“The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding,The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon,Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, bandingThe hearts of millions till they move as one;“Thou hast it.”HALLECK.
“The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding,The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon,Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, bandingThe hearts of millions till they move as one;“Thou hast it.”HALLECK.
Our readers cannot have forgotten the story of the Indian mother who was discovered by the hunters during their excursion to the Wabash, searching at night for her son, nor their consequent visit to her wigwam. Several months had now elapsed since their departure from it; her son had recovered from his wound, and their mutual promise to seek for the maiden had often been a subject of conversation between them. Still nothing had been accomplished, when Pukkwana, who often reverted to the subject, suggested to Oloompa, that by visiting the camp of the Prophet, he might probably obtain some information which would lead to her discovery. She felt satisfied from the story told by the hunters, that the maiden must have been carried to the camp, and there concealed, or else sent away to some distant region. But since their departure, the deep hatred which had ever marked the conduct of Oloompa towards the whites, began to revive in his bosom, and he seemed careless about fulfilling the promise which he had made; and when his mother wished him, in an attempt to do so, to visit the camp of the Prophet, he said, “Mother, shall Oloompa's moccasins be worn with travel for the sake of a pale face? The pale faces hate the red men. They are our enemies. They would drive us away from the graves of our fathers.”
“Oloompa has promised,” was the reply, “his father never broke a promise.”
“Oloompa will remember his promise,” said he, “the hunters were good to his mother. He will seek the maiden; if found, they shall know it. But he here swears before the Great Spirit, eternal enmity to their race. Oloompa will no more travel with them the same path, smoke the same pipe or sit around the same fire. He will wash his hands. He is their enemy.”
“These are the words of the Shawanee Prophet;” said Pukkwana, “he puts bad thoughts into the heads of the red men.”
“Mother, Oloompa knows not the words of the Prophet; they say he preaches peace:—Oloompa's thoughts are always the same;—wrongs are sharp knives, they cut deep.”
“Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “when the sky is clear, why think of the storms which have passed?”
“My mother's eyes are dim,” said Oloompa, “she sees not the light of the red torch which is kindling. She hears not the groans of the dying in the howling of the winds. Oloompa's tomahawk shall drink deep of the blood of the whites.”
“Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “thy bosom is like the big lake when the winds pass over it. Thy words are harsh to my ears. I like them not. Listen. Thou goest to seek the lost maiden. Thou mayest find her; but if ever by words or acts thou wrongest her when found, or the hunters who bade thee seek her, thou art no longer thy mother's son.”
“Pukkwana knows not Oloompa,” he replied. “Were all the hatred he bears her race, felt but for her alone; under his protection, she would be as safe as though his own blood ran flowing through her veins. Oloompa will set out upon his journey. Where will his mother be when his feet are tired of travel?”
“As soon could I tell where the deer will be which range through the woods for their daily food,” replied Pukkwana.
“Even the deer, when the hunter seeks them not, will feed for months in the same green fields,” said Oloompa.
“Then return to the wigwam of thy mother; if she is absent, follow her footsteps.”
“I will,” he replied, and equipping himself for a long journey, he was soon winding his way through the forest.
Oloompa was now in the first dawning of manhood,—his limbs were beautifully moulded, and but for the effect produced by the wound he had received, which showed itself whenever he moved, he would have been conspicuous for the beauty of his person. The traits of character which chiefly distinguished him, were an uncompromising hostility against the whites, a firm adherence to principle, and a more than ordinary attachment to his mother.
Having arrived at the Prophet's camp, he remained several day's listening to his doctrines, and from a friend, also learned that the captive maiden had been adopted by Netnokwa, and carried by her up into the north-west regions where she resided. Gathering such other particulars as he could relative to the story of the prisoner, he satisfied himself that she was the same for whom he was seeking. He then continued his inquiries, yet in such a way as to avoid suspicion, learned Netnokwa's residence, the nearest route leading to it, and several days after left the camp to prosecute his journey.
Several weeks had elapsed, and Oloompa found himself in the Chippewa country. Its warriors were very much excited, as had been the Indians generally along the tract of country through which he had travelled, and he learned that the excitement had been produced by the continual preachings of agents from the Prophet. In addition to this, at the time of his arrival, runners were going in every direction to announce to the tribe that a great warrior from the Shawanees was anxious to speak to them, having things of importance to communicate. It was Tecumseh, his whole soul was engaged in the enterprise, which, with his brother, he had planned; and wandering about he was now using every exertion to bring it to maturity. No labour fatigued;—no difficulty was too great; he ranged over from one end to the other, the vast region of country occupied by the various tribes, threatening, flattering, arousing, and exciting them to action. When Oloompa heard the name of Tecumseh, and also heard that he was to preach to the Chippewas in general council assembled, he ceased to think of the errand upon which he was bound, and bent his steps at once toward the place of rendezvous. With Tecumseh, although he possessed no acquaintance, yet he loved him for the exertions he was making,—he loved him for the opinions he advocated, and which, in Oloompa's breast, found a congenial response, and he also loved him for the many daring acts of valour which he was said to have performed previous to the peace which then reigned. His heart fluttered with pleasure, when he reflected that he would have an opportunity of hearing a speech from Tecumseh, who was now more famed as an orator, than he had ever been, even as a warrior. He knew not what was to be the purport of his speech, but rightly conjectured, that it would be in furtherance of the plans which he and the Prophet had projected, and which had now become a common subject for discussion among the Indians generally.
Continuing his journey, he learned that the place of meeting, was near the head waters of the Chippewa, and thither he repaired. It was the day appointed for the council, and morning was several hours advanced when Oloompa arrived. Gathered in groups, under the shade of many widely spreading trees, whose branches interlocking, formed an arbour, a thousand and more individuals had already collected, and others were occasionally coming up. The ground was covered with grass, and it was distinguished from many spots equally delightful, only by the rude seats which had been prepared for the occasion. Never had Oloompa seen a more imposing assembly;—ranged in seats in front of a small staging which had been erected, the red men sat; the chiefs and oldest warriors present occupying the first places; those who were next in rank, the second; and so on, declining until on the outer edge were placed the women and children.—Throughout the whole body reigned the deepest silence,—not a whisper broke upon the ear, nor among the chiefs was even a glance averted.
Oloompa, who was an entire stranger, did not at first enter the assembly, but walked to and fro, at a short distance from the place of meeting, with a hope of seeing Tecumseh. He was a member of his own tribe, and a feeling of pride accompanied the thought. He hesitated whether he should make himself known or not. Were he to do so, he would be recognized and received as a friend; but then he might probably be called on to give an explanation of his designs in wandering so far from home, and to do this to Tecumseh, who was the sworn enemy of the whites, he feared might defeat the object upon which he had sat out. Moreover, he felt that he would be ashamed to say to Tecumseh, that his sole object in going so far a journey, was to serve those whom he hated, and whom he regarded as enemies. Feeling thus, he even hesitated whether he should proceed farther; but then there arose in his mind his promise to the white man, and the injunctions of his mother, and after a struggle with himself, he determined to remain where he was, unknown, and to prosecute his journey with the coming of evening.
There was now heard a murmur among the multitude, and Oloompa saw that the staging had been occupied by a warrior. It was Tecumseh. Noble and commanding in appearance, he gazed around him for a few moments, and thus spoke1;—
1See note C.
“Brothers—We all belong to one family, we are all children of the Great Spirit; we walk in the same path; slake our thirst at the same spring; and smoke the pipe around the same council fire!
“Brothers—We are friends; we must assist each other to bear our burdens. The blood of many of our fathers and brothers, has run like water on the ground, to satisfy the avarice of the white men. We, ourselves, are threatened with a great evil; nothing will pacify them but the destruction of all the red men.
“Brothers—When the white men first set foot on our grounds, they were hungry; they had no place on which to spread their blankets, or to kindle their fires. They were feeble, and could do nothing for themselves. Our fathers commiserated their distress, and shared freely with them whatever the Great Spirit had given his red children. They gave them food when hungry,—medicine when sick,—spread skins for them to sleep on, and gave them grounds that they might hunt and raise corn. Brothers, the white people are like poisonous serpents:—when chilled, they are feeble and harmless; but, invigorate them with warmth, and they sting their benefactors to death.
“The white people came among us feeble; and now we have made them strong; they wish to kill us or drive us back as they would wolves and panthers.
“Brothers—The white men are not friends to the Indians:—at first, they only asked for land sufficient for a wigwam; now, nothing will satisfy them but the whole of our hunting grounds, from the rising to the setting sun. Brothers, they want more than our hunting grounds—they wish to kill our warriors; they would even kill our old men, women, and little children.
“Brothers—Many winters ago, there was no land;—the sun did not rise and set:—all was darkness. The Great Spirit made all things. He gave the white people a home beyond the great waters. He supplied these grounds with game, and gave them to his red children, and he gave them strength and courage to defend them.
“Brothers—My people wish for peace,—the red men all wish for peace; but where the white people are, there is no peace for them, except it be on the bosom of our mother. The red men have borne many and great injuries. They ought to suffer them no longer. My people will not; they are determined on vengeance; they have taken up the tomahawk; they will make it fat with blood; they will drink the blood of the white people.
“Brothers—My people are brave and numerous, but the white people are too strong for them alone. I wish you to take up the tomahawk with them. If we all unite, we will cause the rivers to stain the great waters with their blood.
“Brothers—If you do not unite with us, they will first destroy us, and then you will fall an easy prey to them. They have destroyed many nations of red men, because they were not united,—because they were not friends to each other.
“Brothers—The Great Spirit is angry with our enemies,—he speaks in thunder, and the earth swallows up villages, and drinks up the Mississippi.—The great waters will cover their low lands,—their corn cannot grow, and the Great Spirit will sweep those who escape to the hills, with his terrible breath.
“Brothers—We must be united; we must smoke the same pipe; we must fight each others' battles; and more than all, we must love the Great Spirit;—he is for us,—he will destroy our enemies, and make all his red children happy.”
When Tecumseh had finished, Oloompa remained for some moments lost in reflection; his soul had been stirred to its inmost core: he had heard expressed, in glowing language, the thoughts which burned in his own bosom. The wrongs of the whites had been summed up and made to pass before him, and again he repeated to himself, the oath of eternal enmity, which he had sworn to his mother. When the excitement had a little subsided, a chief rising, moved an adjournment of the council until the next day, and Oloompa, scarcely knowing whither he was bound, left the council, to wander in the forest, and muse upon what he had heard. Days elapsed, and still the power of Tecumseh's eloquence caused him to falter in his determination; but, at the end of that time, again he continued his journey, resolving to accomplish, if possible, that which he had set out to perform, and then to link his fate with Tecumseh, and unite with him heart and soul in the enterprise he had projected.
It was now the second week since Oloompa's departure from the council, and in answer to his last inquiry for information, the reply had been that the wigwam of Netnokwa lay on the banks of the stream along which he was then journeying, and at a distance of only two or three miles. He had before ascertained that the captive maiden still remained with her, and buoyant with hope and joy he now moved forward. He saw before him the successful accomplishment of his journey,—he could now serve the hunter, redeem his promise, and then all obligations were cancelled, and he his inveterate foe. He felt for the little package which had been given him, to be delivered to the maiden, if found,—it was safe; he took it out and examined it; it was rubbed and worn, and while gazing on it, he thought it too small to contain any thing of much value, but his injunctions were positive, and he returned it to his belt.
His face now beamed with happiness, for he was approaching the end of his journey, and he also felt the consciousness of having succeeded in part in his undertaking. Besides this, he would soon be gratified in seeing her for whom he had taken so much trouble; and he was also anxious to see Netnokwa's daughter, whom he had heard spoken of as beautiful above any maid of the forest. He had now continued his journey in silence, for some distance, on the banks of the stream along which he was travelling, when suddenly there was heard a cracking of the bushes, and the running of an animal,—a moment more, and a deer passed.—Yet it bounded not as though it were wild and free, for an arrow had pierced and still stood fixed deep in its body; its life was fast ebbing away, for one might trace its path by the blood which sprinkled the ground where it moved along, and could see that each successive bound was less strong than the one before it. It continued its flight but a short distance farther, when it stopped, and turning its head back, gazed at the fatal shaft;—big tears fell from its eyes,—it nibbled the arrow with its mouth, and endeavoured to pull it out;—it was firmly fixed,—it tried to leap again,—it was too late,—it grew weaker, reeled, fell, and died. Oloompa gazed for a moment, and was hesitating whether or not he should go in pursuit, when he heard the sound of laughing voices,—then a joyous cry, and a form dashed by, as if borne on the wings of the hurrying blast.
Oloompa having reached a point from which he could perceive where the deer had fallen, saw an Indian maiden already bending over its prostrate form, and rightly conjecturing that it was the daughter of Netnokwa, he determined to go thither for the purpose of assisting her, and also of making some inquiries relative to the captive maiden.—No sooner had he made the resolve, than, joyous and happy, he darted away, with the glee of a child, but quickly stopped, for he heard a rustling noise, and looking, saw the captive maiden retreating to a distance within the forest, before she would dare to look back. With Oloompa all exciting subjects were forgotten, and he gazed on her with gladness.—It was she whom he was to make happy,—it was she whom he sought, and forgetting his enmity to her race, he said, as she stood far within the forest, “She is like a snow-drift sleeping in the moonlight;” then bounding away, he was soon by the side of Miskwa.
Having approached, he was charmed by the beauty of her person.—Never had he seen so much symmetry, nor a form so delicately moulded. He hesitated for a moment, before he would speak to her; then seeing the nature of the occupation in which she was engaged, he offered his assistance. Miskwa started at the sound of his voice, for she knew not that any one was present, until he spoke, when she drew her figure up to its full height, and gazed fixedly upon him. Oloompa seemed not to regard her scrutiny,—his countenance was joyous and happy; then looking at the deer before him, he felt the joys of the chase, and before Miskwa had time to answer, added, “a good shot. The bow is strong, and the arrow went straight to its mark.”
Miskwa was pleased with the compliment, for she loved her bow and quiver, and with less formality in her manner than she had at first assumed, replied, “Those who depend on themselves for food, must needs shoot well.”
“Thou art pretty,” said Oloompa; “the Ottawa warriors are not men. They suffer a maiden to kill her own game.”
“Would you have me choose a warrior who can send an arrow less far than I can,” said the maiden.
“Surely not,” said Oloompa.
“The distance is an hundred yards;—will your arrow go more straight than that?” inquired the maiden, pointing to the one which still stood fixed in the deer before her.
“No,” said Oloompa.
“Then thou art not the warrior who shall draw my bow,” said the maiden.
Oloompa was slightly confused, and casting his eyes down, was for a moment silent.
“Does a captive maiden dwell with thee?” he continued.
“No,” said Miskwa.
Oloompa's countenance changed from joy to disappointment, and Miskwa observing it, asked, “Didst thou come to seek her?”
“Yes,” said Oloompa, “and I was happy. I thought I saw her in the forest.”
“Then let thy heart be glad,” said Miskwa;—“the maiden is here;—she lives with me. But she is as free as the air she breathes.”
Oloompa was again happy, and he said, “Thou dost love her?”
“Yes,” said Miskwa, “as I do the life blood which warms my heart. But stay, you shall see her,” and without waiting to know his errand, she ran away to seek her friend, whom she soon found, and cried out, “who dost thou think hast come?”
The maiden had never seen Miskwa so pretty or as much animated, and answered, “I did not know there was one whose coming could make Miskwa so happy.”
“The chieftain seeks ‘Sweet Flower,’” said Miskwa, “come, he waits.”
“Seeks me!” cried the maiden with astonishment.
“Yes,” answered Miskwa. “He told me so; and his heart was glad when he found you were here. ‘Sweet Flower,’” continued Miskwa, “will have a warrior young and handsome to protect her.”
“Oh, hush! Miskwa,” cried the captive. “Fire and water can never unite, nor the red with the white. I shall always be a lone bird without its mate; Oh! do not mention it, for my heart still bleeds over its earliest hopes.”
“Then I will not,” said Miskwa, “but thou art good enough for Pontiac, did he now live.”
The captive made no reply, being willing that Miskwa should continue to think as she did, namely, that her annunciation that the white and the red could never unite, arose from a belief on her part that by a red warrior she would never be wooed; and with a hope of finding out who it was that had inquired after her, for undefined apprehensions began to flit across her mind, she said, “Miskwa, do tell who seeks me?”
“I know not his name, nor why he comes,” said Miskwa. “He says he comes to see thee. It is not in anger. I will tell thee how I saw him?”
“Do,” said the maiden.
“When I left thee,” said Miskwa, “I hastened on after the deer I shot, and having found it, stooped down to bleed it. A moment passed while I was preparing. I heard a voice. It fell soft on my ears as the running of waters, and turning, I beheld a warrior near me with youth and joy beaming in his countenance. But come, go, he will tell thee his errand.” The captive refused, nor could Miskwa persuade her to go, when she requested her to seek her mother and tell her that a warrior was to be her visitor, while she would return and conduct him to her lodge.
The captive hurried away, and Miskwa returning to Oloompa, conducted him to her lodge. While proceeding along she learned the cause of Oloompa's errand, and she was wild with joy. She loved the captive maiden, and her heart fluttered with delight, when she recollected how happy her friend would be. There was nothing selfish in her disposition; she saw that they were to be parted, and yet she banished the thought and dwelt only on the happiness which awaited her friend. She was instantly acquainted with Oloompa; she was frank as if she had known him for years, and treated him with all the kindness of an old friend. If Oloompa was pleased with her before, he was charmed with her now; and scarcely giving him time to talk, she hurried him along to her lodge.
Arriving there, he was treated with courtesy, and Miskwa calling to “Sweet Flower,” bade her come out, since the warrior wanted to speak to her. She obeyed, and came out shrinking and frightened at she knew not what. Oloompa saw her hesitation, and knowing the cause, was not offended, but gently took her hand. She trembled from head to foot, and Oloompa began his narrative. The first words had scarcely been uttered, before her attention was arrested; she gazed first at Miskwa, and then at Oloompa, and as he proceeded, her soul drank in every word of the recital. When he mentioned that he had been sent in pursuit of her, and uttered the name of Rolfe. “Oh! tell me, tell me, is it true?” she cried. And not waiting for an answer, she looked into the face of the speaker, until she seemed to penetrate the very depths of his soul. Oloompa assured her it was true, and Gay fell weeping on the bosom of Miskwa. A few moments passed, and smiling through her tears, she laid her hand upon Oloompa's arm, and looking in his face, said, “Oh! tell me now! where you saw him, and what he said, and all, all, about him.” Oloompa went on with a farther detail of his narrative, until suddenly recollecting the little package, he loosed his belt to obtain it. “Go on, go on,” cried Gay, “please tell me all about him.” Oloompa withdrew the little parcel, and delivered it to her as coming from Rolfe. It was torn open in an instant, and as she gazed on his own signature, an exclamation of delight broke from her lips, and she ran to her apartment where she read over and over again those lines which were already imprinted upon her heart; pressed them to her lips, and upon Miskwa's entering her room, she again threw herself upon her bosom in a paroxysm of joy. But these moments passed; Gay became composed, and now all were happy. It was beautiful to look upon the affection which had sprung up between Gay and Miskwa; it was so pure, so holy, so deep, there was not even a wish, which the one would not willingly sacrifice for the gratification of the other. With Gay, the hopes which she had indulged in for so long a time, now shone brightly forth, and she saw the attainment of all her wishes, and she was joyously happy. And Miskwa, though always cheerful and contented, was now more so than she was wont to be; this arose partly from the increased happiness of her friend, and partly, because she derived some pleasure from the company of Oloompa.
Gay having retired to her apartment to read and muse over the letter which had given her so much joy, left Oloompa to be entertained by Netnokwa and Miskwa. He had much to communicate which served to interest them. In Netnokwa he found a willing and even eager listener to all the details relative to the present excitement among the Indians; and in the more agreeable company of Miskwa, he forgot his dreams of vengeance, and found that there were other things which could interest. When the night had far worn away, they all retired, and two happier beings than Miskwa and Gay were on that night were not to be found.
With returning day again came life and cheerfulness, and Gay began to discuss the best plan to be adopted consequent upon the receipt of Rolfe's letter. Consulting with Netnokwa and Miskwa she determined to write by Oloompa to Rolfe, inform him of her situation, and ask him to provide some plan for her return. This she felt sure was the best course she could pursue, knowing that Rolfe would cheerfully comply with her request, since being aware of the great excitement among the Indians, she feared to trust herself without being well guarded. Her first endeavour was to persuade Netnokwa to accompany her, and set out at once on her return; but in this she failed, and she ceased to press it, when she heard Oloompa speak of the power of the Prophet, and also the caution with which he had concealed his visit from him as well as his agents.
The day after his arrival, while conversing on the affairs of the red men, Oloompa mentioned having seen Tecumseh. At his name, a slight change passed over the face of Miskwa, and a glance between her and Gay, showed that he had been the subject of conversation between them. Oloompa described the council at which he had seen Tecumseh, and dwelt in glowing colours upon the power of his eloquence, and the effect it produced. Netnokwa made many inquiries after him, and having obtained the information she desired, repeated aloud, “The Shawanee brave has been absent too long from the Ottawa maiden.”
“Not longer,” replied Miskwa, “than the Ottawa maiden wished him, if it was his pleasure.”
They were then silent, but enough had been said to arouse the attention of Oloompa, and he asked, if they knew Tecumseh? They replied, that they did, and spoke of having seen him at the Prophet's camp.
Oloompa remained several days, in order to recruit from his fatigue, and every hour found that he was becoming more pleased with Miskwa. He had won the good opinion of Gay, by the trouble he had taken in her behalf, and Miskwa began to derive pleasure from his company. He was now their constant companion, either roving the woods, with his bow and quiver, or else assisting them in their duties about their wigwam. Yet while he did this, he found that he was involving himself in a difficulty from which he saw no hope of escape; for, from the remarks he had heard relative to Tecumseh, he feared that she was already pledged to become his wife. With these feelings, he mentioned his intention to set out on the following day, in search of Rolfe, to whom he would bear the tidings that the maiden he had so long sought, was at Netnokwa's lodge. Both Gay and Miskwa were not only anxious that he should do this, but also that he should return with him, in order to direct him by the shortest route. Both united in their persuasions, and Oloompa promised to do so. Yet he was sad, and seemed unhappy. Miskwa discovering his apprehensions, relieved them by telling him that there was no probability of her marrying Tecumseh, and a farther explanation took place, which was mutually pleasing to both. Morning came, and with it the preparations for Oloompa's departure. Each of the maidens lent their assistance towards equipping him as comfortably as possible; and Gay leaving Miskwa and Oloompa, retired for the purpose of writing to Rolfe. Netnokwa's intercourse with the traders, had casually furnished her with paper, and other materials were easily obtained. Having prepared herself for the task, she wrote as follows:—
“TO RICHARD ROLFE.
“A thousand, thousand thanks, my dear Richard,—I must write the word,—for your thrice welcome letter; and as many thousands more, for the exertions you have made in my behalf. Yet, oh! words cannot tell what I feel, nor what I owe you, nor what I have suffered. Oh! sad, sad misfortune! Your fears are all too true; and that you alone, of all Others, should have witnessed it!—How mysterious are the decrees of heaven? Oh! what would I give were it but for one hour's conversation with you.
“Upon leaving Petersburg, which we did some five or six months after your departure, my father removed to Baltimore, where he resided some time. There, meeting with some heavy pecuniary losses, he suddenly determined to emigrate to the west. We came to Pittsburg, and entering an ark, I think they called it, we commenced our journey.—The details you are acquainted with. Only fancy my sufferings.
“I am now residing with Netnokwa and her daughter,—the former is chief of the Ottawas, and adopted me to prevent my meeting with a worse fate. They are as kind as they can be, and her daughter I love as I would a sister. But, oh! happy, happy thought! that I am once more to return to the few friends who are yet left me. I have a world of things to tell when I meet. Remember me kindly to the hunter who, Oloompa tells me, was with you, and devise some plan for my return.—Come yourself, Richard,—come quick, and add another to the many inducements I already have to love you. My spirits are all in a flutter, for Oloompa is just about to set out.—Oh! has he not acted nobly! thinking of the whites as he does. Farewell,—may heaven bless you.
“GAY FOREMAN.”
Gay having finished her letter, delivered it to Oloompa, and his preparations being made, he bade them all farewell, renewed his promise to return with Rolfe, and, accompanied by the kind wishes of Netnokwa and the two maidens, sat out upon his journey.
“Well might his lays be lofty! soaring thoughtFrom Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught:Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the strains,Which startled eagles from their lone domains,And, like a breeze, in chainless triumph, wentUp through the blue resounding firmament.”MRS. HEMANS.
“Well might his lays be lofty! soaring thoughtFrom Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught:Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the strains,Which startled eagles from their lone domains,And, like a breeze, in chainless triumph, wentUp through the blue resounding firmament.”MRS. HEMANS.
The absence of Oloompa shed a gloom for a few days over the little circle he left. Miskwa felt that she loved him, and the sympathies of Gay were also strongly enlisted in his favour. His feelings against the whites, as a people, he had avowed in her presence, and when she recollected the dreary region through which he was then travelling, and the many difficulties and hardships he must encounter, and thought he was doing all this for one who at most was but a stranger to him, her sympathies were so great, that for a short time even the pleasure arising from the recollection of the object of his journey, was sensibly diminished. But as time glided on, this feeling passed away, and gave place in her breast to the joy of anticipating his return, accompanied, as she fondly hoped, by Rolfe, of whom she had so often, and so kindly thought, and who had so long and so eagerly sought her.
But, leaving Oloompa to continue his journey, let us revert to the designs of Elkswatawa and Tecumseh.
It was now the summer of 1810:—the Indian affairs in the west began to wear quite a warlike character, and so many reports reached Governor Harrison, indicating a hostile disposition on the part of the Indians, that he felt compelled to send a messenger to the two brothers with a speech, setting forth the vast power of the whites, showing that success could not possibly attend their arms, and promising, if practicable, to redress their grievances upon their being publicly stated. The messenger was likewise required to obtain, if possible, a personal interview with the brothers, that he might form some idea of their characters, and also to elicit a history of their views and intentions toward the United States.
Upon arriving in the Shawanee country, the messenger was treated with great courtesy and even kindness, for the policy of the brothers was, to keep the whites in entire ignorance of their designs. In obedience to his wishes, a council was called of all their followers, and the speech of the Governor delivered to the brothers in their presence. They listened to it with the utmost attention, yet refused to return any answer. Upon the whole, however, they stated that they were pleased with it, and Tecumseh said that “he had never been to see the Governor; he only recollected him as a very young man, sitting by the side of General Wayne; that he had never troubled the white people much, and that he would now go to Vincennes, and convince the Governor, that he had listened to bad men, when he was told that the Indians meditated war against the United States.”
The meeting which had been called to hear the speech from the Governor, having been dissolved, Tecumseh invited the messenger to pass the night with him at his lodge, and extended to him all the rude hospitality of his wigwam. In the course of the evening he threw off much of the reserve which usually characterized him, and conversed both freely and frankly. He again denied that he intended to make war upon the United States, but declared, most solemnly, that it was not possible to remain friends, unless the whites would abandon the idea of making settlements farther to the north and westward, and explicitly acknowledge the principle that all the lands in the west, were the common property of all the tribes. “The Great Spirit,” said he, “gave this great island to his red children; he placed the whites on the other side of the big water; they were not contented with their own, but came to take ours from us. They have driven us from the sea to the lakes;—we can go no farther. They have taken upon them to say, ‘this tract belongs to the Miamies, this to the Delawares;’ and so on; but the Great Spirit intended it as the common property of all. Our father tells us, we have no business on the Wabash; the lands belong to other tribes. The Great Spirit ordered us to come here, and here we will stay. I intend not,” he continued, “to make war on the whites, but our rights must be respected, and from this spot, on the banks of the Wabash, I will never remove.”
When morning came, the messenger having gained all the information he desired, prepared to return, and Tecumseh having determined within his own mind, that he would visit the governor for the purpose of endeavouring to remove the impressions under which he laboured, said upon bidding him farewell,—“tell the Governor that I shall soon be with him; thirty or forty of my principal men will attend me, and as my young men are fond of shows, they will probably increase the number. I say these things that our father may not be alarmed, and that he may feast his red children as they deserve.”
During the whole time that the messenger had remained with Tecumseh, the Prophet had been present, yet took no part in the conversation. He left that entirely to the management of Tecumseh, who, though apparently playing a subordinate part to the Prophet, was in reality the life and soul of the projected enterprise. His voice was heard in every council preaching peace, yet causing the red men to dream of war, by narrating over and over again, the wrongs and aggressions of the whites; and to such a degree had he already excited them, that the difficulty now was, to keep down the passions he had called into play. In his own bosom he felt the storm gathering with increased fury, and every hour of his time was passed in summing up the wrongs he had suffered. Large tracts of land had been conveyed away by particular tribes, when Tecumseh regarded it as the common property of all. Murders had been committed by the Indians on the whites, and the murderers had been handed over to the whites for punishment; murders had been committed on the Indians by the whites, and when the murderers were demanded, their calls had been neglected. The wave of population was steadily advancing and encroaching upon their grounds. Want and hunger were already the consequence of the near proximity of the whites, and a history of the past told too truly, that one aggression would be followed by another, until the plough of the stranger would run over the ground now occupied by their wigwams, and then, a few years more, and no Indian would own the land whereon he rested. These were the things which preyed upon the soul of Tecumseh, and caused him to weep for the fate of his countrymen, and these were the feelings with which, in the following month, he sat out to visit the Governor at Vincennes, with a hope of removing from his mind all unfavourable impressions which he might entertain towards the Indians, and at the same time determined to lay before him the wrongs of which he complained, and demand redress.
It was on the 12th of August that Tecumseh, with a small band of warriors, the Governor having positively forbidden his being attended by a large retinue, made his appearance at Vincennes. Accommodations were prepared at the Governor's house, where he expected the proposed meeting would be held; but Tecumseh refused, and halted his followers in the open air, saying that “so the Indians had ever done, and he would not deviate from their customs. That houses were made for the whites to hold their councils in;—the Indians always held theirs under the trees.”
His fame as an orator had already spread far abroad, and the exciting subjects which were to be discussed, together with his connexion with the Prophet, induced crowds of citizens to attend the council. In addition to this, the conduct of the Governor in effecting a treaty the year before, for the purchase of lands by the United States, had been denounced by Tecumseh as unjust and improper, and to hear the grounds of the accusation, as well as that his defence might be more generally known, the Governor had issued invitations to all those disposed to attend. In consequence whereof, besides the crowds of citizens before mentioned, there were present the judges of the supreme court, and the secretary of the Territory, with many officers of the army. The whites, clustered around the Governor, were seated on chairs and benches, and before them lay extended on the grass Tecumseh and his swarthy band, armed with bows, rifles, tomahawks, and war clubs. In the rear, and at a short distance behind the governor, was stationed a small military force, brought up from fort Knox for the purpose of preserving order. Such was the disposition of the respective parties, when silence being commanded, Tecumseh, nothing daunted by the assembly around him, although all were his enemies save his own trusty band, arose with great dignity and calmness of manner, and gathering his blanket about him, poured forth the deep and burning feelings of his bosom. He knew no guile, but spoke the first promptings of his mind. In answer to a call which was made, that he should state “why it was that large bodies of Indians were assembled, warlike exercises practised, and an attitude assumed apparently hostile to the whites,” he declared that “his object, as well as that of his brother, had been an organized plan, from the commencement, to unite all the tribes together, and form them into one nation, for their common defence,—to stay the farther encroachments of the whites, and to hold the lands of the red men, as they were intended by the Great Spirit to be, the common property of all.” He declared, that “the lands which had been lately purchased, should never be settled, and that it was their determination to put to death all the chiefs who had signed the late treaties, and never again to convey another foot of land to the whites. That in the late treaties, lands belonging to the whole, had been sold by a few, for a paltry price, and their princely dominions so encroached upon, that the red men could scarcely satisfy the dire cravings of hunger. That aggression had followed aggression, until from the sea coast they had been driven back to the big lakes, and were now required to move back still a step farther. That the stipulation of the treaty of Greenville, requiring the surrender of murderers, had on the part of the whites, been grossly violated, and the rights of the Indians entirely disregarded. That in all their transactions they had been overreached, and that now they were resolved to yield no longer, but to maintain their rights, at the hazard of their lives.”
He stated, that his object was “not to make war upon the whites, but that the lands lately purchased, must not be settled; that, for himself, he would never surrender his lands on the Wabash, nor move one foot to the westward; that he desired peace, but to preserve it, the Governor must give up the lands just purchased, and promise never to make another treaty without the consent of all the tribes. Do this,” said he, “and Tecumseh is the friend of the Americans, and their ally against the English.—He likes not the English,”—and here he clapped his hands, and imitated a person encouraging a dog to make him fight with another, thereby indicating that thus did the English urge the Indians on against the Americans. “But,” continued he, “should our father not give up the purchase he has lately made, Tecumseh is the inveterate foe of the Americans,—the firm ally of the English.”
Such were merely the heads of his speech, and having seated himself, General Harrison rose in reply. He began by answering that part of Tecumseh's speech in which he stated that “the lands of the red people were intended, by the Great Spirit, to be held in common.” In replying to this, General Harrison observed, that “when the white people arrived on this continent, they found the Miamies in possession of all the country on the Wabash, and the Shawanees then residents of Georgia, from which they were driven by the Creeks; that the lands in question had been purchased from the Miamies, who were the true and original owners of it; that it was ridiculous to assert that all the Indians were one nation. If such had been the intention of the Great Spirit, he would not have put different tongues in their heads, but have taught them a language that all could understand. That the Miamies found it to their interest to sell a part of their lands, and that the Shawanees had no right to come from a distant country to control the Miamies, in the disposal of their own property.”
Here, Tecumseh rising, interrupted the Governor, and declared that “every syllable he had uttered was false, and that he and the ‘Seventeen Fires,’ the then number of states, had imposed upon and cheated the Indians.” He then blew a whistle, and his band sprang upon their feet, with ready rifles, drawn bows, and uplifted tomahawks, directed towards the Governor, and those who immediately surrounded him. The whites rose from their seats, and drew whatever weapon chance had supplied them with, and though largely outnumbering the Indians, they were almost paralyzed by the unexpected position in which they found themselves; and each party stood gazing at the other in perfect silence, neither daring to commence the attack.
When Tecumseh first rose to interrupt the Governor, the guard was called;—several minutes had now elapsed, and still not a word had been uttered,—not an attitude changed,—not a glance averted,—the most breathless silence had reigned,—the most painful suspense still continued, when the guard was seen running to their assistance. The time had not yet arrived for Tecumseh to strike,—he waved his hand, and the bows of his warriors were unstrung, their tomahawks returned to their belts. To the whites it had been a painful scene.—The guards who were ordered up, had now arrived, and were in the act of firing, when the Governor, seeing that the Indians had desisted from their hostile intention, commanded them not. Great confusion existed,—the council was dismissed, and Tecumseh, with his band, immediately left the town.
Having continued his march for several miles, he pitched his camp, and prepared to pass the night. His warriors were ordered to be on their guard against surprise; and also to hold themselves in readiness to move at a minute's warning, while he, retiring apart from the crowd, thought over the events of the day. His soul was now wrung with anguish,—he writhed under the wrongs he had suffered, and at the same time regretted the passion he had exhibited. He feared lest it should prejudice his cause, and that the whites should consider it a sufficient reason for their commencing hostilities. He would not have time to summon his warriors to battle. Moreover, he was not yet ready, for although his emissaries had visited the southern tribes, he himself had not, and therefore it became necessary to do away the impression which his conduct at the council was calculated to create.
With these views, he sent a runner to the Governor, at the first dawn of day, requesting an interview, for the purpose of explaining his conduct the day before. After the breaking up of the council, in the manner above stated, Gen. Harrison, fearing an attack from Tecumseh, had ordered in the militia, and placed the town in a state of defence, and exasperated by what he believed to have been a premeditated attempt at treachery on his part, he at first refused to grant the interview sought. After some consultation, however, he accorded it, upon condition that each party should be attended with the same armed force which was present the day before.
The day wore on, and the red men and white again met in council. Tecumseh was dignified and collected, and rather more conciliating in his manner than he had been at the former conference. He denied having had any intention of attacking the Governor, and exerted himself to remove any such impression which might have been formed, yet reiterated the same opinions which he had advanced the day before, relative to their lands, and the wrongs of the Indians. Having finished speaking, the Governor asked him whether it was his intention now to prevent the surveying of the lands, lately purchased by the United States.
He answered, “It was:—that he and those connected with him were determined that the old boundary should continue.” The Governor complimented him for his frankness, and told him, that his views should be made known to the President, but he feared, without a hope of the lands being surrendered.
“If they are not, I cannot help it,” said Tecumseh, “I know my duty.” The council was then adjourned, and Tecumseh again left the town.—All present were fully impressed with a sense of the high character and noble bearing of Tecumseh, and none more so than the Governor, who, with a hope of eliciting a farther development of his views in private, than he had given in public, determined on the following day, to visit him at his camp. With but a single friend, he appeared before Tecumseh, who treated them both with the most marked respect, carried them to his tent, where, giving them seats, and stretching himself upon the ground, he entered frankly into conversation.
The Governor stated, that he had come with a wish to preserve peace, and desired to know whether his intentions were really such as he had stated in council.
Tecumseh said, “they were;—that he would not willingly make war with the United States, against whom he had no other complaint, than their purchasing the Indian lands.—That he wished to be their friend, and that if the Governor would surrender the lands lately bought, he was the ally of the Americans; if not, he was their enemy.” The Governor again assured him that he would make known his propositions to the President, but informed him, there was no hope of his acceding to them.
“Well,” said Tecumseh, “as the Great Chief is to determine the matter, I hope the Great Spirit will put sense enough in his head to induce him to give up the land. True, he is so far off, that the war will not injure him;—he may sit still in his town, and drink his wine, while you and I will have to fight it out.”
Much conversation ensued, all of which was marked by the most manly frankness, and the Governor rose to depart, saying, “there is one request, Tecumseh, which I have to make, and to which I hope you will agree.”
“Name it,” said the Chief.
“It is,” said the Governor, that “in the event of a war, you will endeavour to prevent the murder of women and children by the Indians, as well as the wounded and prisoners, taken in battle.”
“I promise,” said Tecumseh, “for my soul delighteth not in the blood of women and children; and, Great Chief, remember, if it becomes necessary, extend to the red men the same clemency you ask for the whites.”
“I promise,” said the Governor, and bidding Tecumseh farewell, with a hope that the friendly relations then existing, might not be disturbed, he was soon on his way to Vincennes, meditating upon the interview, and deploring the war which he saw fast gathering, and which was to prove disastrous to the whites, and ruinous to the Indians.