“While through the broken pane the tempest sighs,And his step falters on the faithless floor,Shades of departed joys around him rise,With many a face that smiles on him no more;With many a voice, that thrills of transport gave,Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!”ROGERS.
“While through the broken pane the tempest sighs,And his step falters on the faithless floor,Shades of departed joys around him rise,With many a face that smiles on him no more;With many a voice, that thrills of transport gave,Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!”ROGERS.
Nearly a year had elapsed since the commencement of our story, and the night was cold and rainy, when two friends were regaling themselves with pipes by a comfortable fire in a small building which stood apart from the few houses at that time constituting the village of Bowling Green. This place was even then beginning to show marks of civilization, for log cabins had in many instances, been superseded by well built frame edifices, and taste and culture were now exhibited in many of their walks and gardens.
As the friends sat smoking, the wind ever and anon whistled as it hurried fitfully past, causing them to shrug up their shoulders, and draw still nearer to the fire.
“It makes me feel cold,” said Earth, “to hear the wind whistle as it does, for many and many's the time I've slept out, just sich a night as this,—and I think, Rolfe, you have had a small touch at it too.”
“Yes, Earth, but my experience is nothing in comparison with yours. I often think of the time we passed together in the woods and always with pleasure; though we have had some singular adventures. We ought to have found that girl, Earth.”
“Yes, we ought so, Rolfe; I have never felt satisfied about it. We ought to have found her, and, but for that lying Prophet, we should.”
“I think now,” said Rolfe, “that she was concealed, and that he knew it, but he deceived me at the time.”
“And would do it agin,” said Earth; “you know nothing about Ingens. He is the cause of all this fracas now, and has brought down war upon our heads. What say you, Rolfe; the governor wants volunteers; suppose we go on and take a brush; I reckon this will be about the last chance we shall have, and I am getting right rusty: I hain't killed one now for nearly a year. This business of collecting taxes, and keeping out of the woods, civilizes one mightily. I feel so slick and smooth, I hardly know myself,—what say you?”
“Why, we will talk about that another time; if there is a necessity, we will go. But I am thinking of something else. Earth, the idea will sometimes come across my mind, that the girl who was captured, is the same I once loved.”
“It is all nonsense, Rolfe, you are nation hard to satisfy,—didn't that letter from Petersburg put it all straight?”
“Why, yes; it does seem so, but, you know, I caught a glimpse of her face.”
“Well now,” said Earth, “if you set up your glimpses agin black and white, I've got no more to say about it.”
Rolfe, seeing that Earth was not in a humour to converse on the subject which he had most at heart, was silent; and Earth then asked, “Did you never hear any thing from the old woman nor the Ingen boy.”
“Never,” said Rolfe, “not a word.”
“Just like 'em,” said Earth, “I never know'd one, that was worth a ninepence”—then pausing an instant, he added, “I beg the Prophet's pardon, he is worth a dollar.”
“Why so?” inquired Rolfe.
“Because,” said Earth, “he has roasted so many of 'em. But Rolfe, what can the fellow be arter? if 'twas white men he burned, I could see through it plain enough, but he takes Ingens altogether, and then he picks the best of 'em, and besides this, I am told, he has run 'em all mad, and made 'em believe they can catch the whites in log traps as I used to catch 'coons.”
“I cannot tell,” said Rolfe, and he shuddered, for there passed through his mind the thought that the captive maiden might be she whom he loved, and would yet be brought to the stake.
Earth saw him shudder, and thinking he was cold, stirred up the fire, and replenished his pipe. The wind still howled as it hurried past, and Rolfe also drew his chair closer, complained of being cold, and added fuel to the fire.
“I hate a night like this,” said Earth, “it always make me think of spirits.”
“Rather makes you drink spirits,” said Rolfe; “will you have some?”
“No, I was not speaking of that; you know I don't hate a little, if it is good, worse than any thing else in this world, but that has nothing to do with it. I mean that a night like this always makes me think of ghosts.”
“Earth, you don't believe in ghosts?”
“Don't I believe what I see, and havn't I seen them?”
“I think not,” said Rolfe.
“Well, now the difference is, I think I have,” said Earth.
“Well Earth, I see we can't agree about ghosts, but there is one thing I wish you would tell me.”
“What is it?”
“Will you promise to tell?”
“Name it, and, if it be proper, I will.”
“It is,” said Rolfe, “what I have often heard you allude to, the fate of your family.”
As Rolfe announced this, a shade seemed to pass over Earthquake's countenance, and he was for a moment silent, then removing his pipe, he said, “I will gratify you, Rolfe, for I promised to do so, and we shall never have a more fit opportunity. It is a sad story, and soon told, and I want to tell it, because I know you think me cruel, but I aint so. Let us fill our pipes agin.” Having done so, he began:—
“My father was an early settler in Kentucky. He emigrated while I was a child from one of the counties along the sea coast in North Carolina. What induced him to do so, I never learned; he was poor, and may have moved to better his condition, yet I have always thought that there was some private reason which forced him away. However, my principal recollections now, are of the family, as they were when,—when they perished. My father was, before he moved, though poor, a good liver, and had had the advantages of a good education. I was too young to judge of this at that time, but many recollections now convince me,—for when we moved we brought many books with us, and our neighbours often came to him to write for them, and to settle their accounts.
“Well, when we came out, we settled about fifteen miles from here;—I will show you the place some of these days, though there are now few marks of its ever having been cultivated, and built us a house which was remarked for its neatness and comfort. But it was too far from any other settlement, there were no persons sufficiently near to be called neighbours, and for that I blame the old man, though, I suppose, for doing so, he had his own reasons. I say, I blame him, because I remember I often heard persons ask him, if he was not afraid to reside so far from assistance, in case it should be needed. He said ‘no,’ for he was a brave man and knew no fear. Rolfe, I said I blamed him;—he is gone, and I loved him;—let me blot out that word blamed. Well, we made a small clearing; the old man was very industrious, and though I was a child, yet I assisted him, for I was large enough to plough, and we managed to live very comfortably. My mother, I think I have not before mentioned her, was a good woman, and as kind and gentle as one can be. I have never seen one like her since, and now, while I am talking to you, Rolfe, I can see them all as they used to be. I can see my mother meet the old man with smiles when he would return from his work, and see him, happy as he was, when he could collect us all around him, and make us play for his amusement. We were six in the family, and I the eldest of the children. I had two sisters, a brother, a father and a mother.
“While thus situated, we frequently heard of the Indians, and of acts of violence committed by them; but they generally happened at a distance, and caused us no actual fear. I say fear,—yet we were always on the look out, and somewhat prepared for them, and whenever we had cause to suspect that they were about, word was sent to the neighbours, and we all retreated to the block-house.
“But, one morning, the old man being sick, I took my gun and went out hunting. The Ingens had not then been heard of for some time, and we suspected nothing. I wandered from home a considerable distance farther than was prudent at that time, and it was the middle of the day when I returned, and was distant a mile or two, when I heard the voices of persons who seemed moving along. This was unusual, for sometimes months passed without our seeing any one; and I at once concealed myself, that I might see who they were. I soon discovered that they were a party of Ingens. My heart sank within me, for I was more afraid of an Ingen then than I am now, Rolfe. They were about a dozen in number, and many of them had large bundles; and, what I did not observe at first, I soon noticed, namely, that one of them was riding an old gray mare, which we had brought from Carolina, and which I knew they must have stolen. I recollected having left her in the stable, but thought she had gotten out, and that the Ingens had perhaps found her in the woods. They were all armed, as if for battle, and seemed to be hurrying along. I hardly breathed while they were passing, lest they should discover me; and as soon as they were out of sight, I ran home, to tell what I had seen.
“I had nearly reached there, before I began to think what might have happened, and as soon as the thought struck me, that they might have been to our house, I dashed along until I reached our enclosure. Yes, I reached it, Rolfe, but there was no house to be seen, nor a living soul! no, not even a farm-yard animal. Every thing was deserted, and a thin smoke was rising up from where the house had stood!—Pass me the tobacco, Rolfe.—Well, I cried, as any other boy would have done, and ran blubbering along to the yard; I entered it, and what think you, Rolfe, I stood over the smoking ruins of our house, and saw my father, mother, two sisters, and a brother, lying mangled before me!—Several of them wanted some of their limbs, and, more or less burned, they all lay a black and smoking mass! Yet the size of the skeletons pointed out each, and I knew them as well as I did in the morning. And, Rolfe, they were all innocent and knew no crime, unless it was to love each other too much, and to be happy within themselves. They died, however, not without a struggle, for two red devils lay with them.
“Rolfe, you can never know the agony of that moment!” and a shudder ran over him as he recurred to it—“how utterly lone and desolate I felt!—I cried no more, I ceased to be a boy, and every feeling was instantly merged in the desire for vengeance! Rolfe, you have often thought me cruel, now have I not cause?”
“Your misfortunes, Earth, have been greater than I thought, but I do not deem it just to punish the innocent for the guilty. Those who were not present could not have injured you.”
“Rolfe,” continued Earthquake, “before that fatal day, I was too gentle and meek for a boy. The old man often chided me, for I would cry at the crushing of an insect. I mention this to show that my disposition was not naturally cruel. But, Rolfe, to be left alone in the wide world in one unlucky hour! and Rolfe, hear me, I alone scooped their shallow grave, and shovelled the fresh earth over their smoking bodies! Yes, covered up, hid,—buried the only persons in this world who loved me,—I may say who knew me; and I watched over them, and lay for two nights upon their graves! and the first night, Rolfe, was just such a night as this. It was cold, and raw, and drizzling, and the wind moaned as it passed over me. I thought it sighed to meet with a child so wretched and lonely. From that moment, Rolfe, I vowed vengeance, and I have often fed it with the red man's blood, but it hungers for more. Innocent or guilty, I know not the difference,—every red skin is guilty in my eyes. I owe them a debt yet, and if this Prophet shall stir up a fight, believe me, Rolfe, I will try and settle that account;—it will be, perhaps, the last chance I shall have. But, come, let us drop this subject, for talking of it almost runs me crazy.”
Earthquake was much excited by the incidents he had been narrating, and Rolfe wishing him to become composed, said nothing, and each remained for a time silent.
It was now near ten o'clock at night. A drizzling rain still pattered against the windows, and the winds whistled as they hurried along, when a sudden rapping at the door started Rolfe and Earth from their reverie. The rap was loud and bold, not that of a dependant, but of one who had a right to enter.
“Who's there?” cried Rolfe.—No answer was returned. “Who's there?” he repeated.—Still no answer.
Earth, being nearest the door, arose, saying, “I will see who it is,” then approached, and opened it. A figure wrapped in a blanket, stood on the topmost step, and as the door was thrown open, entered without the least ceremony. The face and shoulders were muffled up, the legs perfectly naked, the feet clad in much worn moccasins, and from the whole figure the rain was running off in streams. Without making a remark, and waiting only a few seconds, it approached the fire.
“A red skin,” cried Earth, and he sprang to a corner to seize a gun. Rolfe involuntarily caught a stick; the blanket fell from the shoulders of the stranger, who stood forth an Indian warrior, and gazing at Earthquake, cried out in good English when he saw him presenting the gun, “Hold! hunter:—art thou afraid of Oloompa?” Rolfe and Earthquake paused, for they did not at first remember the name, but in an instant it flashed upon Rolfe, and he said, “the wounded boy!”
“The same,” was the brief reply, and Oloompa's visage grew darker as he added, “Oloompa is a man in conflict.”
Rolfe seized his hand and pressed it with joy—Earth carelessly replaced the gun, and advanced, but Oloompa was cold and indifferent to each, for he had not met with the reception which his arduous services entitled him to, and drawing a chair he seated himself by the fire.
“What tidings, Oloompa?” cried Rolfe, with breathless anxiety.
“The maiden lives,” was the answer. “Oloompa has sought her,—he has journeyed far. The hunters receive him with guns and sticks—”
“Is she the same I seek;—oh! Oloompa, tell me.”
Oloompa spoke not, nor even looked at Rolfe, but withdrawing from his belt the letter which he bore, delivered it;—then, after a moment he added, “Oloompa has served the white man, and he is now his enemy.”
Earthquake eyed him from head to foot, then said to Rolfe in an under-tone, “What does he mean by saying he is our enemy?—Rolfe, I have a great mind to use him up.”
“Hush, Earth,” said Rolfe, “regard nothing that he says, he is vexed now, but it will wear off,” and tearing open the note, he read the lines which Gay had written.
“Yes, yes, she is the same,” cried he; and for a moment he was overpowered by contending emotions. He knew not at first, whether to be sorry or glad. He regretted her misfortunes and the sufferings she must have experienced, and his brow was touched with sadness. Then again, she was alive and well, and he was to rescue her and restore her to her friends, and thinking of this, he became almost frantic with joy; and passing the note which he had received to Earth, he approached Oloompa, begged his pardon for the reception they had given him; gave him a thousand thanks for the trouble he had taken, and used all his exertions to make him comfortable and happy.
But Oloompa manifested the utmost indifference to all his attentions, and repulsed every effort at hospitality. He seemed to regard them as disagreeable, and partook of only such refreshments as nature required. Rolfe regretted exceedingly, the reception he had met with, and by his gentleness of manner, and continued efforts to win him from his reserve, succeeded in obtaining from him a history of his journey, together with details of the appearance and occupation of Gay, and a thousand other incidents which were full of interest to him alone.
The more Rolfe thought on the subject, the more happy he became. Every other feeling now gave place to joy. He was now to be happy, and saw before him the accomplishment of all his wishes. He judged from Gay's letter that she still loved him, and his desire was to set off at once to seek her. In making her his, he saw no obstacle, he anticipated no difficulty. He was aware of the excitement which prevailed among the Indians, and also of the general belief that hostilities would be commenced. But Gay was now with friends who loved her, and who would protect her if necessary; and furthermore, he had been assured of her safety by Oloompa, whom he could not doubt, since he had already taken so much trouble to serve him. His object, therefore, was now to make Oloompa happy, and also to make preparations for his intended journey.
In accomplishing the former, however, he still found much difficulty, for his civilities were received with indifference, and Oloompa's wants were few; and even when he conversed, it was as if he considered it a matter of duty, and seemed not to spring from any disposition to talk. Every thing he did was repulsive in its nature, and served to prove that he was disagreeably situated. He would receive nothing as compensation for his labour, save only a small present which he designed for his mother, and told Rolfe that he would lead him to the maiden, and expressed a wish to set off as soon as he should be ready to accompany him. Rolfe felt how much he owed him, he saw that something was heavy at his heart, and he renewed his exertions to entertain him, but in vain; and having exhausted his efforts, he had only to admire the individual whose good will there seemed no hope of purchasing, and who had already done so much to serve one, whom he seemed to consider as his enemy. The cause of this Rolfe could not divine, and it was upon the second evening of Oloompa's arrival, that the two being alone, Rolfe ventured to inquire.
“Will you tell me, Oloompa,” said he, “why it is you have done so much to serve me, placed me under a thousand obligations, and then will not even permit me to be kind to you.”
“The white man was good to my mother,” answered Oloompa;—“he asked me to serve him. I promised.—I have done so. My path was long. Oloompa's moccasins know the travel of two moons. He journeyed far. It was to serve the white man, who hates him. He is ready to lead him to the maiden.”
“Oloompa, you are mistaken,” said Rolfe; “I have no ill feeling toward thee. Thou hast acted nobly; thou hast served me, and I love thee for it. Now only name what I shall do for thee.”
“Go with me at once to the maiden, that Oloompa may be free.”
“And wilt thou accept nothing?” said Rolfe. “I owe thee much; I am thy friend; suffer me to be kind to thee for thy mother's sake, if not thy own. Should Oloompa go thus, Pukkwana will say the white man was ungrateful.”
“Oloompa has spoken,” was the reply. “He wants nothing; let the morrow's sun find him on his journey. He is a caged bird. His spirit longs to be free.”
“Then I can do no more,” said Rolfe, “but will prepare for our journey. You said you desired this, that you might be free. You will conduct me to the maiden, and then leave me. Does danger await me?”
Oloompa smiled, as if in scorn, and said, “the white man knows not Oloompa:—Oloompa is not a snake, to bite without warning. His words are straight. What he says, he does. The white man wrongs him when he suspects. Oloompa has said he will show him the maiden. He still says so, and if her path is watched, he will return with her to the settlements. She shall be safe. Then, Oloompa is free, and his hatred of the white men is a fire which will never burn out.”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know not what to think. I grieve to hear you speak as you do. Forget those thoughts which prey upon your mind, and be my friend. Return with me after having shown me the maiden, and you shall have a house and lands for yourself and mother, and your days shall pass in peace and quiet. Do this, and you will make me happy. If not, say why, what preys upon your mind?”
Oloompa's feelings were touched, by the manner of Rolfe, and he replied, “Oloompa is not ungrateful;—he loves not the white man, yet he thanks him for his kindness. Oloompa's cradle was the tree top. His spirit is as free as the wind that blows. The wild woods must be his home. The hunter asks why it is that Oloompa's mind is troubled? Would he know? Listen:—the Great Spirit made this great island for his red children. The white people came across the wide water, and have taken it from them. Here, where Oloompa stands, his father hunted the deer and buffalo. The whites wanted his hunting grounds. He would not give them up. His blood was spilled upon the ground, and the wigwam of the white man now rises over it! Dost thou know why the red man's heart is sorry?”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know thy feelings, and can make many allowances for them. I never think of the fate of the Indians with a light heart.”
“The white man is not yet satisfied,” continued Oloompa; “he wants more hunting grounds, and again he is kindling the red torch.”
“No,” said Rolfe; “the red man is kindling the torch, and the whites are assembling, to defend themselves. I myself had friends who fell victims to Indian barbarity. Not only that, but our frontiers have been desolated, and women and children inhumanly butchered, to gratify their vengeance. Oloompa, can we suffer that?”
“The white man,” continued Oloompa, “says to-day, ‘here is my boundary’; to-morrow, he moves over it. If the Indians go farther, he follows on; he will not let them live in peace.”
“They are both to blame,” said Rolfe, “and the state of feeling which exists among them is much to be lamented.”
“Indian barbarity!” repeated Oloompa, who seemed not to have regarded Rolfe's last remark:—“The white man taught the red man cruelty.—The white man came to us a stranger and asked for bread:—our fathers gave it. They clothed him,—they nursed him,—they made him grow strong. He turned upon his benefactors, and asked them for their hunting grounds. They refused to give them. What did the white man do, hunter? He kindled the torch;—and the red flames of war devoured, not only our warriors who fought for their wigwams, and their wild lands, but our women and children, who knew no harm. Yes, hunter, they butchered them, not because they had wronged them,—an Indian could have forgiven that,—but for the sake of gain,—for silver. Hunter, art thou proud of being a white man? Tell me.” Then pausing an instant, he continued, “Oloompa loves the red men. They are gone; their spirits would not stay when their hunting grounds were taken from them. They have gone to the Great Spirit, to tell him of the treatment of the white men.”
Rolfe was silent, for he knew not what reply to make, and he was also unwilling to excite Oloompa more.
Oloompa continued, “Hunter, before the white man came, the Indians were happy. They knew no crime. The Great Spirit supplied all their wants, and they believed that all he gave belonged to his red children in common. They protected the weak,—they fed the hungry,—they clothed the naked,—they gave shelter to the stranger. If their hearts were troubled, they would leave their wigwams, and retreating alone to some sacred tree or fountain, in the wilds of the forest, there pour out their most secret thoughts to him whom they knew only as the Great Spirit; there offer up their thanks for the game he had given them,—the care he had bestowed on their squaws and their little ones;—there implore him to take care of a father or a mother who had gone before them;—there entreat him to give them fine fields to hunt in, filled with deer and buffalo; or they would tell the wrongs they suffered from some other tribe to him whom they looked upon as a common father, and ask for vengeance. Hunter, was it wrong? Is the white man's heart glad when he knows what the Indians once were, and sees what the Indians now are?—The white man came:—he gave strong water to the Indians, and made them weak. He made one tribe war with another. He made brothers meet brothers, and fathers, sons, in bloody fray. When weak and divided, the white man himself took up the hatchet, and marched to battle. Our streams ran red with the blood of our children, and our plains were whitened with the bones of the slain. Our warriors were all laid low! Hunter, canst thou now tell, why the red man's heart is sorry? But Oloompa will away. He longs to be free. He will rove the few hunting grounds which are yet left him. Will the white man go to-morrow?”
“Oloompa, while you are excited as I see you,” said Rolfe, “will it be safe for me to venture so far into your country with only a small guard? Tell me, before I name the time for setting out.”
“Oloompa hates the white man,” was the reply, “and the white man knows it. Oloompa has promised to serve him,—he will do it. His path is clear, and the maiden shall return safe. Oloompa came alone,—the white man must go alone. He is safe. What Oloompa has done proves that he will not speak false.”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I never can doubt thee. You tell me I shall be safe;—I believe it;—yet still I would like that some few friends should accompany me.”
“They will make our path longer,” said Oloompa. “Oloompa wants to go quick. He wishes to be free. The white man, perhaps, is afraid,—he may take one friend. Oloompa again tells him his path is clear.”
Rolfe saw that a farther discussion would most probably only tend to provoke him, and he observed, “I am satisfied, and will obey;—the hunter whom you saw here shall accompany us.”
“Thy heroes, though the general doomHath swept the column from their tomb,A mightier monument command,The mountains of their native land!There points thy muse to stranger's eye,The graves of those that cannot die.”BYRON.
“Thy heroes, though the general doomHath swept the column from their tomb,A mightier monument command,The mountains of their native land!There points thy muse to stranger's eye,The graves of those that cannot die.”BYRON.
Great excitement prevailed in consequence of the tidings brought by Oloompa. The news quickly spread throughout the village, that Rolfe was about to go in quest of a maiden who had been captured some time before by the Indians; and no sooner was it known, than many of his friends volunteered their services, and offered to accompany him. He thanked them for their kindness, but declined, saying that his friend Earthquake had promised to go, and as they all knew that, in any Indian adventure, Earth was a host within himself, they were satisfied. Speculations as to the person they were going in search of, were made by many ladies of the village, and some even ventured to assert that it was an affair of the heart; but this impression finally gave way to one with which they were more pleased, namely, that the captive lady was a distant relation.
Oloompa, as before stated, met with every attention which kindness could bestow, and every effort was used to make him happy; but there was sadness and gloom upon his brow, and heaviness at his heart. He saw himself surrounded by the enemies of his race, their wigwams rising up, and their fields spread out, where formerly the red man roved sole lord of the forest. He beheld their inquiring and insulting gaze when he ventured out; he thought of the encroachments and aggressions which had ever marked their history, and he saw in the future, the coming struggle, which was to decide for all time, the fate of the red men.
But, sad as were these musings, he felt the consciousness of having done an act which ennobled him in sacrificing every personal feeling to serve Rolfe. He experienced the gratification which flows from a noble deed. He enjoyed that holy and sacred sensation which fills the heart, when one, careless of the opinion of the world, performs some act which is prompted by friendship, by benevolence, or by charity. And yet he was unhappy. Another cause of his unhappiness added to those we have already stated was his late acquaintance with Miskwa, the affianced bride of Tecumseh, as he sometimes feared, notwithstanding her denial to the contrary. And although there were moments in which he believed this, her figure was often dancing before him, and in fancy he walked with her, or drew her bow, or listened to her happy laughing voice; and then came reality, and he longed for the noise of battle, for desperate conflict, and for mighty struggle, that he might pour out his vengeance upon the whites, stay their encroachments, and secure to the red men the quiet possession of their hunting grounds, or in eternal sleep find rest for all his woes.
It was now the morning that Rolfe had promised to accompany Oloompa, and the preparations at his house, showed that he would soon be in readiness to do so. He and Earth were both armed and equipped, pretty much as they were wont to be when all their time was devoted to hunting, and in addition to that, each was supplied with a pair of pistols. Their being armed, was now absolutely necessary, both as a means of defence in case it should be necessary, and likewise for the purpose of providing themselves with food in the vast wilderness through which they were about to travel. At the door were standing three horses equipped for a journey, and around them a group of friends had gathered. The preparations now being completed, “Come Earth,” said Rolfe, “if you are ready, we will set out.”
“Agreed,” said Earth, “for to be armed as I am, makes me think of old times, and we shall be right apt to have some fun.” Then turning to the crowd, “Come now boys, try and settle up before I git back, and tell your neighbours to do the same; don't be backward about your taxes because I am gone; I shall expect to see the thing straight; now you all hear me:” then shaking hands familiarly, Rolfe did the same, and mounting, they, with Oloompa, were off amid the wishes of many friends for a prosperous and safe journey. The gloom which had shaded the brow of Oloompa, now passed away, and he was cheerful and happy at the idea of again entering the woods. Rolfe and Earth were blithe as boys, and although so long a journey lay before them, they spurred their horses and put off in a gallop, the woods echoing to many a hearty laugh as they moved along. Leaving them to pursue their journey, we must detail other incidents in our story.
The Indian affairs on the northwestern frontier were now every day assuming a more hostile appearance, alarm and consternation manifested itself so strongly among the frontier settlers, that Governor Harrison was ordered to hold himself in readiness to attack or defend as subsequent events might require.
The Prophet's band had considerably increased, and although nothing had as yet occurred, which could be regarded as a declaration of hostilities, yet every thing indicated that to preserve peace under present circumstances would be impossible. Mysterious meetings were continually held among the Indians, and orators were never wanting, to paint to them in high wrought colours, the wrongs and grievances under which they suffered. English agents, agents from the most enlightened and civilized country on the globe, were found in attendance at all their meetings, inflaming their prejudices, exciting their passions, and urging them on to a cruel and relentless war against the Americans, a people who had won for themselves the applause of the world, and of whom England, as their mother country, should have been justly proud. And not only was England, proud England, thus warring with those united to her by the strongest ties of blood, but she was urging on to inevitable extermination the innocent and happy aborigines of our country.—She turned their thoughts from the channels in which they were accustomed to flow, and made them dream of dominion and of conquest.—She harked on those, whose passions, when excited, justly entitled them to the appellation of “blood hounds of war,” and turned them loose against the helpless mother, and the new-born babe. She by her influence set fire to our cabins, along the entire north-western frontier, and by the red glare which lighted up the dark and surrounding forest, showed the mangled remains of butchered families. Yes, England, by thy agents thou hast done this and much more; yet with its recital, there is blended no unkind feeling—for I still love thee as thou art, “a handful of earth cast upon the wide waters”—yes, I love thee, and have wandered with pleasure over thy lands, and gazed with delight on thy cities, thy wealth, thy pomp, and thy pageantry;—and yet, if when looking abroad, from the top of one of your green clad hills, upon the wide and extended landscape which lay before me, I should have been reminded of the beautiful prairies in my own native land; and while dwelling in fancy for a moment upon them, I have thought of the desolation which had sometimes marked an Indian trail, together with some of the stories which were told of British influence, pardon me, I could not help it. As I said before, I still love thee; thou art great and powerful; charity, benevolence, hospitality, unbounded knowledge, together with all that is beautiful and bright in science, dwells with thee;—the finest specimens of art, the loveliest landscapes in nature are all thy own;—and thy errors, for errors thou hast committed, must be regarded only as the accidental stains which sometimes deface the most beautiful picture.
It is impossible for an American to read a history of the part played by British agents at the period here alluded to, without feeling excited, but it has long passed, and with it let pass the feelings which such a recital is calculated to engender. To Tecumseh and the Prophet they first made their propositions;—to men suffering under real or imaginary wrongs, and whose whole souls were bent upon the accomplishment of a particular purpose. They were found not to be unwilling listeners.—They were offered arms and ammunition, and promised assistance, if necessary.—The breach between the brothers and the United States, had been daily widening, and they now saw that a struggle was inevitable. The only hope of peace, was in the wished for restoration of the lands lately purchased, and this the Governor had informed them was impossible. The offer of arms and ammunition on the part of the British agents was therefore seasonable, and the brothers accepted it. Yet they knew that they were not offered through kindness to the Indians, but through hatred to the Americans. Such was Tecumseh's perfect understanding of the motive which governed the agents, as he often stated.
Tecumseh's exertions were now great and unremitting; he visited every north and western tribe, animated their warriors, strengthened the confederacy which he had already formed, and prepared them at once for the coming contest. Never was a monarch's voice more absolute than his. If he commanded, he was obeyed; if he expressed a wish, it was executed. And this power, which he looked forward to when unknown, he had obtained by the energy of his own great spirit,—aided by the deep sagacity and forethought of his brother. He had mastered thousands of his fellow men, and bound them to him by the most indissoluble ties, who were as wild as the beasts they hunted;—who belonged to different tribes, and who spoke different languages. He had reconciled all the differences which existed among the various tribes, mastered their feelings by his warm, gushing eloquence; led them whither he pleased; had preached to them peace, yet prepared them for war, and they never, from the beginning, knew what it was he intended. He was bold, ardent, and indefatigable in his exertions. To-day his voice was heard on the Wabash, to-morrow, he was declaiming on the shores of the lakes.
Rumours were now daily coming in, of hostile intentions on the part of the Indians; several murders had been committed by the respective parties, which served very much to exasperate each, and authentic information was forwarded to the Governor of the existence of the confederacy which Tecumseh had formed. Preparations were made on his part for immediate action, and besides the military already in service, the militia of the neighbouring states had been ordered to hold themselves ready to move, whenever required.
At this time Tecumseh returned from a visit to the North-west, and assured Elkswatawa, that in that quarter all was right, and nothing waited for but the signal to strike. At the Prophet's camp, and along the Wabash, the Indians were excited to the highest possible degree, and the difficulty now with him, was to restrain them. Worked into fury by the continual practising of his mysterious rites, members of his band, had, counter to his orders, invaded the settlements and dipped their hands in the blood of the whites. Having done this, they were still more excited, and howling like dogs, were anxious to be unleashed against their prey. New muskets, powder, and balls had already been obtained from the English, and safely deposited at Tippecanoe, and the Prophet having made all preparations as far as he was capable, and also fearing lest the conduct of his followers should call down the vengeance of the whites, before he had organized any plan of attack, proposed to Tecumseh that they should designate a time when the first blow was to be struck. Tecumseh was all anxiety for battle, but he felt that his schemes were not yet matured. He knew not what was the disposition of the southern tribes. He had sent emissaries among the Creeks, Chocktaws, and Cherokees, but had not, as yet, visited them in person, and he was anxious to do so that he might obtain their co-operation, and urging them to strike in the south, at the same time that he did in the north-west, divert the attention of the whites, kindle the flame of war along the whole frontier, and by concentrating his forces when least expected, make themselves sure of victory. Elkswatawa saw the propriety of the measure, but withheld his consent; Tecumseh, however, assured him that in a few days he would set out for the south, visit the various tribes in that quarter, bind them to his confederacy, if threats or persuasion could avail, “and then,” said he, “the red torch shall blaze, and the war-whoop ring.”
This would have been perfectly agreeable to Elkswatawa, but for the excited state of his followers; he knew the feelings of the whites towards him, and he also knew that they were preparing for hostilities. He feared lest some premature occurrence should take place before Tecumseh could return, and being anxious that success should crown the first attack of the Indians, or to use his own language, “that they should strike a sure and heavy blow,” he urged immediate action; and suggested that they should, by stratagem, endeavour to obtain possession of the person of General Harrison, and at the same time seize upon the town of Vincennes, which he thought practicable, and which, if accomplished, would ensure the success of all their schemes. It was while they were debating about this, that an incident occurred, which settled their deliberations.
General Harrison, who, as before stated, was prepared for action, actuated by a spirit of humanity; determined to make another effort for the preservation of peace, and with that view sent an address to the two brothers, calling them by name and styling them the “chiefs of the confederation of various tribes residing at Tippecanoe.” The address commenced by setting forth the various rumours which had reached him, thereby showing the brothers that their intentions were known, and endeavouring to dissuade them from hostilities, by showing the utter impracticability of their purpose. Portions of the document ran thus, “Brothers, our citizens are alarmed, and my warriors are preparing themselves; not to strike you, but to defend themselves, their wives and children. You shall not surprise us as you expect to do; you are about to undertake a very rash act, I advise you to consider well of it, it is not yet too late.
“Brothers, what inducement have you to undertake an enterprise where there is so little probability of success?—do you really think that the handful of men, which you have about you, are able to contend with the power of the ‘Seventeen Fires,’ or even that the whole of your tribes united, could contend with the ‘Kentucky Fire’ alone?
“Brothers, I am myself of the ‘Long Knife Fire;’ as soon as they hear my voice, you will see them pouring forth their swarms of hunting-shirt men, as numerous as the mosquitoes on the shores of the Wabash; brothers, take care of their stings.
“Brothers, I hear that you talk of coming to see me, attended by all your young men, this, however, must not be so; if your intentions are good, you have no need to bring but a few of your young men with you. I must be plain with you, I will not suffer you to come into our settlements with such a force.”
The reception of this accorded with their designs; it gave them a good excuse for visiting Vincennes, and upon consultation with each other, they determined to answer it, and name a day for their visit.
Having resolved to do so, Tecumseh replied in the following words:—
“Brother, I give you a few words until I be with you myself.
“TECUMSEH.”
“Brother at Vincennes, I wish you to listen to me while I send you a few words, and I hope that they will ease your heart; I know you look on your young men, and your women, and children with pity, to see them so much alarmed.
“Brother, I wish you to examine what you have from me, I hope it will be a satisfaction to you, if your intentions are like mine to wash away all these bad stories that have been circulated. I will be with you myself in eighteen days from this day.
“Brother, we cannot say what will become of us, as the Great Spirit has the management of us at his will. I may be there before the time, and may not be there until the day. I hope that when we come together all these bad tales will be settled; by this I hope your young men, your women and children will be easy. I wish you, brother, to let them know when I come to Vincennes and see you, that all will be settled in peace and happiness.
“Brother, these are only a few words to let you know that I will be with you myself, and when I am with you, I can inform you better.
“Brother, if I find I can be with you in less time than eighteen days, I will send one of my young men before me, to let you know what time I will be with you.
“July 4th, 1811.”
Tecumseh's letter having been forwarded to Gen. Harrison, the brothers again met in conference. It seemed that their wishes had been anticipated, and they determined to visit Vincennes, and if deemed practicable after their arrival there, to seize the Governor and massacre the inhabitants. The journeying there would at least afford employment for a time for the Prophet's followers, and if nothing could be effected, Tecumseh resolved to continue on from there to the south and leave Elkswatawa to return to Tippecanoe. The Governor had objected to their visiting him with a large retinue, and to obviate this they agreed to set out with but few followers, and let their warriors come on and join them at Vincennes in roving parties, they themselves professing at the time utter ignorance of their coming. The determination which they had now formed, only served to excite them still more, and they proceeded at once to prepare for their visit. The moment had now arrived when they were about to place the success of those schemes which they had so long been maturing upon a single chance. Yet with all this they blended prudence, for their designs were not communicated to their warriors, who armed, were ordered to move forward and attend a meeting which was to be held at Vincennes, nor were they to be made acquainted with them unless it was desirable to do so after their arrival. They well knew that in their present excited condition, if the object of their visit was known, no power could restrain them, and that an attempt would be made upon the town, however impolitic it might be. Between themselves, they agreed that no attempt was to be made, if they were even suspected: for they believed that the success of their enterprise depended entirely on their success at first; and it did to a great extent, for a failure at first would prove Elkswatawa false as a Prophet, and most probably destroy all the influence which he now possessed, and which he had laboured so long to obtain. None of the distant members of the confederacy they had formed, knew any thing of this scheme.—The warriors who were to accompany them, resided chiefly on the Wabash, and all that Tecumseh had visited were sufficiently excited, and now only awaited his orders. The time appointed for their promised visit had now arrived and passed, and completing their preparations, the brothers sat out for Vincennes.
Upon the reception of Tecumseh's letter, General Harrison began to make preparations for the expected visit, and also to place himself in a situation to repel successfully any attack that might be made, and, as a further defence, a messenger was sent forward to meet Tecumseh, and prevent his coming to the council with an armed force. The eighteenth day arrived,—Vincennes was filled with soldiery, marching and countermarching in every direction; all was bustle and expectation, yet the sun went down, and no tidings were heard of Tecumseh. Several days also passed, and still he came not. At last, the messenger returned, saying, that “Tecumseh was on his march, and with more men than he should have brought to the council;—that when told of the impropriety of bringing so many, he stated that they came of their own accord,—that his guard consisted of but twenty-four men, and that over the remainder he exercised no influence; moreover, that the Governor need not be alarmed, for he came to settle peaceably all their differences.”
On Saturday, the 27th, Tecumseh and Elkswatawa made their appearance at Vincennes, attended by about one hundred warriors. General Harrison, anxious to bring the conference to a close, proposed that it should be held early on Monday morning. To this, Tecumseh objected, and even declined designating a day. The Governor, with a hope of intimidating the Indians, had called a general parade of the militia of the county of Knox.—These, all well armed, were in attendance, amounting in number to about eight hundred. There were also several companies of regular infantry, and a fine troop of cavalry, seventy strong. To see them go through their evolutions, the brothers, with their warriors, were invited. They attended:—they manifested no surprise,—they showed no fear; yet the exhibition had thwarted their plans, and showed the madness of their enterprise. When Tecumseh saw this, he observed, “we will not strike, they are ready.” Elkswatawa sighed, and the brothers returned to their camp.
Monday came,—the whites assembled at the place prepared for the council, and yet the Indians came not. Tuesday came, and it was found that Tecumseh's one hundred men now amounted to three hundred, and that roving bands filled the neighbouring woods.
The brothers now being satisfied that no hope of success remained, and seeing that the whites had prepared themselves as if expecting a surprise, determined to go into council, conciliate the whites if they could, and leave the town. They saw that their presence with their followers created a feverish state of excitement, which, as they could now effect nothing, they were anxious to destroy. In accordance with this agreement, Tecumseh sent a messenger to General Harrison, saying, he was “ready for the conference, and wishing to know whether the Governor would be attended by armed men.” The answer was, that “Tecumseh had his choice; if his men were armed, those of the Governor would be so likewise; if not, then none would be armed.” Tecumseh, however, decided on having a guard, and selected from his warriors two hundred, well armed with bows, tomahawks, rifles, and war clubs, and the two brothers marched to the place appointed for the council.
The whites had already assembled, and the bright muskets of the military glittered in the sun. In advance of the crowd, was stationed a troop of dragoons, seventy strong, dismounted, and armed with a sword and two pistols each; before them, and about their centre was seated General Harrison. Directly opposite this troop, Tecumseh and Elkswatawa led their warriors, and placing themselves in front of their band, they occupied a situation corresponding with that of the Governor. On the one side, was a large and well armed force; on the other, Tecumseh, with his swarthy band, bold, fearless, and undaunted, and as seemingly indifferent to the circumstances in which they were placed as though they had been in their own wigwams.
The conference was opened by a speech from the Governor, in which he accused the brothers of hostile intentions,—spoke of the alarm existing on the frontiers,—demanded that the Indians should be given up who had lately committed murders in Illinois,—adverted to their coming to a friendly conference with so large a retinue; and while he expressed his willingness to hear what Tecumseh had to say in reference to the lands, stated, that he had no power to relinquish them, and that it must be settled only by the President. His speech occupied some time, and in reply, Tecumseh rose.—He was calm and dignified, and as free in debate as though he were addressing a single individual. He denied that he intended hostilities against the whites, but admitted that he had formed a confederacy of all the northwestern tribes; but that it was formed to preserve peace, and to preserve themselves. “The United States,” he said, “had set the example of forming a union among all the ‘Fires,’—the Indians did not object to it, nor did they view it as a hostile act; why, then, should they object to the Indians forming a union?” He said, “the union he would form; that his object was peace; and now having bound together the northwestern Indians, he would, as soon as the council broke, go to the south, for the purpose of visiting the Chickasaws, Choctaws, and Creeks.” In regard to the murders which had been committed, he stated, that “he had set the example of forgiveness, by pardoning persons who had killed his men,—that he had even surrendered his men to punishment when they had committed murders on the whites, as was stipulated for in the treaty of Greenville; but that many Indians had been murdered,—the murderers had been demanded, and as yet not a single white man had ever been given up; and therefore, he must ask the Governor to pardon those who had lately offended.” Fatigued from the exertion he had made, which was long and vehement, in the discussion of the subjects above enumerated, the mere heads of which are given, he asked an adjournment until the next day, which was granted, and he then delivered to the Governor, as he saw he was dissatisfied, a belt of wampum, as a satisfaction for the murders which had been committed. The council then adjourned over to the following day.
Having returned to their camp, the brothers again met in secret conference, but they were sad and dispirited; preparations had been made for which they were not prepared; and by which not only were their plans thwarted, but they feared the effect which such a military display was calculated to have upon their own followers. To obviate this, and to explain to them what had, as yet, been done in council, a general meeting was called. It was now late at night—the moon was full, and “riding high in Heaven,” the evening was mild, with only air enough to stir their jet black locks, or whisper in soft low accents as it passed through the neighbouring trees, when Elkswatawa rose, and began to sing an evening hymn; soon the crowd joined with him, and as he led the song, he inwove with it a narration of their sufferings, and blended with it the glorious promises of the Great Spirit. His followers were now excited to the highest degree, and ready for any enterprise however hazardous. He then called for silence and detailed the views of the Governor which had been given in council,—ridiculed them, and laughed at his calling out all his men, for the purpose of frightening them into a compliance with his wishes.
Having exhausted himself, he was seated, and Tecumseh rose, he began by attempting to destroy any impression which might have been made by the military display at Vincennes; he roused their pride, he inflamed their passions, he complimented them on their bravery and noble bearing, and looked to the future for a realization of all their hopes;—he exhorted them to peace, and sobriety, and orderly conduct, and told them that the time had not yet come.
The Indians had been led to believe by the Prophet, that their lands were to be restored to them, and their condition in other respects essentially benefitted, but how it was to be effected many did not know; some had vague and uncertain ideas of the manner, and it was as yet only the warm partizans of the brothers among the various tribes to whom their plans had been fully developed. Tecumseh's remark therefore, “that the time had not yet come,” was understood by but few of the mass of his hearers,—yet he went on to develope his plans more and more to his followers;—dwelling upon the perfidy of the whites—suggesting the probability of an attack from them, and urging the necessity of their being always prepared. He told them that the council would break up on the morrow, and that he would set out immediately on a visit to the southern Indians, to get them to join their confederacy and to tell them of the conduct of the whites. He then advised them to return to their homes, and commit no aggressions; that the whites would only make it an excuse to seize their lands and treat them amiss while he was absent; that, having returned from the south, he would visit the President, and their claims should then be attended to. The meeting was then adjourned, sentinels placed to prevent a surprise, and all was quiet in the camp.
The following day the whites again assembled in council, yet the day was far spent when the brothers, with their warriors, made their appearance. The same disposition of themselves and forces was made that had been adopted the day before, and the council was again opened. Tecumseh continued his speech;—narrated the wrongs of the Indians, and demanded retro-cession of the lands lately purchased. At its close, much fatigued, he turned to look for a chair; no seat had been provided for him, and feeling slighted, he turned with an indignant air towards the Governor, who, observing it, ordered one to be handed. It was done; with the remark, “your Father requests you to take a chair.” “My Father!” said Tecumseh, casting it proudly from him, “the sun is my father, the earth my mother; upon her bosom I will repose;” and he stretched himself upon the ground. The debate was still warmly continued, several other chiefs of the red men addressed the assembly, the day closed, and yet nothing had been done. Charges were made against the whites by the Indians, and charges were made against the Indians by the whites; each party professed to desire peace, yet neither would do that which would give satisfaction to the other.
The moon was now high, and the night wearing away, when the Governor, anxious to put an end to the conference, told Tecumseh, that he had stated that his designs were peaceable, and he could now prove it, by delivering over to punishment the Indians who had lately committed the murders in Illinois, otherwise his intentions would be viewed as at war with his declarations. Tecumseh, in answer, stated that he could not give them up; he had pardoned the whites when they had killed his men, and he must now require from them the same forgiveness.
The Governor then asked him if he intended to prevent the settlement of the new purchase. He replied, that he hoped no attempt would be made to settle it until his return from the south;—that he had formed a confederacy of all the north-western tribes, and as soon as the council broke, he should visit the southern tribes for the same purpose;—that while he was absent, many Indians from the far west tribes, would settle at his town, and that the lands of the late purchase they would wish to use as hunting grounds, and that therefore he would wish no attempt made to survey them until his return, as it might lead to some difficulty;—and farther, that he wished no revenge sought for any injury which might be committed during his absence; that his intentions were peaceable, and upon his return he would himself visit the President, and settle all their differences;—that in the mean time, as the affairs of all the north-western Indians were in his hands, and nothing could be done without him, he would send messengers to all the tribes to prevent them from doing any mischief. These remarks called for a reply on the part of the Governor; nothing was effected—the council adjourned, and the brothers with their warriors, leaving the town, retired to their camp.
The next morning early, Tecumseh, having exacted a promise from his brother, that he would make no move until his return, descended the Wabash with twenty four men, on his way to the south, while Elkswatawa, with the remainder of the band, returned quietly to Tippecanoe.