“With cautious steps the thicket threading,And startling oft, as through the gladeThe gust its hollow moanings made,The maid pursued her silent guide.”BYRON.
“With cautious steps the thicket threading,And startling oft, as through the gladeThe gust its hollow moanings made,The maid pursued her silent guide.”BYRON.
It will be recollected, that we left Tecumseh descending the Wabash, on his way to the south, having avowed to General Harrison, previous to his departure, that his object in going, was, not to prepare for war, but, in imitation of the whites, to form a bond of union among all the Indian tribes, solely for their own protection and self-preservation. He had given Elkswatawa the most positive injunctions not to commence hostilities during his absence; he had urged him to restrain those who were immediately under his command, until his return, when the signal should be given, and together they would strike a sure and heavy blow in some quarter where least expected. But scarcely had Tecumseh left, before appearances at the Prophet's camp, began to wear a more warlike aspect. The number assembled generally consisted of some five or six hundred warriors, who, by the continual practising of mysterious rites, on the part of the Prophet, were excited to such a degree, that, notwithstanding the most positive orders to the contrary, aggressions were daily committed by them on the whites. From his camp, they made their incursions into the settlements, and to it they returned for protection. It served as a rallying point for all the Indians who committed depredations on the citizens of the United States; and when demanded, under one of the articles of a former treaty, the Prophet now, in every instance, refused to deliver them up. In consequence of this, the citizens along the frontiers became still more clamourous for energetic and offensive measures. A correspondence was opened between General Harrison and the Hon. Wm. Eustis, the then Secretary of War, in which all the information relative to the conduct of the Indians, was regularly forwarded. This produced, as was expected, an order from the War Department, requiring General Harrison to disperse the Prophet's band, and commence offensive operations, if they should be deemed necessary, but at the same time, if possible, to preserve peace.
In accordance with this order, a deputation was sent to Elkswatawa, requiring that the Indians assembled at his town should at once disperse, and that reparation should be made for the injuries which they had already committed, or that warlike operations would be forthwith commenced. This, together with a knowledge that large bodies of troops were then assembling at Vincennes, induced the Prophet to send messengers in return, who were fully authorized to make such promises and professions of peace, in compliance with the terms required, as would be entirely satisfactory. By this means, that is, by making promises and delaying the fulfilment of them, Elkswatawa hoped he should be enabled to accomplish his design of awaiting the return of Tecumseh; inasmuch as it could not be expected that the terms required were to be performed at once. The Prophet himself wished for battle, and so did his immediate followers; yet he saw how unwise such a course would be at this time, while his brother was absent, and likewise, while the warriors of the vast confederacy which had already been formed were entirely ignorant of his design. To send messengers among them, and call them in, would be at once to throw off the mask and prepare for open warfare. This he could not do consistently with the pledge given Tecumseh, and he therefore resolved to use every possible exertion to preserve peace.
The messengers of the Prophet, whom we mentioned above as having been deputed by him, visited Vincennes late in September, 1811, and so successful were they, that they, in some measure, lulled the suspicions of the whites, and left the town under an impression that all would remain satisfied, and peace be preserved, at least for a time. But the continual assembling of warriors from a distance at Tippecanoe, and the daily necessity which the Prophet found for preaching his doctrines, and practising his rites, kept his followers, who always remained with him, in such a feverish state of excitement, that in sorrow he looked upon the vast machinery he had set in motion, and his heart was troubled when he saw that it was about to be deranged, before its accumulating and still increasing power could be brought to bear upon his great design; for scarcely a week elapsed after the return of his messengers, before aggressions were again committed by some of his band, and General Harrison determined at once on commencing offensive operations.
Early in October of this year, we find him encamped on the banks of the Wabash, about sixty-five miles above Vincennes, with a chosen body of troops, anxious to be led on against the Indians. Here he built a fort, which at the request of the officers, was called Fort Harrison, reconnoitred the adjacent country, and waited several days, with a hope of receiving a deputation from the Prophet, which might be able to explain away and satisfactorily adjust the differences which had lately arisen, in consequence of the violation of previous promises. Elkswatawa was aware of his approach, and with a hope of preserving peace, sent messengers, as he afterward stated, promising to comply with any demand which the Governor might make. The messengers, however, never arrived, and in consequence of it, the American army continued its march; and Elkswatawa learning this, began with great diligence to fortify his town, and place it in the best possible state of defence, in order to protect himself against the attack of the whites, in case it should become impossible longer to preserve peace.
It was in November, 1811, and on the sixth of the month, that the army under General Harrison lay within a mile and a half of Tippecanoe. It had been regularly advancing until the present time, and yet the Indians had shown no disposition to treat for peace; and a halt was now called, for the purpose of allowing them farther time to do so. The consequence of the near proximity of the whites, called forth messengers on the part of the Prophet, who demanded in his name, why it was that the Americans were marching upon his town. They stated that the Prophet was anxious to avoid hostilities,—that he was ready to comply with the demands of the Governor, and had with that view sent messengers to him several days before, who must, unfortunately, have gone down the opposite side of the river from that on which the general was advancing, or he would have seen them. In answer to this, the grounds of complaint were again stated by General Harrison, who also added, that the messengers, although expected, had never arrived. Some further conversation took place,—the Indians were apparently sincere in their professions, and a suspension of hostilities was agreed upon until the following day; when the Prophet, with the chiefs who were with him, was to meet General Harrison and his staff, and the terms of peace were then to be agreed upon between them.
The most eligible spot that could be selected for passing the night, was now chosen by the American army, and this consisted of “a dry piece of ground, which rose about ten feet above the level of a marshy prairie in front towards the town, and about twice as high above a similar prairie in the rear, through which, near the bank, ran a small stream, clothed with willows and brush-wood.” Late in the evening, the army marched to the ground selected, and encamped for the night. The different companies were then disposed in order of battle, and in case of a night attack, which no one feared, they were ordered to occupy the ground upon which they were then placed; and in conformity with a general order, both officers and soldiers were required to rest in their clothes, with their arms by their sides. Sentries were then placed so as to guard every possible approach of the enemy, and the duties of the evening having been performed, groups of officers and soldiers might be seen standing around the camp fires, expressing their dissatisfaction that a peace which they thought would soon be broken, was about to be concluded, and they forced to return home, without having had a battle. This was mortifying to many, who had joined the army for the sake alone of gaining glory, and many also, were discontented because they were exasperated against the Indians on account of their many acts of petty aggression.
Such was the state of feeling, and the order of things in the American army, which now numbered more than eight hundred men, while that of the Prophet amounted to some five or six hundred. On the one side was a body of disciplined troops, well armed and equipped for battle; on the other, a band of savages, armed, some with guns and rifles, the remainder with bows, tomahawks and war-clubs. It was at this time, and on the morning of the day that the American army arrived, when Kenah, who had now been absent nearly two months, entered alone into Tippecanoe. The Indians were so much excited, that his entrance was not observed by them, and he proceeded at once into the presence of Elkswatawa.
“Ha! Kenah,” said he, “thou art welcome.—Where rests the old woman?”
“Without the walls of the town,” answered Kenah; “she is guarded; the two maidens rest with her. Kenah seeks the Prophet, to know his will.”
“Bring them into the camp,” replied the Prophet; “place them within a cabin, and see that it be watched; and mark me, Kenah, it is the Prophet who speaks,—let not the old woman nor the pale face maiden venture out. The fresh air must not breathe upon their faces. Netnokwa is great, and might lead astray the red men. The pale face maiden would be torn limb from limb. Netnokwa's daughter is to be my brother's bride:—she is free, yet leaves not our camp. Does Kenah hear?” Kenah bowed assent, and Elkswatawa continued:—“Say to the old woman, when within her lodge, ‘the Prophet gives her welcome to his camp;’—it will make her heart glad. And now, Kenah, put your finger upon your lips. Let your arrival be dark;—the Prophet wishes no talk about a woman. The pale faces are crawling upon the lands of the red men, and the Prophet's heart is troubled. When they are gone, the Prophet will see to his prisoners. He says Kenah is true to his trust. He has spoken.——Yet stay, Kenah,—say to him who guards Netnokwa's cabin, ‘death follows his steps, if he disobeys.’ Away.”
Kenah bowed, and without replying, retired from his presence, to obey his orders. Selecting a cabin for his prisoners, which, though at some distance from the rest, was so situated as to render escape on their part almost impossible, he returned to his party. Then causing Netnokwa and the maidens to wrap themselves up so as to conceal their faces, he led the way, and making them follow, soon safely lodged them in the cabin designated.—The warriors were generally engaged in another quarter, and the arrival of Netnokwa and her party was consequently unnoticed. Kenah then, selecting one of his band, ordered him to stand guard,—detailing to him, at the same time, the Prophet's injunctions, with the penalty threatened in case of disobedience. He then entered the cabin and approaching Netnokwa, said:—“The Prophet bids Kenah tell the old woman, ‘she is welcome to his camp.’”
“The Prophet bids the old woman welcome to his camp?” replied Netnokwa:—“When the panther springs upon the doe, he says ‘welcome;’ if the doe has two fawns, he says ‘welcome’ three times.” Kenah replied not to her remark, but continued; “it is the Prophet's will that Netnokwa and the pale face maiden remain within this lodge:—they go not out, or the ground, like a thirsty dog, will drink their blood. Netnokwa's daughter is free to range our camp,1but ventures no farther, at the peril of her life. So says the Prophet.”
1See note D.
“Netnokwa's daughter will remain within your lodge,” replied Miskwa. “To be with her mother is freedom enough for her.”
Kenah made no answer, but leaving the warrior on duty, he and the remainder of his band were soon mingling with the crowd.
Kenah and his party, whom we have seen safely lodged in the camp of the Prophet, arrived by the route before marked out as the one most likely to be selected by them. Oloompa and the hunters, leaving, as was stated, the south-western extremity of Lake Superior, were using all exertions to reach the point where Kenah and his party had disembarked, under a belief that thither they were bound, and with a hope of getting there in time to intercept them before their arrival. Yet, although the distance to be travelled by them, was much less than that which was to be accomplished by Kenah, they arrived too late. They reached there only in time to learn from an Indian they chanced to meet, that a party, described to be such as the one they were pursuing, had on the morning of the previous day, left the lake for the Prophet's camp.
“Now,” said Earth, “this is what I call close work,—we have no time for talk. Oloompa, find the trail and let us be off.”
“The best trail now,” answered Oloompa, “is the shortest path; Oloompa knows the direction,” and saying so, he pointed with his finger.
“Go on then,” said Rolfe, and again they hurried away in pursuit.
Kenah entered Tippecanoe in the morning;—it was evening, and on the same day, when Oloompa pointed out to the hunters the situation of the town. All gazed at it in silence, when Earth said, “well, Rolfe, here this thing winds up. It must be brought to a focus now, and I am glad of it, for I am tired chasing people that I can't see.”
“Are you sure, Earth, that she is in the camp?” inquired Rolfe.
“Ask Oloompa,” said Earth.
Oloompa smiled at Rolfe's incredulity, and observed, “when Oloompa, for a whole moon, follows the wrong path, the bear, when the hunter strikes, will cease to struggle for its life.”
“Then, Earth,” said Rolfe, “now tell us what is best to be done?”
“No,” said Earth, “we will all talk it over.—Come, Oloompa, the hunter acknowledges the red man is wiser than the white. Oloompa is young, but he has the wisdom of gray hairs: his advice is good.”
Oloompa was evidently pleased with the compliment, but there was a slight curl of his lip, as if in scorn, when he turned to confer with the hunters. The subject having been discussed, with all the plans suggested by each, it was agreed, that the whole party should lay concealed in the forest, until night sat in; that then, approaching nearer to the town, the hunters should conceal themselves, while Oloompa entered it, to search for Netnokwa and her party. Should the captive maiden be there, and an opportunity offer of rescuing her by stratagem, Oloompa was to effect it, and deliver her over to the hunters. In any event, he promised to return, and give them such information as he might be able to obtain; and while for them he promised to do this, his thoughts were chiefly engrossed by Miskwa, and he was revolving over and over in his own mind, what plan he should adopt in reference to her:—“If, with the white, Oloompa brings the red maiden, will the hunters harm her?” said he.
“No,” said Earth, “although she is a red skin, by heaven, I swear to protect and defend her as I would my sister, were she living.”
Rolfe readily promised the same, and eagerly cried, “Oh! bring her, Oloompa! bring both! and go with me; I will give thee a wigwam and lands, which shall be thy own, and thy days shall pass in peace and quiet.”
“No,” answered Oloompa; “I have said the red men and white can never dwell together. There must ever be a wall between them. Yet Oloompa is satisfied—the hunters will protect the red maiden?”
“They will,” was the answer.
“Oloompa will visit the camp of the Prophet,” said Rolfe, “and hear him preach; he may find the red maiden safe, and forget the white. The hunters wait for him; will he return?”
“Oloompa's promise is not a reed to be bent or broken,” was the answer. “If Oloompa lives, the hunters shall see him. If the maiden can be brought without the camp, she comes with Oloompa.”
It was now getting dark, and the party concealing their horses, began to approach the town. The hunters then selected a spot, where they promised to remain, and Oloompa moved on. Upon going off, he said:—“The hunters will not doubt Oloompa, for though it be deep in the night, he will return.”
“We doubt thee not,” said Rolfe, “return as soon as may be, and our blessings attend thee.”
Night had now advanced an hour or two, when a single warrior, armed as if in readiness for battle, was seen to emerge from the forest, and bend his steps towards the Indian camp. He approached with the bold bearing of a welcome guest, and was nearing it, when the sound of the American drum in the distance, fell harsh upon his ears. He stopped, the sound stirred him to the inmost soul, and as each successive note fell harsher still, his countenance changed until it writhed in agony. The truth burst upon him, and hurriedly he entered the town. No one stood sentinel, nor at first, did even a warrior meet his eye; the cabins were untenanted, the doors swung open, and to all appearance the town was deserted. But as madly he hurried on, the distant hum of suppressed voices was heard, and then in the moonlight was seen the bright gleam of arms, and soon after a dark mass of bodies closely gathered, showed that all the Indians were assembled in council.
When Oloompa discovered this, he stopped, and for a moment hesitated, not knowing the part which it was proper he should play. In the distance lay the camp of the whites, plainly visible from the fires which marked its situation. In it, he saw the enemies of his race, those whom he hated, and against whom he had sworn vengeance, to be extinguished but with his life. Gazing in another direction, yet near at hand, he saw the large gathered crowd of his own countrymen, attempting, no doubt, to organize some plan for destroying those who had dared to invade their lands; and securing to themselves vengeance for the wrongs they had suffered, as well as for those they were daily suffering. Seeing these things, his soul glowed with fiercest hate against the whites, and he felt that in his exertions to serve the hunters who belonged to that grasping race, he had, perhaps, wronged his countrymen; and he now regretted the promise he had made them. Then, as the storm of passion subsided, he thought of Miskwa; and when with that, came the belief that she had been brought a prisoner within the very walls of the town in which he now was, and that she was destined probably to become a victim to the Prophet's policy, or rather his cruelty, he was recalled to a sense of his situation. He recollected all he had accomplished;—he recurred to the deep confidence the hunters had placed in him, and he determined to attend the council, see what steps the Indians were about to adopt, and when it had adjourned, continue his search for Netnokwa and her party, and then, to act as, upon further consideration, he should deem advisable.
This resolution was no sooner formed, than he bent his steps towards the excited crowd, and mingling with them, became one of the council. He first looked round to see if he could discover the dreaded Prophet, but he saw no one whom he could identify as such. He heard nothing but bitter curses and denunciations against the whites; rage and fury filled the breasts of all, and they were crying out to be led on to battle. His own passions were kindled by the hoarse breathings of vengeance around him, and never was there a more excited multitude. They counted not numbers, they questioned not success; they were burning with vengeance, and only anxious to quench it at once in the blood of the whites.
Elkswatawa had now a difficult part to play. He had raised a storm which he could not control; he had excited his followers until they were lost to reason, and now, like raging beasts, were chafing against their bounds in order to get loose. This was what he apprehended, when he urged Tecumseh to take some decisive step before his departure for the south. He, himself, was burning with rage; his soul writhed with agony when he saw the fires of his enemies under the walls of his town, and not one of the crowd was more anxious for immediate battle than himself. But then there were many reasons why peace, if attainable at any sacrifice, should still be preserved. He had promised Tecumseh, who absent, was now labouring for the common cause, that no act on the part of the whites, should force the Indians to hostilities. His town, though strongly fortified, contained only his own immediate followers, and they were far less numerous than the army before them. The warriors of the confederacy he had formed, were entirely ignorant of his situation, and to hazard a battle now, was not to avail himself of the power he really possessed; but it was to place his success upon a single chance, where the odds were greatly against him. Aware of all this, he had sent messengers, with professions of peace, to General Harrison while on his march; and still, with the hope of obtaining it, had, on the arrival of the American army, renewed his professions, and expressed a willingness to meet the whites in council on the following day, when he would accede to all their demands. This, for the reasons before stated, was now his determination, and nerving himself for the crisis, he resolved to oppose the calls which his followers were clamorously making to be led on against the whites.
Rising in council, Elkswatawa urged to them the reasons why peace should be preserved. He reminded them of his promise to Tecumseh; he told them of the impropriety of striking without the aid of their brothers of other tribes; he called their attention to the fact, that the American army was greatly superior to them in numbers, and dwelt upon the evil consequences which would result from their being beaten. He unfolded to them his plans; he showed them the necessity there was, that success beyond a doubt, should crown their first effort,—again urged them to peace,—then, awaited their response.
The power of the Prophet was gone; and his arguments for procrastination were only answered with cries for vengeance and immediate battle. In Elkswatawa, they still had implicit confidence as a Prophet. He had predicted, and proclaimed to them, time after time, that success would attend them in all their exertions. He had told them that the Great Spirit would turn the balls of the whites aside, and render them harmless; and that he would give light to the Indians, while their enemies should be involved in darkness. They reminded him of this, told him that the whites were now under the walls of his town, and that the Great Spirit would, as he had promised, deliver them over into the hands of the Indians.
When Elkswatawa heard these things, he determined to refuse no longer, but to yield his consent. Without it, he saw that his character was lost, even with his own followers; and it was better to hazard a battle, and run the chance for success, than quietly to surrender without a struggle. Having come to this determination, after several attempts, he obtained silence. He then requested that a communication which he was about to make to them, should be received in silence, lest from their noise, they should indicate their intentions to the whites. All was hushed, and the Prophet then informed them that they should be led to battle, at the same time stating that the reason why he had refused at first, was that he was anxious that the red men from distant tribes should be present, to share the victory, and to see the predictions of the Prophet fulfilled. At this annunciation, there were bursts of joy, and a few half suppressed war whoops were heard, notwithstanding the positive orders which had been given to the contrary. Elkswatawa then called some of the most influential of his followers close around him, and together, they discussed the mode of attack best to be adopted. Among them, it was finally agreed, that they should meet the whites in council on the next day, lull their suspicions by acceding to all their demands, and then, at an unexpected moment, assassinate the General and commence the attack. Having resolved upon this plan, the Prophet told it to the assembled crowd, and asked if there were any persons present who would volunteer to devote themselves to death, in effecting the assassination of the general. Two warriors were heard to cry out in the affirmative, and being called, they approached and stood before the Prophet. Upon inquiry, they were both found to be members of the tribe of Pottowatamies; and upon their again renewing the wish, that the duty required should be assigned to them, they received the blessing of the Prophet, and leaving him, were soon lost in the crowd. The council was then adjourned, and the warriors ordered to disperse, in order to prepare themselves for the coming day. But it was soon manifest that they were dissatisfied; for as they hurried away, they would gather in groups, and discuss over, and over again, the plan which had been adopted. Their wishes were for a night attack; the predictions of the Prophet had induced them to regard the American camp as already their own, and they were anxious at once to be unloosed, that they might revel in the carnage of the whites.
While the council lasted, Oloompa's bosom was agitated by more contending emotions than I can describe, and when it was over he left the crowd, resolving to take part in the struggle on the coming day, and for the present to search the town, that he might learn the fate of Netnokwa and the maidens. That they had preceded him, and were now within the same walls with himself, he felt confident, and he at once began the task. He made no inquiries, fearing that were he to do so, he might excite suspicion; but wandering from cabin to cabin in a careless and indifferent manner, he examined each. The Indians, excited, were moving to and fro with hurried steps in every direction, and on this account the conduct of Oloompa, which at another time might have appeared singular, was entirely unnoticed by them.
He had now continued his search nearly throughout the town, and the disappointment consequent upon his not finding Netnokwa and her party, as he had expected, was causing him to forget the more exciting circumstances of his situation, when, as chance directed, he bent his steps toward the part of the town at which she had entered, and was proceeding to examine a single cabin which stood apart from the rest, when he was hailed by the warrior whom Kenah had left on duty. Not thinking for a moment, that Oloompa could have any definite object in wandering idly about, as he seemed to be, he called to him, to come and give a detail of the proceedings which had been adopted in council. Oloompa approached, and expressing some surprise that a warrior should have been absent from so important a meeting, learned the welcome intelligence, that his absence was owing to his having been ordered by the Prophet to stand guard over some women, who had been brought prisoners to his camp. At these tidings Oloompa's feelings fluttered with delight, for those he sought were in the cabin before him: there was the pale face maiden, in serving whom he had already encountered so many hardships, and there was Miskwa, whom he now loved more dearly than his life. These things deeply moved him, yet he was apparently calm, and began to narrate minutely to the sentinel that which had happened in council. It was all new to him, and he seemed well pleased and much excited at the struggle which was to take place on the morrow. Oloompa then elicited from him a history of his journey, together with a description of his captives, the orders of the Prophet in relation to them, and his views of the probable fate which awaited them. He learned that Kenah and his party had reached the camp without being aware that they were pursued, and had arrived by the route along which he had traced them. He also ascertained, that the red maiden was free to leave the lodge if she pleased, while her mother and the white maiden were to be strictly confined. From this circumstance he concluded, that the two latter were to be adjudged to death, and with this he recollected, that were it known that a pale face girl was in the camp, excited as the warriors now were, no exertions, however great, would be sufficient to preserve her life. Circumstances showed that there was no time to be lost, and he determined at once to act.
In the cabin now, all was quiet. A small fire was glimmering on the hearth, just enough to show that around it were grouped Netnokwa and the two maidens. They sate in deep silence, brooding over their respective situations, and despair was stamped upon the brow of each; the bosom of Gay would sometimes heave with convulsive throbs, and a slight shudder, as if she was cold, would pass over her frame. Oloompa, still continuing to converse with the sentinel, carelessly withdrew his tomahawk from his belt, and filling the bowl of it with tobacco, entered the cabin as though it were a mere matter of course, apparently for the purpose of lighting his pipe. As he entered, there was a slight stir among the females, and when they discovered that his object seemed merely to get some fire, they moved that he might approach. The light was not sufficient at first to show his features, and advancing, he made a signal for silence; then taking Miskwa's hand pressed it affectionately, and whispered in her ear the word, Oloompa;—as though she had received an electric shock, was her whole frame agitated, and then, like the sudden bursting out of the sun, when the heavens have been obscured by a dark cloud, was the change in Miskwa's countenance from despair to pleasure;—her whole face sparkled with beauty, and she returned Oloompa's recognition, yet was silent. He then proceeded to stir the fire, and while he did this, Miskwa whispered to Gay, who instantly started up and gazing wildly about her, was by Oloompa hushed into silence. With agony traced in every lineament of her face, she gazed on him, and with difficulty articulating, she uttered in a suppressed voice the words, “Where is he?”—
“Without the camp, and waiting for you,” replied Oloompa, at the same time pressing his finger to his lips, and pointing to where the sentinel stood. Gay could restrain her feelings no longer, but uttered a cry of delight; it arrested the attention of the guard, who, believing that Oloompa was frightening the maiden, called to him to come away, and let her alone; that her time would come soon enough. Oloompa whispered to Miskwa to leave the lodge and walk about in the camp. At the sound of his words, Netnokwa waked into life. He then lit his pipe, and fearing lest he should excite suspicion, was soon carelessly conversing again with the guard. The coming struggle was an exciting subject, and in it all other thoughts were apparently merged. The warrior now on duty would be relieved about midnight, and he was anxiously awaiting the time when, released from guarding women, he should begin to prepare to fight against men.
Nearly an hour had elapsed since Oloompa left the cabin, when Miskwa presented herself at the door, saying, “the daughter of Netnokwa will venture abroad in the camp; it is the Prophet's will that she should do so when she pleases.”
“She can do so,” replied the guard; “but death follows her steps if she goes without it.”
Miskwa made no answer, but leaving the cabin, went, apparently, towards the most crowded part of the town.
“Dost not our brother fear?” said Oloompa, addressing the guard, “she goes so far, his eyes cannot follow her.”
“Her mother is here;” was the answer. “Her love for her mother is a strong cord; it will draw her back. But if she escapes, the wrath of the Prophet would descend on our head. She must sure return;—will our brother watch her?” Oloompa answered that he would, and relieving himself from his rifle and hunting accoutrements, he deposited them at the cabin door, thinking, that in so doing, he would strengthen the confidence which seemed already to have sprung up between himself and the sentinel, and it would also give him an excuse for returning to the cabin in the event of his wishing it. He then hastened away to keep a watch upon Miskwa. Getting without sight of the guard, he approached her, a hurried recognition took place; then withdrawing beyond the reach of observation, they recounted to each other all that had happened since they parted, and dwelt upon their present painful situation. There was little time for regret, and they began to discuss what was best to be done. Miskwa told him that she had been permitted by the Prophet to venture abroad, under the belief on his part, that she was to be Tecumseh's bride; but denied, positively, that she had any such intention. For herself, being unrestrained, she now had no care, and all her alarm was for her mother and the captive maiden. What fate awaited them she knew not, yet her fears caused her to anticipate the worst. What was to be the result of the coming struggle, or what influence it might exert upon the conduct of the Prophet towards them, it was impossible to foretell. Oloompa hearing these things, suggested to her the possibility there was of her escaping with the pale face maiden. The hunters were without the town, awaiting their coming, and ready to defend both at the hazard of their lives. But with the discussion came proofs that it was impracticable. For, even were the sentinel despatched who guarded the cabin, the town was filled with warriors, passing in every direction; their flight would surely be observed, and a sudden death pay the penalty of their attempt. Could they succeed in getting without the walls, Netnokwa was old and decrepid, and would most certainly be overtaken. Oloompa then persuaded her to leave her mother, and endeavoured to convince her that a worse fate awaited her than she apprehended.
“No,” said the maiden, “when Miskwa was helpless, her mother nursed her. Miskwa will live or die with her mother.”
Oloompa was silent; and the maiden continued: “Miskwa loves the pale face, and her heart bleeds to see her in the Prophet's camp. Miskwa can leave her lodge whenever she pleases. She will make the pale face maiden look like Miskwa, then send her out. Oloompa can take her and carry her to the white man who waits for her. Their hearts will then be glad, and Miskwa will love Oloompa. When Oloompa serves Miskwa's friend, he serves Miskwa. Speak,—what says Oloompa?”
Oloompa was recalled to a sense of his promise, by the suggestion, and a feeling of pleasure lighted up his countenance when he reflected that it was practicable. “Oloompa will do it,” he answered; “he promised to bring the maiden to the hunters. He will serve them, and then he is free; but what becomes of Miskwa?”
In answer to this, Miskwa again reiterated her anxious desire that the captive maiden should be as soon as possible restored to the hunters, and that then, should it be practicable for herself and mother to escape, that they would seize the first opportunity to do so. She then added,—“Oloompa, now we part;—the pale face shall seem to be a red maiden; follow her steps when she leaves the lodge. Deliver her safe to her friends who seek her. Then let thy return to the camp be as swift as the flight of the eagle. Miskwa will prove to Oloompa she loves him.” Then, before he could reply, away she darted; and happy with what he had just heard, he followed on only close enough to see her re-enter the lodge, where were imprisoned her mother and friend.—Then, approaching the sentinel, he observed, “the maiden plays about like a deer in the moonlight; she came this way; has she entered?”
“She is safe within,” was the answer, and Oloompa, leaving for the purpose of again mingling with the crowd, promised that he would return, and tell if any tidings had come from the camp of the whites, or any change of plan had been agreed upon among the warriors.
It was now late in the night, and entering that part of the town in which the Indians were mostly crowded together, he found them still excited and dissatisfied:—all had their arms, and none seemed at all disposed to rest. Here he remained for some time, mingling promiscuously with the crowd, and learned that their present excitement was owing to an attempt on their part to have another council called, and the mode of attack which had been agreed upon in the early part of the evening, changed. They wished to substitute in its place a night attack. They were anxious for immediate battle;—they were now more clamorous than they had been before, and some even hinted, that as the whites were under the very walls of their town, they could not escape them, and that it would be wise to disobey the commands of the Prophet; because, in so doing, they could satiate at once their thirst for vengeance. Oloompa, fearing that some immediate steps would be taken, which would tend to operate against the escape of the captive, and, having been absent nearly long enough to allow her to assume her disguise, returned again to the cabin, and withdrew the attention of the sentinel from its inmates, by describing to him the feelings and wishes of the warriors he had left, and his belief that they would force the Prophet to change the plan which had been adopted, and lead them against the whites before the day dawned. While thus conversing, he walked to and fro before the door, and saw one who seemed an Indian maiden press the hand of Netnokwa, and then throw herself on the bosom of Miskwa. Oloompa was agitated,—he felt that the moment of trial was come, and he renewed his effort to interest the sentinel. As he again passed before the door, he discovered Miskwa pressing forward the captive, in order to make her leave the lodge. He stopped, and standing just before the warrior, directed his attention to the heavens, and asked him the hour of the night. A moment passed,—there was the rustling of a garment heard,—a maiden left the lodge, and looking carelessly about her, walked farther into the town.
“The old woman's daughter is fond of moonlight,” said the sentinel, as she passed on; “she likes not her cage.”
The remark was not heard by the maiden, and Oloompa made no reply; for at that moment, a warrior was seen passing along, and summoning the red men again to council. No sooner was the glad call heard, than there was hurrying past to the place of meeting. Oloompa kept his eyes upon the maiden, as she now stood looking upon the town, and started forward apparently as if he designed to follow the crowd. The warrior on duty was relieved, his time having expired, and forgetting to mention that a prisoner was absent, he hurried away to the council. Oloompa, passing by where the captive stood, whispered to her to follow him, and moved slowly on in the direction in which all seemed hurrying. When he had gotten without sight of the cabin he left, and found that most of the crowd had passed him, he stopped, and pointing out a small path to the maiden, told her to follow it to the walls of the town, where he would meet her. He then passed on to the council, and, remaining only for an instant, proceeded by a circuitous route, to the place designated. The captive maiden awaited him, and upon his arrival, ran forward to express her gratitude. Oloompa motioned her to be silent, and assisting her out of the camp, they proceeded to the spot where he had left the hunters. Upon nearing it, a hoarse voice cried out, “who comes there?” and the barrel of a rifle was seen to gleam in the moonlight.
“Oloompa and the captive maiden,” was the answer.
Rolfe rushed forward, but drew back when he beheld the figure before him.
The captive maiden cried, “Richard! it is Gay!—it is Gay, though she seems not to be;” and in an instant more she was clasped to the bosom of Rolfe.
A few moments passed:—the first wild burst of feeling consequent upon their meeting had scarcely subsided, when Rolfe, calling her attention to Earth, told her that he was the friend to whom she owed so much, and bade her thank him. “A thousand, thousand thanks!” she cried, extending her hand to Earth. “They are a poor offering for so much service, yet they are all that Gay now has to give.”
Earth was much affected, and replied not to her, but turning to Rolfe, said,—“Rolfe, I wish you had not told her any thing about thanking me; you know that to make a friend happy, is as much as Earth ever desires.”
“Hunters,” cried Oloompa, who, since he delivered up Gay, had been quietly looking on, “listen;—the hour has now come,—we have travelled a long path to its end,—we part for ever.”
“Noble, noble Oloompa!” cried Rolfe, cordially grasping his hand, “oh! say not so; come, love us, and dwell with us, and let us be friends. All that the white man has, shall be yours.”
Oloompa replied:—“See you yon fires which burn in the distance? There are encamped the enemies of Oloompa's race. They come to drive the red men from their town, and force them still farther into the depths of the forest. Oloompa saw this, yet he brought the maiden to her lover. He served the white man; he has redeemed his promise, and is now free. Farewell!” and saying so, he turned to depart.
“Stay! stay! Oloompa!” cried Rolfe;—“oh! name some way in which I can pay thee for all that thou hast done for me.”
“Oloompa wants nothing of the hunters,” was the answer.
“And what becomes of the red maiden?” inquired Rolfe.
“Oloompa knows not,” he replied. “Dark clouds hang over the land. He cannot see through them. Oloompa has no time; the white maiden will tell all.”
“Oh!” cried Gay, “should they escape, bring her,—Oloompa! do bring her, with her mother, and dwell with me.—I owe them gratitude and love, and even life.”
Oloompa made no reply, and Rolfe continued:—“Oloompa! do come. You know where our wigwam is; my home will be that of the maiden, and we shall ever be happy to see those who have loved and served us. The time may come, when Oloompa will not think as he now does. Then, should it please heaven to deliver from the Prophet's hands Netnokwa and her daughter, oh! come with them to our lodge, and we will give you a wigwam, supply all your wants, and love you as friends.”
Oloompa was still silent, and seeing that he would not reply, Gay continued:—“Oloompa! will you leave us in anger, after having done so much that we can never repay? Miskwa would not do so.”
“Maiden,” replied he, “could a pale face make Oloompa change, it would be the one before me; and had Oloompa never known other whites than those he now sees, he would never have hated their race as he does. As a people, they have wronged him, and he has sworn in the bitterness of his soul to be avenged. The white man knows Oloompa will keep his promise. Oloompa's bosom is open; he does not wrap himself up when he talks to the white man. Go, hunters, Oloompa hates the whites, but he has given you his hand in friendship, and he would not harm you. Bear the maiden away with the speed of an arrow, for, ere to-morrow's sun goes down, death will be abroad in the land.”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “once more let me entreat you to give up your schemes of vengeance, and go and dwell with me.”
“Seek not vengeance!” answered Oloompa;—“when the fires of the whites are kindled on the lands of the red men! Sooner bid a mother not seek for the child she has lost. The hunter loves the white maiden; he has travelled far to find her.—Does he now ask Oloompa to leave the red maiden a prisoner in the Prophet's camp? Far sooner would Oloompa be torn limb from limb, and thrown in fragments as food for dogs. Oloompa has spoken,—we must now part,”—and saying so, he extended his hand to Gay.
“Oloompa,” she cried, “tell Netnokwa I love her as a mother, and bear to Miskwa my fond, my sisterly regard. Tell her to remember one who can never forget her, and whose only wish is that she may have an opportunity of serving her. And need I tell you how pleased I shall be to hear of their safety? And oh! should happier days await them, bring her with her mother to my home, and again will Gay bless and thank you.”
“May the Great Spirit watch over and protect you as though you were his only child,” replied Oloompa, turning from her.
He then bade the hunters farewell, again cautioned them to hurry away with the maiden, and started forward to the Indian camp. As he left, tears flowed from the eyes of Gay, the manly bosom of Rolfe heaved with emotion, and even Earth, the cold, the bitter enemy of the wild race from which Oloompa sprung, felt deeply, and frankly expressed the high admiration he entertained for his noble foe. He also added his most earnest wishes that the storm which impended might pass away, and peace and happiness crown the evening hours of Oloompa.
“The double double double beatOf the thundering drumCries, hark! the foes come:Charge, charge!—'tis too late to retreat.”DRYDEN.
“The double double double beatOf the thundering drumCries, hark! the foes come:Charge, charge!—'tis too late to retreat.”DRYDEN.