, I was right sorry, and I looked on for some time, and hardly knowed what to do; but I saw 'twas all over, so, drawing my knife, I walked up to the bright yaller, and lifting up his tail, fetched a wipe, and took off his rattles.—I thought they belonged to me, for seeing fair play. But to my surprise, as I did so, I felt his tail slip through my fingers, and saw that the poor fellow had come to, and was moving off. But, Rolfe, in cutting them off, I made 'em rattle, and sich another squall as the old brown did set up,”——Here Earth whistled. “He hadn't been mad before:—he now doubled himself up in a hoop, and made after me. I streaked it; the faster I run, the more noise I made, and looking behind, I saw him rolling on; every time he turned over his eyes come up like two coals of fire in a dark night. He gained upon me, so I dropped the rattles, and as I did so, he settled down upon 'em, and spun round jest like he was a top. I thought it was a good time to get clear, so I slipped off, and continued my way home.”
“And that's what made you serious,” said Rolfe.
“No, it ta'int,” said Earth, “it might have made me serious; but since you think so lightly of it, I should like to know what would make you serious.”
“You mistake me, Earth, I do not, it is a good story, and I merely asked for information, come, go on.”
“Well,” said Earth, “since I see you believe in what I told you, and know how to appreciate the snakes, I will.”
“After I left the old brown spinning round, as I was saying, I took the nearest direction, and started off for home; I had walked along, I suppose, that is, as near as I can come at it, about two miles, when here 'twas agin.”
“What?” said Rolfe.
“Why the same bear that I had gin sich a race in the morning. He was setting up in a tree eating acorns.”
“How do you know 'twas the same?” inquired Rolfe.
“Do you know your horse?” said Earth.
“Yes.”
“Well, then I know my bear. And as I was saying, he was setting up in a tree; I looked at him for a while, and then he looked at me. He knowed I hadn't a gun, for he went up a little higher, and getting out upon a limb began to eat as if I want there. 'Twas a mighty trying thing to me, to see him do so, for 'twas conduct I wa'nt at all used to; so I scratched my head a while, and begun to think, and a notion struck me.”
“What was it?” said Rolfe.
“Why, I saw in the first place, that he was a tre-mend-ous fellow; and that the limb he was on was so far from any other, that he couldn't jump off it, without coming down upon the ground; and if he did that, he was so heavy, I was pretty sure he would break some of his joints. So I drawed my knife once or twice across my shoe, and started up; every thing went well, the higher I got up, the further out he went upon the limb; his head was from me, and the limb was so small I knowed he couldn't turn round. So I crawled right at once to where it branched off from the tree, and drawing my knife, I determined if he left that limb he should jump off. He now began to think how ticklish he was situated, and he was mightily scared; he trimbled all over, and kept squatting as if he would jump, but he couldn't git his courage up; he then tried to turn round, and would have come at me head foremost, but the limb was so small he couldn't, and he squatted down and cried like a child. He thought he could make me forgive him, but tw'ant nothing. I began to shake, and he slipped, but he caught and swung with his body under the limb; he made a mighty pitiful cry, and scrambled up agin. He knew it wouldn't do to stay so far out, that I would shake him off, so he began to back right to where I was, thinking he could back by me. I was laying on the limb, and he run upon me so fast, that he like to have knocked me off, he pressed agin me mighty hard, and I hadn't fair play, but I got at my knife, and making over hand licks I popped it into him every time. I hadn't a good purchase, and he stood it so long, that I began to think there was no point to my knife. But after a while the metal told, and he backed out, and crawled towards the end of the limb agin. I kept seeing him turn his head towards his rump, and I knew then I had been into him. But I had done no good, for there he seemed resolved to stay, I hollowed and shook, and did every thing I could, but he would'nt budge an inch. So I resolved to crawl after him, knowing that if I could only git one more lick, he would be sure to jump off. It was a mighty ticklish business, but I stretched out, and began to pull myself along, I felt the limb bend, but I saw if I could only get one foot further, I could reach him. So I drawed myself up, and stretched out:—I heard a mighty crash,—and the first thing I knowed I waked up about sunset, jist as if I had ris from a sound sleep. I did'nt know where I was, until I looked about and saw the limb which had been broke off; then it all come upon me like a dream. The bear was gone, I saw the print where he fell, and that was all he left me, so I made tracks for home, determining that I would'nt get into another scrape that day. Now, Rolfe, that's the time when I was serious, when I was lying under that tree.”
Thus amusing themselves, they continued their journey, to perform which, we must leave them, while we bring forward other parts of our story.
“But winter has yet brighter scenes, he boastsSplendours beyond what gorgeous summer knows,Or autumn, with his many fruits, and woodsAll flushed with many hues. Come, when the rainsHave glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice,While the slant sun of February poursInto the bowers a flood of light.”BRYANT.
“But winter has yet brighter scenes, he boastsSplendours beyond what gorgeous summer knows,Or autumn, with his many fruits, and woodsAll flushed with many hues. Come, when the rainsHave glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice,While the slant sun of February poursInto the bowers a flood of light.”BRYANT.
Netnokwa, whom we left journeying to the lands of the Wabash, visited the friends whom she was seeking, remained there sometime, and then with her daughter and captive proceeded up far into the regions of the North-west. Several months had elapsed, and the maiden, of whom no tidings had been heard since her capture, might be seen standing in the door of a bark hut, situated on the borders of Rainy Lake, and gazing anxiously out as if expecting the arrival of some one. She was closely muffled up in firs, and with increasing anxiety in her countenance, would ever and anon step forth, and search in every direction the dreary waste. Yet she remained out but a moment, for the snow was falling fast, the earth was already covered to some depth, and the winds as they hurried eddying past, drifted it up in heaps. Forced in by the pitiless storm, she again resumed her situation at the door.
A few months, what changes they sometimes produce! Yes, only a few months had passed, and how changed in appearance was the captive! The joyous expression of countenance which marked her happier days had fled; gone was the beauty which mantled her cheeks, and in its stead, there was melancholy stamped in every feature of her pale and delicate face. Still she was beautiful, or perhaps I should say interesting rather than beautiful. The fire of her dark eyes was undimmed, and when in her anxiety, she moved them restlessly about, they served to light up her pale and settled features, as beautifully as the moon does a fleecy cloud when it passes over its face.
Night was now fast setting in, and still the storm abated not, but rather appeared to drive on with more fury; dreary in the extreme, would have been the prospect even to an old hunter, then doubly so must it have been to our heroine; still she uttered no lament, ventured no accusation against the authors of her misfortune, but continued to search with the eyes of affection, the waste before her.
Netnokwa had not yet reached her place of destination, and being prevented from journeying farther by the intense cold of the weather, had here stopped to wait for a more auspicious season. Her conduct to the captive maiden had been marked in its kindness, and the attention of Miskwa might be regarded as sisterly, so freely, and with so much apparent pleasure did she seem to bestow it. They treated her not as a prisoner, they required no offices of drudgery from her, but supplied all her wants, and endeavoured to make her as comfortable as possible. This disposition on their part to please, sprung up from the meek and unoffending manner of the captive, from the gentleness and timidity which encircled her, and from the uncomplaining silence with which she bore her misfortunes. She was an object of sorrow, and Netnokwa and Miskwa pitied her, and regretted that she had not been permitted to escape to the settlements, and would at that time have restored her to her friends but for the dread fear of calling down upon their head the wrath of the Prophet. Another reason was, that both Netnokwa and Miskwa from their intercourse with the traders in selling their peltries, had learned the meaning of a few English words, which enabled them to comprehend the wants of the captive, and to make themselves acquainted with many of the sad particulars of her story, which, savage as the Indians may generally be deemed, only served to awaken in their breasts feelings of the deepest sympathy.
As I have no fancy for broken dialects, I shall in the further developement of this story, give a free translation to such conversations as may occur between the captive and the two Indians who have her in charge, and if in this I err, my apology must be, that it is done with a hope, that on that account they may prove more interesting to the reader.
As the life of one who depends on the casualties of the chase for support is frequently one of great hardship and suffering, we must not imagine an exemption in the case of Netnokwa and Miskwa, accustomed as they were to the woods, and skilled as was the latter in the use of her bow. No, far from it.
But to return to the captive, situated as we have described her. She was alone. No living thing was at that time an inmate of her lodge, and even if there had been, there were no means of sustaining life. The last particle of food had been eaten hours before, and nothing now remained but a few dried skins. About the centre of the cabin were the embers of a dying fire, which she now proceeded to rebuild. While engaged in this duty, there entered a light, graceful figure, clad in rich skins, which fitted closely, and imparted to their wearer somewhat the appearance of an Indian boy. A small rifle hung at his back, yet a single glance at the delicate formation of his features proclaimed him of a different sex. Gazing around but for an instant, “where is my mother, Sweet Flower?” she said.
“I have not seen her since the morning,” replied the maiden, and a partial gleam of joy shone for an instant on her wasted countenance, upon the entrance of her friend.
“The storm hurries on, the snow is drifting fast in heaps, and mother's blood courses slowly through her veins; I will go seek her.”
“Oh! do not, Miskwa, do not leave me,” cried the maiden, “you can render no service this dark night, and will most probably be lost in the snows. Oh! you know not how anxiously I have watched for you. Now will you leave me? Let us raise a large fire; Netnokwa is wise in her knowledge of the woods, and will be here presently.”
Yielding to the persuasion of the captive, Miskwa laid aside her cap and rifle, and seated herself near the fire. Her dress consisted of a kirtle or short frock, of English manufacture, fitting closely to her chest, and extending down to her knees. Her feet were encased in moccasins beautifully embroidered; the embroidery, the work of her own hands, and tightly laced they displayed the proportions of a foot and ankle which many a fairer face would envy. Her hair was simply parted in front, and drawn behind her ears, it floated loosely over her shoulders. She was beautiful, and withal, she was sprightly, and playful, and seemingly unconscious of her situation.
“Did you kill any game to day, Miskwa?” inquired the captive.
“No,” said Miskwa, “not a foot print have I seen to day. The game is wise, and the falling snow has driven it to its cover.”
“And did you walk far, Miskwa?”
“My path was long. I told thee I saw no foot-print. I mistake; I followed a moose until the falling snow effaced its steps.”
“This is a hard life you lead,” said the captive, “you had better carry me to the settlements. I have friends, and you and your mother shall live with me. Several times, even since I have been with you, have we been near starving, and if this snow storm continues, it will end all our sufferings.”
“Never fear,” said Miskwa. “The red people are children of the Great Spirit, and he will provide for them. The wild woods shall be our home, and I will take care of ‘Sweet Flower.’ I will love her and give her food.”
The captive needed no assurance of this, as far as it lay in the power of Miskwa; for she had already received from her the most devoted marks of affection, and if she now felt a doubt, it was because the figure before her was so slight and delicate that it seemed rather to need assistance than to be capable of affording it to others. Yet, delicate as Miskwa seemed, few were able to undergo more fatigue. In the chase she was not excelled. No one let fly a more unerring arrow, no one shot with a rifle closer to the mark, nor was the bounding roe of the forest more fleet. She owed her acquirements entirely to her mother, who, as before stated, was one of the most remarkable women of her age, and as much noted for her acquaintance with every species of skill which belonged to her race, as she was conspicuous for the clemency and humanity which adorned her character. She was likewise superstitious in a great degree, so much so, that she mingled it with all her acts, and it served to impart a mysterious colouring to her character which only tended to increase her power.
However, the night wore on apace, and still the storm continued. Even Miskwa's apprehensions for her mother began to increase, and she, with the captive, sallied out to examine the state of the weather, and see if any thing would offer itself as the means of relief. But all hope of rendering any assistance was cut off; the night grew darker, and the driving storm indicated that it would be madness to venture.
“Let us return,” said Miskwa, “I will pray to the Great Spirit:—he will preserve me and my mother.”
“With all my heart,” said the captive, “and I too will unite in prayer.”
Having entered the lodge, they had scarcely thrown themselves on their knees, before a noise was heard at the door, and at the same moment, Netnokwa entered, as calm and composed as though her journey had been but an every day occurrence. Shaking the snow from her clothes, she disencumbered herself of some of her garments, drew near the fire, and lit her pipe.
“My children hunger, and have no food,” said she.
“None,” said Miskwa;—“no game has crossed my path to-day:—it heard the storm in the whistling wind, and went to its hiding place.”
“And was Miskwa wise?”
“Miskwa searched for food for her mother; the path was far from her lodge, yet she returned, and reached it before the night grew dark.”
“Thou wer't more wise than thy mother, Miskwa. Her blood is now like a sluggish stream; it creeps slowly. The howling storm spent its force upon the old oak, and racked it to its roots. Had Netnokwa remained out an hour longer, she would not now want food; her spirit would be in the happy hunting grounds with her warriors who have gone before her. What would have become of her children?”
Miskwa renewed the fire, and drawing closer to her mother;—“Miskwa always begs her mother that her path may not be far from her wigwam,—She has seen many years, and should rest. Her daughter will supply her with food.”
“We hunger now,—when morning comes, will it bring forth food?” inquired Netnokwa.
“It will,” said Miskwa;—“the Great Spirit will take care of his children. When morning comes, if Miskwa can find no game, she will break the ice, and catch the dory.”
“Thou art good, my daughter. The Great Spirit will take care of his children who love him. Let us pray to him, and ask him to give us food in the morning. The pale face cannot live so long as we can without food.”
“Be it as the Great Spirit wills,” said the captive, “but I had rather do without it than that you should go out such weather as this to seek it.”
“He that does not seek, shall never find,” said Netnokwa; “the Great Spirit will not help those who do not help themselves.”
She then knelt, and prayed.
Some time was spent in prayer by Netnokwa, and then spreading their pukkwi, and kindling up the fire, they lay around it, and nestling up close to each other, slept away the night.
What a contrast had a few short months exhibited in the fortunes of the captive;—one too so young, so beautiful, and so innocent that one would have deemed her well calculated to disarm even fate of its ire.—Yes, but a few short months had elapsed since she was in the possession of parents, of friends, and the comforts of life. They have passed, and she is an orphan, dwelling in the wilderness, and suffering with want. Yet it was not hunger, nor bodily suffering which caused her melancholy, but the loneliness of her situation, and the gloom which hung over the future, brought up and educated as she had been, and yet doomed to wear out her days in an Indian wigwam.
For some time she slept not, but thought of the past. She was sad, and as the storm hurried howling around her little dwelling, she clung closer to Miskwa, and felt a sympathy, in the driving blast, whose notes touched a chord in unison with her own feelings, and even made her more sad;—yet it was the joy of sorrow! for she contrasted the present with the past, and her mind separating the sweet from the bitter, dwelt only on the brighter recollections of her earlier days.
At last, day came, and with it came want, and knawing hunger, and the prospect of starving to death; but with all this, never did a more beautiful morn greet the children of Adam. The atmosphere was pure and cloudless, and the reflection of the sun from the wide unbroken waste of snow which lay before them, created a light as bright as though it were reflected from so much burnished silver. The inmates of the lodge having ventured out, were warmed into buoyancy of spirits by its genial rays, and bright gleams of happiness for a moment passed before them, upon beholding the dazzling splendour of the scene. Even Netnokwa's swarthy features were moved, and the flow of earlier feelings seemed struggling with the infirmities of age; but they soon departed, and her present situation, with its sad circumstances, was all she saw; calling her children to her, for she was pleased to regard the captive in that light, she said:—
“My children, Netnokwa prayed last night to the Great Spirit. When you slept, he came in a dream to me, and said: ‘Netnokwa, you shall feast to-morrow, and plenty shall be in your wigwam.’ And a vision passed before me, and in it I saw a stream, which found its way to the lake now before me, and near its source, I saw a slaughtered bear. Will Miskwa bring this meat to her mother?”
“Yes, and thank thee too,” said Miskwa;—and filled with life and animation, she entered the hut, wrapped herself in furs, and seizing her rifle, was equipped for the chase. Walking to the door, she discharged it, saying, “Mother, the bear will be lucky which escapes me to-day,” and then commenced reloading it.
“Thou art right, Miskwa,” said her mother;—“thy gun should not fail thee when thou art hungry.”
“Say when my mother is hungry,” said Miskwa, “and ‘Sweet Flower’ drooping in our wigwam.”
Having rammed down the powder, she thrust her little hand into her pockets, and drawing forth several balls, held them out to the captive, “Wilt thou by choosing, give good luck to the red maiden, ‘Sweet Flower?’” said she.
Her companion complied, and thought these words, though she spoke them not, “good as thou art pretty, Miskwa, may my fortune never betide thee.” Miskwa being now ready, tripped out, as graceful and pretty a figure as eyes ever beheld, and though not fashionably, she was beautifully dressed. Closely muffling her neck was turned a rich fur, as pure in whiteness as the fresh fallen snow, and which formed a beautiful contrast with the jet black glossy hair which fell far below it. Her cap was formed of the richest beaver, and that so tastefully fashioned, that a maiden alone could have made it. She was a sweet creature, and many a lassie who can boast the refinements of civilization was far less interesting than the maid of the forest.
The captive went to the door, to see her labour her way through the snow; but away she ran, like the bounding roe of the forest, and as playful, and as happy, as though she were only running for pastime. With so much cheerfulness did she hurry on to fulfil a dream. Yet there was a holier purpose, it was to relieve the sufferings of a mother and a friend.
Now, if the nature of her errand seems incompatible with the gentleness of her sex, and the delicate formation of her frame, I pray you, gentle reader, be not startled, for we are the creatures of habit, and Miskwa had been trained to exercises of this kind from her infancy; and if any fears should arise in your bosom as to the result of the conflict, let me endeavour to allay them, as Miskwa did her own, by saying, “one who shot so well, need fear no danger.” And if, still unsatisfied, you should wonder that Miskwa, with so much alacrity, would in such a season venture forth, merely to fulfil a dream, let me say, that she lived surrounded by superstition, and that her mother's dream was to her, pretty much what an authenticated statement would be to one in civilized life; and furthermore, that Netnokwa, though she had detailed a dream, always endeavoured to produce ordinary events by supernatural means, and consequently, what she had detailed as a dream, was but knowledge gained by previous labour.
The captive having watched until Miskwa was lost to her view, entered the lodge, and with much anxiety in her manner, said, “Mother, will no harm come to Miskwa?”
“The Great Spirit will take care of his good children,” said Netnokwa, “Miskwa is a good child.”
“But will not the beast she is gone to seek, harm her?” said the captive.
“It will not bite so much as hunger,” said Netnokwa. “Miskwa is prudent; fear not, daughter.”
I know not why, but at the close of this speech, the captive sat down and wept, while Netnokwa prepared to enlarge the fire. A few hours passed, and Miskwa returned successful from the chase, having found a bear in such a place as the one described. Plenty was now in their wigwam, and game soon after becoming abundant, they remained until the melting of the snow enabled them to proceed on their journey to Red River, which flows into Lake Winnipeek, whither they were now bound, and where, at the period of our narrative, Netnokwa resided.1
1See note C.