“There is a trampling in the wood;—The mat, the cabin's entrance rude,Shakes;—it was no dream of fear,—Behold an Indian's face appear,He stands within the cot.—”YAMOYDEN.
“There is a trampling in the wood;—The mat, the cabin's entrance rude,Shakes;—it was no dream of fear,—Behold an Indian's face appear,He stands within the cot.—”YAMOYDEN.
We must now return to Kenah, the Prophet's messenger. Having left the wigwam of Netnokwa, dissatisfied with his visit, and vowing vengeance against its inmates, he continued his wanderings for the purpose of still farther disseminating his doctrines. Journeying among her own tribe, every day gave him proofs of the great influence she wielded, and he saw that it was vain to attempt to effect any thing, while in her own lodge she permitted the doctrines of the Prophet to be ridiculed, and his agents to be treated with derision and disrespect. Satisfied with the correctness of this opinion, and not being able by his own means to counteract the effect which the sentiments there uttered were likely to produce, he at once bent his steps towards the camp of the Prophet, determined to lay the matter before him, and to ask his interference. In doing this, besides the desire he had widely to disseminate the doctrines he was preaching, he was angered to find himself thwarted by one of that hated race, whose destruction he was plotting; and he resolved within his own mind, that if he could obtain the Prophet's consent, she should expiate her offence by death.
Having arrived in the country on the Wabash, he lost no time in searching out the Prophet, whom he found engaged as he had left him, in exciting and preparing the Indians for the part they were to act. Seeking an opportunity, he gave a detail of his wanderings, and dwelt particularly on the reception he had met with at Netnokwa's lodge, and the opposition he had encountered to the propagation of his doctrines, in the person of a pale face girl. He urged the necessity there was for removing her, together with the Indian maiden, who was entirely under her influence; and likewise, the propriety of adopting some strong measures relative to Netnokwa. He urged this the more, because he believed her at most lukewarm in her support of his doctrines, and feared that from the high place she held in the affections of the Indians, she might, if permitted to waver in her opinions, destroy at any moment, the influence which he had already obtained among them. He was angered, and his thirst for vengeance caused him to urge with great eagerness, the immediate adoption of some strong plans.
When Kenah first announced his visit to the lodge of Netnokwa, the countenance of the Prophet was darkened with anger, and he bit his lips in suppressed rage; yet Kenah finished his story, and still the Prophet, to his surprise, remained silent. Had the persons whose deaths he wished, been any other than those they were, no difficulty would have ensued; they would have been removed without a struggle, for the Prophet always thirsted for blood;—he was never known to forgive an enemy, nor ever, under any circumstances, to intercede for a victim; the narrative of Kenah had embittered his feelings in the highest degree;—he was mad with rage, and still he refused to answer Kenah's demand, requiring time to pass upon the matter. Taking this view of his character, Kenah viewed his conduct as perfectly incomprehensible. His divine mission had been ridiculed and denied, he himself decried as an impostor, and that too by a woman, and she of a hated race, and yet he required time to act.
Kenah felt that a change had come over the Prophet, and leaving him, he mentioned the circumstances, and they soon became the common talk of the camp. But while he did this, he little knew the difficulties which lay in the way of the Prophet. At the first recital of the events which Kenah had detailed, the Prophet knew that the white maiden alluded to, could be no other than the same who was captured by Yanatah, and whom he had given to Netnokwa to take with her home;—and that the red maiden who was said to be under her influence, and whose death Kenah also thought desirable, could be no other than she who was to have been the bride of Tecumseh. When he recollected that this difficulty had occurred in consequence of his having once, and once only, permitted a pale face who was in his clutches to escape from them, he felt a pang, such as is ordinarily felt, when one reverts for a moment to some deep crime which stains his past life. Under these circumstances he for some time hesitated what to do. Netnokwa was powerful, and possessed great influence, which it was necessary either to obtain or destroy. How to do this, while those who resided with her, were suffered to ridicule his doctrines, he could not tell. To accuse her of witchcraft, and order her to the stake, was now impossible, for he had lately declared, in the words of the Great Spirit, that all witches were exterminated, and he (the Great Spirit) appeased.
To connive in any way at the death of her daughter, was equally impossible, standing as she did toward Tecumseh, somewhat in relation of an affianced bride; and to order to death the captive maiden, who was under the same roof, he equally feared would call down his displeasure; for he knew the opposition he had felt to the summary method which had been practiced for removing the chiefs who were his enemies, and also his general repugnance to shedding the blood of women and children. With these views, and still undecided, he summoned Kenah, and explained to him the difficulties by which he was surrounded; and after a discussion of the plan best to be adopted, it was agreed that Netnokwa, with her daughter and the captive, should be brought at once to the camp of the Prophet, where they could be at least prevented from doing any mischief, and where they should remain until Tecumseh's return from the south, when, in general council, some disposition should be made of them. This plan appearing feasible, and having been agreed upon, they began to make preparations for carrying it into effect. Kenah was cautioned that Netnokwa was to be borne away without the knowledge of her tribe, and that neither she nor the maidens who were with her, were to receive the least injury. He deemed wisely that, once safely in his power, he could turn her influence to his own account, and at least keep her as a hostage for the good conduct of her tribe. It was but a short time after this resolve, when Kenah, having selected some half a dozen of the Prophet's most confidential followers, left the camp, and set out in the direction of Netnokwa's lodge.
The Indian affairs were now every day assuming a more warlike character, and Tecumseh and Elkswatawa, although engaged in different quarters of the country, were using all their exertions to prepare for the coming conflict. No open act of hostility had as yet been committed; but their plans were fast maturing, and Tecumseh had avowed his purpose to strike a sure and heavy blow as soon as he should return from the south, where he was now engaged in uniting in one common bond, the various tribes in that quarter. While such were the exertions of Tecumseh and Elkswatawa, General Harrison was arduously engaged in organizing and disciplining the militia under his command, and preparing for the crisis which he saw fast approaching. Accounts, containing all the information he could gather, relative to the proceedings of the Indians were regularly forwarded to the War Department, and he was in daily expectation of receiving orders requiring him to disperse the band of the Prophet, which, moving as it did always, just on the frontiers, served to keep the citizens in a state of perpetual alarm.
While such was the aspect of the Indian affairs, Rolfe and Earthquake were journeying on with Oloompa, to the lodge of Netnokwa. As yet they had been unmolested, but they saw from the excitement which was every where existing among the Indians, that hostilities were intended, and they regretted having ventured so far with so small a force. In Oloompa, however, they had seen no change since, though still reserved, and not cordial in his manner, he continued to aid them in supplying all their wants, and assured them of their safety.
The history of Gay Foreman, now presented her in a situation of great interest; for, while in one direction, Oloompa and Earthquake were moving on for the purpose of restoring her to her friends in the settlements; in another, Kenah, with his party, was hurrying on to seize her and the friends she had formed, and carry them all as prisoners to the camp of the Prophet.
At the cottage of Netnokwa, all was quiet, and nothing told of the fate which awaited its inmates. The time for Oloompa's promised return had arrived, and the maidens were excited with the pleasing anticipations of soon seeing him, accompanied as Gay fondly believed he would be, by Rolfe, of whom she had never thought but with affection.—Time had glided on smoothly since Oloompa's departure. They had had but few visitors, and were now alone. Netnokwa and the maidens were pursuing their usual avocations, either embroidering with the needle, which, with all, was a daily duty, or else making moccasins, and decorating them with beads. Buffalo skins were also often prepared, and adorned on the inner surface, with paintings or hieroglyphical devices, by means of colours obtained from the woods, which remained fresh and vivid, although exposed to the changes of the weather. When not engaged in these things, they were nursing their flowers, or roving through the woods.
So were they situated, and it was evening, when they were alone in their wigwam, that their ears were assailed with the most terrific yell. It reverberated through the woods like the ringing of a horn, and in another moment, Kenah and his party were rushing towards them. Netnokwa sprung forward and planted herself in the door. Miskwa and Gay crouched behind her. The Prophet's band, like a swollen torrent, came sweeping on. “Stop, madmen!” she cried, in a loud piercing voice, which appalled even the fiercest hearts, and hushed them into silence deep as that of the grave:—“Dost thou know Netnokwa? Darest thou fell the old oak of the forest, or handle roughly the loveliest flower of the prairie? Cowardly wretches! what want you here?” She ceased:—they were awed into silence, and, like dogs at bay, were kept at a distance, by Netnokwa's glance. But a moment passed, and Kenah again rushing forward, the frame of old Netnokwa yielded to his impetuosity, and entering the cabin, he was followed by his party. At first, were heard cries and shrieks, and several moments passed of distracting doubt. Then the voice of old Netnokwa was heard sounding loud above the storm within, and venting curses and imprecations on Kenah and his party. “Whence came ye? Who orders? How dare you touch Netnokwa? Netnokwa is now as withered grass,—her stream of life is almost dry,—her hair is whiter than the snow.—Who wants her? Say, blood hounds! why come ye?”
“The Prophet,” cried Kenah.
“May the lightning of the Great Spirit wither his heart. May his spirit never enter the happy hunting grounds of the red men,” cried Netnokwa. “He wants the last drop that flows in the veins of the old woman.”
“No,” said Kenah, “the Prophet wishes to see Netnokwa. He sends for her to his camp. He will not harm her.”
“Then why did he not send a runner. The message of the Prophet is heavy; six warriors must bear it. Why come ye all?”
“It is the Prophet's will:”—was the brief reply.
Netnokwa shook her head, for she saw too well, the fate which awaited her, and calming herself, she turned to Miskwa, who with Gay had crouched down behind her, each trembling with fear. Holding with her a hurried dialogue for a few moments, she again turned to Kenah; “What becomes of Netnokwa's daughter, the loveliest flower of the prairie?”
“The Prophet wishes to see her;” was the answer.
“And the captive maiden;—” she continued.
“Will spread her blanket in the camp of the Prophet?” replied Kenah.
Gay now wept as if her heart would break, for she regarded herself as the author of the heavy misfortune, which had come so suddenly upon them; while each moment Netnokwa and Miskwa grew more composed.
“Where is Tecumseh?” inquired Netnokwa.
“Tecumseh has no home,” said Kenah. “He wanders far and wide, and spreads his blanket when the sun goes down.”
“Netnokwa's daughter will be the bride of Tecumseh; does he know that the Prophet wants her blood?”
“The Prophet is not now dry;” was the answer. “When he drinks again, it will be the blood of the whites. Kenah has no time for talk;—when night comes, Netnokwa and the maidens must set out upon their journey. Let them prepare.”
Miskwa had now recovered her firmness of character. It was not the fear of death, which had caused her to tremble in the first instance, for there were many ways in which she would have met it, and died worthy of the race from which she sprung; but it was the indescribable dread produced by the name of the Prophet, with the knowledge that she had incurred his displeasure, and was to be ushered at once into his presence. Gay still wept, and rising, threw herself on the bosom of Miskwa, and begged her to forgive her for the calamity which she had brought upon them. She lamented not her own fate, but seemed only to deplore that of her friends. Miskwa tried to soothe and console her, and repeated to her that Kenah had said the Prophet only wished to see them at his camp. Yet, even while she said so, she felt that he would never have ordered them from so far a distance into his presence, but from some sinister motive; and she then recollected Tecumseh, and hope beamed forth, when she thought of the relation in which she stood towards him.
Netnokwa now, leaving her lodge, came out in the open air; Kenah, and his party followed, for their object was to take them off as soon as the night set in, and removing them silently, leave no trace of their departure. Should it be known that Netnokwa was threatened with danger, and was to be dragged away into the presence of the Prophet, Kenah knew that her friends would be instantly in arms, and he with his party, be made to suffer death for the steps they had already taken. This, then, was to be prevented, and stationing themselves on the outside of her cabin, they kept watch, that none of its inmates might escape, and no one approach without their knowledge. While they did this, Netnokwa, now as calm as if no danger awaited her, in deep meditation was silently walking to and fro in front of her door. Though worn with years, there was something so majestic and commanding in her manner, that not a member of Kenah's party but felt its influence. Her figure, tall and thin, was bent by age, and her hair, once of the glossiest black, was now white as the fresh fallen snow, and dishevelled, fell loosely over her shoulders. The sun was fast declining, and Kenah seeing that Netnokwa was making no preparations to commence her journey, said aloud, “When night comes, Netnokwa will set out to see the Prophet. The wise man always prepares for his journey.” Netnokwa was silent; she saw that it was worse than vain, situated as she then was, to oppose their determination, and she entered her wigwam. “Come, my children,” said she, “a few hours more, and they say we must leave. It is for the banks of the Wabash. We go to see the Prophet. Let us get ready our richest clothes. We may go over the border, and Netnokwa wishes to be fine when she meets her warriors who have gone before her, to the happy hunting grounds of the Great Spirit.”
“Oh! mother,” cried Gay, rushing into the arms of Netnokwa, “it is I who have done this. You loved me, and preserved me, and I have called down the vengeance of the Prophet upon you.—Oh! that I were dead.—Wilt thou pardon me?—I did not intend it.”
“Rise, daughter,” said Netnokwa, gently unclasping Gay's hands, “Why weeps ‘Sweet Flower?’ Is it that Netnokwa is going to her long home? Like the old oak, she has spread out her arms to shelter her tribe; but her branches are now withered. She is no longer the green bough:—why should she remain? The blasted tree only tells of the storms which have passed. Netnokwa is tired of journeying. The end of her path will make her glad.”
“But, oh! mother,” cried Gay, “I have brought ruin upon you; and what will become of Miskwa?”
“She will follow her mother, if she is a trueborn maiden,” said Netnokwa. “Why weep that the fountain bursting forth, soon finds its way to the big lake? Why lament that the flower clothed in beauty, is cut down in summer? Why grieve that her path is short, and her journey soon ended? Netnokwa has been travelling long to her happy hunting grounds. The way is bad.—Her feet are bruised and sore with travel, and her arms wear the marks of thorns and briars. The face of ‘Sweet Flower’ is like the snow, but her heart is that of a red maiden,—she shall go with us; Netnokwa will tell the Great Spirit that her heart is good, and ask him to let her stay with his red children.” Gay could make no reply, her feelings were too strong for utterance, and she continued weeping.
Fancy never sketched a lovelier being, than was Miskwa at this moment; having composed herself, she stood drawn up to her full height, apparently firm, and manifested the hitherto undeveloped energies of her character. All fear was banished, and she stood calmly listening to the words of her mother, and struggling to keep down her sympathy for her friend. When Netnokwa finished speaking, Gay turned from her, and weeping, her eyes met Miskwa's; there was an eloquent interchange of thought, and starting forward, she again threw herself on her bosom. Miskwa spoke not; but her feelings were awakened by the sufferings of her friend, and though silent, she proved how deeply she felt; for two streams, which had their source in as pure an affection as ever kindled a human bosom, flowed fast and free.
Netnokwa now reminded them of the hour which Kenah had mentioned, as the time when they must set out upon their journey. It was sooner than the maidens expected, and Gay now mentioned what before she had only thought. “Oh! Miskwa, what will become of Rolfe and Oloompa, and how sadly will they be disappointed. Oh! that they had come before this.”
“They will follow us,” said Miskwa. “Oloompa will see what has happened. He can trace our steps. He may yet save us from the Prophet.”
“Heaven grant that he may,” said Gay, and again she began to weep,—and added, “oh! Miskwa, to be taken away at the very moment I believed I was to be made happy, and to leave him when he has been so long seeking me,—oh! it is hard, hard.”
Miskwa asked her to get together such articles as they would need, and to aid her mother, in making preparations for their journey, while she would attend to another duty. Gay left her, to comply with her request, and while she did this, Miskwa taking up some clay from the floor, moistened it, and kneading it into a pliant substance, seemed suddenly to forget her situation with the feelings which had agitated her, and was engaged, heart and soul, in fashioning into small images the clay she held in her hands. A few moments passed, and six little men, or figures which she regarded as such, were made, and placed upon a shelf behind her, with their faces fronting the direction in which she thought Kenah and his party would travel. Having examined them for a while, turned them around several times, and satisfied herself that they were properly arranged, she again resumed her task. Next came from her fingers an old woman, her figure bore the marks of great age, and rude as were her features, there were evidently marks of great wretchedness in her countenance. She was placed just in front of the six men, and it was evident that they were driving her along. Soon two little girls were placed by the side of the old woman, and having satisfied herself that they all occupied their exact positions, she was again at work. The next figure she made, was a man several times as large as any she had yet formed; he was made to stand on the farther edge of the shelf, and to him, the party seemed endeavoring to make their way. A number of little cabins were then made, and placed near him, and stretching out a small piece of clay, and curving it so as to represent the meanderings of a river, this was placed near the houses, and her task was completed. The whole had been the labour of a few minutes, and no one had observed her occupation. She then, with a lighter heart than she before possessed, joined her mother, and began to assist her and Gay in making their preparations to set out. None seemed disposed to converse, and in silence they continued their duty, at the same time bidding farewell to every little nook or corner, and imagining to themselves the reception and the fate, which awaited them at the Prophet's camp. With Gay, there were other thoughts which added to her unhappiness; it was the sad issue which was to attend Rolfe's exertions in her behalf.
Darkness was now settling over the land, when Kenah entered the lodge, and told Netnokwa that he was ready to set out. He again assured her of her safety, as well as that of her daughter and the captive, provided they obeyed his orders. He required that in setting out upon their journey, they should make no noise, nor attempt to escape, at the peril of their lives; but to proceed in such a manner as to create no surprise, even should they be seen. And that this she must do, until the whole party had passed beyond the reach of her tribe. In case he was discovered, he said he was ordered by the Prophet, first to kill her daughter, and then the captive and herself. These were hard requisitions. Netnokwa made no reply, but in obedience to Kenah, they all took up their bundles, and came out of the lodge. He then closed the door, giving to the cabin an appearance that its inmates had merely left it for a time, and soon after, the captives were surrounded, and ordered to move forward. Netnokwa and Miskwa obeyed in silence, but Gay, thinking that there it was she had expected to meet Rolfe, turned round, and gazing at the cabin, burst into a flood of tears, for with that look, she gave up all hope of ever seeing him again. As she did this, Kenah rudely caught her arm, and jerking her around, held his tomahawk in her face, then whispering in her ear, said, “Kenah's tomahawk loves the pale face's blood; it is now thirsty,—when the maiden makes a noise, it shall drink.” His words caused her to shudder, as though a serpent was creeping over her, and her cries were hushed. This movement was not seen by Miskwa or Netnokwa, and Gay, as soon as she recovered a little from the shock which Kenah's words had given her, bent her steps towards them, and they all moved forward in the deepest silence.
“Slowly, sadly, heavy change is fallingO'er the sweetness of the voice within;Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,Urge the hunters still to chase, to win!”MRS. HEMANS.
“Slowly, sadly, heavy change is fallingO'er the sweetness of the voice within;Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,Urge the hunters still to chase, to win!”MRS. HEMANS.
Kenah, with his captives, departed from the lodge of Netnokwa at night. Oloompa, with Rolfe and Earth, reached there late on the following day. Upon nearing the lodge, they were happy, and all spurred their horses, and moved gallantly forward. Oh! the wild delight that sparkled in the face of Rolfe! a moment more, and he would clasp to his bosom the idol of his heart! and Oloompa's heart fluttered, and joy beamed from his countenance; for as deep passions often burn within those whose complexions are the “shadowed livery of the burnished sun,” as to another class to whom nature has given clear skins, and brighter hues; and he thought of Miskwa bounding wild and free as the doe she hunted, and he heard her happy laugh, and the silvery tones of her voice fell rich on his ears. As for our old friend Earth, he never could do things as others did them; his heart had never been taught to love, yet though a stranger to the emotions which agitated the breasts of his companions, he was still happy; he was joyous, in anticipating the pleasure which awaited his friend, and, moreover, he was anxious to see her after whom he had been so long “trapesing,” as he termed it, and but a short time before he observed, “Rolfe, I feel a sort of a quirk to see your gal;”—so that, when Rolfe and Oloompa put their horses in a gallop, to reach Netnokwa's lodge, he followed on in a long trot, and while they thought of those they loved, he hummed an old song, beginning,
“'Way down in old Virginny,Long time ago:”——
“'Way down in old Virginny,Long time ago:”——
but the trotting of his horse, chopped it up into monosyllables, or I would say shorter pieces, if I knew how to characterize them, and not being much pleased with his own performance, he ceased singing, and jerking “Juno,” for so he called his horse, into a canter, he rode up by the side of Rolfe. Another moment, and they had halted in front of the cabin. Then, dismounting,—“how is this?” said Earth;—“the door closed, and nobody at home!”
Rolfe and Oloompa were both disappointed; yet the latter, after a moment, answered:—“They make a short path,—they have gone to bring a deer from the woods,—they will soon be back.”
This seemed probable enough, and they proceeded to hobble their horses, and then turned them out to graze. Having done that, they began to reconnoitre the cabin.
“How high is the sun, Earth?” inquired Rolfe.
“Something like three hours,” replied Earth, who at the moment when spoken to, was examining how the door was fastened. “Rolfe,” continued he, “this place aint locked,—it is only fastened by a wicket; suppose we go in, and see if we can't git a bite of something, for I feel rather pickish. I am sure, neither the old woman nor the gal will care, since we are just off a journey. What say you, Oloompa?”
“It is right,” he replied; “an Indian's wigwam is the stranger's home. An Indian always gives what he has.”
Earth, hearing this, pushed open the door, and entered. Rolfe and Oloompa followed. They were silent a moment, and fear and anxiety settled over their countenances. They looked at each other,—and then Earth and Rolfe gazed fixedly in the face of Oloompa. Oloompa stood firm,—he quailed not beneath their glance; but observed, “the white man doubts Oloompa;—Oloompa never speaks false. The pale face maiden rested here,—so did Netnokwa and her daughter. They are gone,—Oloompa is in the dark, and his heart is sorry:—he grieves at what he sees.”
“Oh, God!” exclaimed Rolfe, “am I again disappointed!”
“See,” said Earth, “how these things are scattered about;—they left here in a great hurry, and without any idea of returning.”
“Where have they gone?” exclaimed Rolfe.
There was no reply, for none could tell; and Rolfe turned upon Oloompa;—“Tell me where she is, villain! you have deceived,—tell me or you shall die!” He was wild with rage, and his eyes gleamed as do those of a maniac. Yet Oloompa was calm,—no piece of statuary was ever more unmoved,—and he would not deign to reply when threatened. Rolfe, exasperated, raised his arm as if to strike. The lightning's flash is not more bright nor quick, than was the change which came over Oloompa's face. There was light,—it was the gleaming of a tomahawk as it shone on high:—his left foot was advanced,—his body thrown back, rested on his right, and he stood in the act to strike. At the same time, there was heard the springing of a trigger, and Earth's rifle was brought to his face.—None spoke, and thus for a time they stood. Returning consciousness came to the mind of Rolfe,—his arm fell by his side,—Oloompa returned his tomahawk to his belt, and Earth, uncocking his rifle, rested it on the floor. “Oloompa has journeyed two moons, to serve the white man, and he seeks to kill him;—he is thirsty, and wants blood:—let him take it,—Oloompa will go to the long home of the red men,—he is weary of his path. Can the white man make rivers flow or mountains rise in the prairie? No. How can Oloompa make women be present, when they have gone away?—Oloompa tells what he knows. He left them here. He expected to find them here.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “you are wrong about that,—you can see, from these signs, that they have been here, and that they went away at a mighty short notice.”
“Oh! Earth,” answered Rolfe, “I am perfectly crazy,—I don't know what I say or do.” Then, turning to Oloompa, he said:—“Oloompa, I ask your pardon,—I know not what I am doing.”
“Oloompa wants no pardons,” was the reply.—“The white man has stuck in another thorn,—let it stay there. Why should Oloompa wear out his moccasins in bringing the white man to Netnokwa's lodge? Was it to harm him? Who is here to do it? The white man's heart is sorry for the pale maiden. Does not Oloompa's bleed for the red? She is gone! She steps like the fawn,—her feet leave no print upon the grass.” And leaving the wigwam, he began to examine the earth near and around the cabin, to see if any signs would tell him whither the inmates had gone, or why they had left so precipitately. Rolfe and Earth soon came out, and were engaged in the same duty.
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “this business of yours is a curious sort of thing, and there seems to be no eend to it at all. Now, it aint no use to tell me not to swear, for if I can find out who is at the bottom of this, man or woman, I don't care;—if I don't chaw 'em up, I wish I may be damned.”
“Yes, you may eat them all, Earth, for what I care,” replied Rolfe, for he was still angered, and proceeded on towards Oloompa.
“The white man thinks Oloompa speaks false; see!” said he,—a smile playing over his countenance, as he made the remark.
“See what?” said Rolfe.
“Many people have been here,” answered Oloompa, pointing to several different places upon the earth.
Rolfe looked, and looked again, but he could see nothing. “Come here, Earth, and tell me if you can see what Oloompa does.”
“What is it?” inquired Earth.
“He says,” answered Rolfe, “that many people have been here.”
“So much the worse,” said Earth, as approaching he bent down, and began to examine several slight indentations, at which Oloompa was intently gazing. Having scrutinized for a time, he observed, “Rolfe, I can't make out any thing; I see several marks, but I should jest as soon think that a 'coon had made 'em with his toe nails when he was walking it off, as any other way.”
But Oloompa regarded not their dialogue; every moment his face became brighter; and, jumping up, he began to examine other spots.—Then, for a moment walking slowly, and circling round, like a hound which has lost the track, he crossed the prints several times, satisfied himself of the direction they had taken, then following a short distance, only that no doubt might remain, he gave a whoop of joy, and ran back towards the hunters. Earth was still suspicious, and raised his rifle.
“Down with your gun, hunter;—Oloompa's heart is glad. He sees their path,—he can follow them,—he will show the white man the pale maiden, and he will see the fawn of the forest.—The white man shall say Oloompa is true to his word.”
There was an expression so joyous in his countenance, and his manner was so earnest, that hope came to the hearts of the hunters. Oloompa continuing to search, entered the wigwam, and Rolfe said, “Earth, may he not be deceiving us?”
“No, Rolfe, there is no lie in a face, when the soul beams out as it now does in his. I would trust it, if 'twas green or grizzle, much less red.”
“But then, Earth, where have they gone, and when did they leave, and who carried them away?”
“Ah, that I can't tell; let Oloompa alone,—he'll worm it out. These red skins are mighty keen upon tracks. Now you may believe me or not, but I had rather have that fellow's eyes upon a warm trail, than old Jupe's nose;—she was mighty good. Poor thing! she's gone now.”
“But then, Earth, he will have to examine so closely as he goes along, that we shall not be able to go as far in a month, as those who have taken her away, will in a day.”
“Ah! there you are out agin, Rolfe. When Oloompa satisfies himself that he is right, he will follow their tracks through the woods in a hand gallop. It is true he will have to stop sometimes, to see if they have turned off,—but that won't take him long. You see the Ingens havn't roads as we have, and are therefore compelled to travel by courses.—If he can find out where they are going, he has got 'em slick enough.”
As Earth finished the remark, Oloompa made his appearance at the door, and said with a bright face, “Come! come quick!—you shall see.”
Rolfe and Earth both ran forward, that they might behold it, whatever it were, and found Oloompa wild with pleasure, and gazing on the little images made by Miskwa, and which still occupied the positions in which she had left them.
“Oh! Earth,” said Rolfe, wringing his hands in disappointment, “this is too bad, I thought it was something.”
“Yes,” said Earth, “the fellow is a fool;” then gazing at them more closely, “but Rolfe, it was a right slick dirt-dauber that made 'em.”
“Can the white man see?” said Oloompa, now joyously happy.
“See?—the devil!” said Earth, “what does he want to see for. I wouldn't give a wasp's nest for all of 'em, for if the water was in good order, and I had one, I could catch a dish of big pickles;—but these here things are good for nothing upon the face of the earth.”
“It is the red man's letter,” said Oloompa.
“Nonsense,” said Earth, “I take up my hand full of mud, and throw it against the house;—does the red man read it?”
“The red man cannot read the white man's letter,” said Oloompa. “What did you give me for the maiden, when you left my mother's wigwam? a piece of paper covered with black marks; Oloompa looked at it, and said ‘nonsense;’—when he gave it to the maiden, it made her heart glad. Listen, Oloompa will read.” The attention of Rolfe and Earth was arrested by the earnestness of his manner, and gazing at the figures before him, he proceeded: “Six men have been here,—see them,” and he touched the six images with his finger.—Then continued: “They have carried away Netnokwa and the two maidens;” and he pointed to the images representing the old woman and the two girls, saying “the men drive the women;—see the men behind, and the women before;—the women look sorry, they do not wish to go. Oloompa showed their tracks on the ground.—Look at their faces, they are turned the same way.”—
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “Oloompa is right; he reads it like a book.”
“Hush! Earth; I am all anxiety to hear something farther.”
“They are going to see a great man,” continued Oloompa, and he pointed to the larger image. “It is the Prophet,—these small pieces of clay are houses,—they form a town,—it is Tippecanoe. This,” pointing to the piece of clay which curved several times, and stretching along, lay near the houses, “is the river. Does Oloompa read? can the white man now see?”
“Yes,” said Earth, “he can. Oloompa is true to his word;” then turning, “Rolfe,—Rolfe, this thing is as plain as day-light. The Prophet has taken them all prisoners, and they are now journeying towards his town.”
“Then Earth, they are to be burned!”
“Oh! God knows,” said Earth, “I wish they were out of his clutches;” then turning to Oloompa, “Can Oloompa make the figures tell when Netnokwa left her lodge?”
“They are not hard;—the time cannot be long since she left;” replied Oloompa.
“Did she leave to-day?” continued Earth.
“No,” answered Oloompa, “perhaps yesterday. If the white man is ready, Oloompa will go; he is troubled, his heart is soft;—the red maiden left her letter for Oloompa, and told him to follow.”
Rolfe felt that he had wronged Oloompa in the suspicions which he first entertained, and the deep feeling he now manifested, together with his whole conduct, served, every moment, to exalt him in his estimation. Regretting what had happened, he approached him and said, “Oloompa, you must forgive me; my heart is sorry for what I have done. The red maiden loves the pale face,—Oloompa must love the white man. We will travel the same path,—we must be friends.”
Oloompa did not reply to Rolfe's remark, but said, “Oloompa's eyes will know no sleep. The red maiden goes to the camp of the Prophet.”
“Does death await them?” said Rolfe.
“The Prophet is great,” was the reply, “the red people fear him. Will the hunters go? Oloompa is ready, he will show the path.”
Rolfe then, turning to Earth, began to consult with him. The evening was far advanced, and Earth suggested, that as they could not continue the pursuit after it was dark, that they had better rest themselves, and refresh their horses, that they might be the better able to prosecute their journey on the following day. Rolfe was now nearly paralyzed by disappointment; for with the tidings that Gay had been carried to the camp of the Prophet, went hope from his bosom, and he was merely a passive agent in the hands of Earth. “Do as you please,” said he to Earth, “I can advise nothing. Oh! it is sad, sad, that fresh hopes should have sprung up, only to be blighted.”
“Come, Rolfe,” said Earth, “the thing ain't drawn to a focus yet;—it may be mighty bad, and I am afraid it will be, but now is the time to try and prevent it. It will take 'em several weeks to reach the Prophet's camp, and I shall think it right strange; indeed, it would be very curious, if, when we three are following 'em, they should all get there safe.”
Rolfe made no reply, but seated himself in a corner of the hut, while Earth sought Oloompa, to discuss with him the plan best to be adopted. He was impatient to commence the pursuit, but, for the purpose of refreshing the horses, and with a belief that in doing so they would actually gain time, he came into Earth's measures. It was then settled that they should rest where they were for the night, and set out with the first light of day.
“I will now go and attend to the horses;” said Earth; “Oloompa, you open the old woman's traps, and see if you can't git a bite of something for supper.” There was no reply, and Earth went out, leaving Rolfe and Oloompa lounging in and about the cabin. They had no disposition to converse, and wandered about for a time, thinking of the past, the present, and the future. It was nearly night, when Earth, having finished his task, returned to the lodge; upon entering, he found Rolfe lying on some skins which he had spread out, and absorbed in the deepest thought; while Oloompa, having drawn up a small bench near to the images, was in silence gazing on them, and reading them over and over again. Earth was touched by the attitudes assumed by each, for both indicated great feeling, with a perfect disregard of worldly matters. There were no preparations for supper, and not even a fire had been kindled. Seeing this, he observed familiarly, “Come boys, come, stir about;” then, turning to Oloompa, “Can Oloompa now read more than he has told us?”
“They have carried her to the camp of the Prophet;” answered Oloompa. His voice faltered a little as he said so, and he turned away.
Earth said no more to them, but proceeded to kindle a fire, and looking up the chimney, discovered that it had been converted into a smoke house, and was well supplied with bear meat and venison. This, to him, was a matter of no surprise; it being a common custom with the Indians, and also with the whites who reside along the frontiers. Taking down the piece which most pleased his fancy, his rude supper was soon prepared, and discussed with a gusto only known to those whose appetites are sharpened by a healthy exercise. Rolfe and Oloompa seemed not inclined to eat, and Earth, actuated by one of the many idiosyncrasies which ever characterized him, viewed it as a compulsory act on their part, requiring him to eat their shares. So one would judge from his observations—“Come, boys, I am mighty tired, I wish you would help me through with it.” Then, continuing his laborious duty for a few moments more—“Well, I do believe you all mean to kill me.” Nobody replied, he continued—“There is no back out about me; I wish old Jupe was alive—she wouldn't see me suffer in this sort of way;”—still eating,—“I have begun it now, and I will go through with it, if it puts a joint out of place.”
“Oh! Earth,” said Rolfe, “how can you be talking so at such a time;—come, go to sleep and be quiet.”
“Hush, Rolfe; you had better come and take a bite yourself; it will do you more good than grieving a month. Now you won't feel half as well as I will in the morning.” There was no reply, all conversation ceased, and a few hours after Rolfe and Oloompa were hushed in sleep or in troubled dreams, and that Earth slept, there could be no doubt, from a certain peculiar noise that was heard soon after he retired to rest. With the first light of morning the hunters mounted, and Oloompa, striking off into the direction indicated by the images, and likewise by the foot-prints which he had discovered the evening before, led the way. Having taken his course, he proceeded as nearly as practicable in a straight line, holding no intercourse with the hunters, and examining the ground closely as he moved along. Rolfe and Earth followed on, and trusted implicitly to his guidance.
It was now near the middle of the day, and nothing had occurred to the hunters to prove whether they were on the right track or not; they had seen no sign or mark, which indicated that the party had moved forward in that direction, but were still journeying, as they had been for hours, through a wild and pathless forest, when Oloompa stopped and waited their coming up. He had reached a small stream which it was necessary to cross, in order to continue on in the direction in which he had set out; and which the party he was pursuing must have crossed, unless he himself had been grossly deceived. When the hunters came up he stated this, and upon consultation, they deemed it wisest to dismount and let their horses graze, while they endeavoured to satisfy themselves whether they had crossed or not. Oloompa told them his belief that they had crossed, and most probably within a mile of where they then were. He also cheered the hunters, by telling them that he had seen distinct traces of their having moved on in the direction in which they had come; and taking one end of the stream, he requested the hunters to go down the other, and by examining the bank see if they could find their foot-prints. The banks being soft and muddy, the indentations of their feet would be deep and easily discovered. If no trace could be found in going a mile, they were to return. Parting, they commenced their journey;—Sometime elapsed, and Rolfe and Earth were returning to their horses unsuccessful, when they heard the voice of Oloompa calling to them. Proceeding to him, he joyously pointed out what he had been searching for. The tracks were plain and deep; those of the women clearly marked, and easily distinguished from those of the men;—and with this, came cheerfulness to the whole party; Oloompa felt more confident, and Rolfe and Earth, seeing the great ingenuity exercised by him, began to believe that they would overtake them. Returning for their horses, they came back to where the party had crossed, and animated with hope, continued the pursuit. Oloompa, now, satisfied that he was on their trail, moved forward with more confidence, as did likewise the hunters, and several times would he stop and point out signs which indicated their path.
It was late in the evening, when, still journeying along, Oloompa pointed out at a short distance before them, a thin smoke rising up from the remains of a declining fire. Thither they hurried, and there the party they were pursuing had encamped, and they could not have left it many hours before. Hope now increased, and Oloompa began to search out their path, setting out in the direction in which they had been journeying, and which he knew was the most direct route to the Prophet's camp. He closely examined the woods, yet no displaced leaves, no broken twig, no slight and but half formed foot-print, told that human beings had gone in that direction, and unsuccessful, he returned to the fire where the hunters still remained. His want of success, for a moment dampened their spirits, but that they had been there, no one could doubt, and with proper exertions, it was equally plain that their path could be traced;—for no attempt had been made by them to conceal their flight, for the reason that, having left secretly, they expected not to be pursued. But darkness was now gathering fast over the land, and by it all farther search prevented. So, unsaddling their horses, they obtained for them such provender as the place afforded, and kindling up the fire, prepared to pass the night. They were now southeast of Rainy Lake, and near the Great Portage which connects Lake of the Woods with Lake Superior. This Portage is merely a series of Lakes, some of them separated by narrow strips of land, but generally with small outlets leading from one to the other, and forming throughout the whole, a general chain of communication. Oloompa having failed to trace them in the direction in which he had expected, suggested to the hunters the probability of their having gone to the Great Portage, taken a canoe and crossed Lake Superior, where the Portage enters into it. He stated that this was practicable, and a feat often accomplished by the Indians, for that it was the narrowest part of the lake, and moreover, that there were two islands, which answered as good resting places, and which also subdivided the distance. This was another difficulty in the way of the hunters; if the party had gone to the lakes, they would perhaps lose all trace of them and have to give over the pursuit. Yet, to prevent it they could do nothing; they had already accomplished all that human nature was capable of, and though anticipating disappointment, they slept soundly from a consciousness that he had used every possible exertion. With morning, they again resumed the search; Oloompa found the direction in which they had departed, and told them they had gone to the Great Portage. He himself was now dejected, for he feared that they had already descended the Portage, and reached the lake; and changing his course, he conducted the hunters to where the Portage flows into the lake, intending, if they had not descended, to wait and intercept them.
It was the middle of the day, when Oloompa and the hunters reached the lake. Its broad surface, disturbed by a fresh breeze, lay glancing in the sun. The wind fanned their feverish and excited frames, and they stood alone on the shore, and looked abroad in silence on the vast surface before them, and the jutting promontories, and half concealed rocks against and over which the waves were dashing and fretting; and then the bold and high shore, which, robed in grandeur, overlooked the vast prospect before them. For a moment they stood in silence,—the scene occupied all their thoughts; then they began to search the shore and gaze upon the wide waste, to see if any freighted canoe was dancing over its waters. There was none,—not a sail, not a wide-spread blanket, greeted the eye;—no, not a sound broke upon the ears, but the hoarse dashing of the waves, as they washed up against the shore. And thus they stood,—and this was the end of their hazardous journey and exciting pursuit. None seemed disposed to speak, for there was only one hope remaining, and that was that they might not have descended the Portage,—to the mouth of which the distance was now nearly half a mile; and thither they proceeded. They had continued on but a short distance further, when darting out of the Portage into the lake, moved a canoe, with the speed of an arrow,—a blanket, spread out on either side, served for sails,—the wind was blowing fresh from the shore; not a paddle was seen, save one, which managed by a warrior at the stern, served the purpose of a rudder. It was filled with people. Rolfe and Earth turned to Oloompa, for the first glance had awakened their fears, and though the distance was so great they could see nothing distinctly, yet they felt as if she whom they sought was leaving them for ever. In Oloompa's countenance, they saw that their fears were too true,—his deep silence,—the fixed gaze with which he watched the canoe, and the dark shadows which passed over his face, spoke more plainly than words. After watching it for several minutes, he said:—“She is gone!—the fawn will be carried to the Prophet's camp, and Oloompa cannot help it.”
“Oloompa, can we do nothing?” said Rolfe.
“Nothing,” was the reply; and he again repeated, “She is gone!”
Their situation then again became a matter of consultation. To follow them with any hope of success was now impossible. In open warfare, they could render no service, and would most probably loose their lives. They had hitherto continued the pursuit, with a hope of finding them where they rested, when, not expecting an attack, they would be easily beaten, and the prisoners rescued. But now, should Kenah and his party discover that they were pursued, which they would be very apt to do, should the hunters cross the lake, they would unhesitatingly kill their prisoners sooner than deliver them up. These reasons induced them unwillingly to adopt another plan, which was for a time to give over the pursuit, and leaving the lake, proceed on land, by the nearest route, to the Prophet's camp, and if Kenah and his party had not reached there, which they could easily find out by means of Oloompa, to lie in watch at a distance from it, intercept them if possible, and attempt a rescue. In the event that they had reached it, then to get Gay out by stratagem, if they could; if not, to demand her of the Prophet, and threaten him with a hostile invasion from the whites, in case he refused. This plan was sanctioned by Oloompa, who was as eager in his endeavours to prevent Miskwa from being carried into his camp, as were Rolfe and Earth in their wishes to prevent Gay.
This resolution was no sooner adopted than turning back, they began to skirt the lake to its most southern point, from which they intended to strike off for the Prophet's camp. The route pursued by Kenah and his party, is one very often followed by the Indians, going from the lands on the Wabash, to the country north of the great lakes, or rather by those visiting the Wabash, from the north-western regions; and though the passage is sometimes attended with great danger, on account of their crossing in light canoes, still they often venture. The islands in Lake Superior, where the great Portage enters, afford them resting places, and so much divide the distance as to render crossing no very difficult feat; thence coasting along the southern shore, they descend through St. Mary's River, into Lake Huron, and coast it,—or, entering Lake Michigan, through the straits of Michilimackinack, descend through the lake, into the limits of Indiana, and at no great distance from the head waters of the Wabash. This was the route by which Kenah had proceeded to the country in which Netnokwa lived, and by which he was now returning. Leaving him to prosecute his journey, and the hunters, with a perfect knowledge of the route he had taken, which they had learned from Oloompa, endeavouring to intercept him, we return to the camp of the Prophet.