None knows his lineage, age, or name;His looks are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyesBeam with the wisdom of collected agesIn green, unbroken years he sees, 'tis said,The generations pass like autumn fruits,Garner'd, consumed, and springing fresh to life,Again to perish——HILLHOUSE
No further disturbance took place that night, and the men set about filling up the trenches in the morning steadily, as if nothing had happened. They talked a little of the extraordinary occurrence, but more was THOUGHT than SAID. Le Bourdon observed, however, that Pigeonswing went earlier than usual to the hunt, and that he made his preparations as if he expected to be absent more than the customary time.
As there were just one hundred feet of ditch to fill with dirt, the task was completed, and that quite thoroughly, long ere the close of the day. The pounding down of the earth consumed more time, and was much more laborious than the mere tumbling of the earth back into its former bed; but even this portion of the work was sufficiently attended to. When all was done, the corporal himself, a very critical sort of person in what he called “garrisons,” was fain to allow that it was as “pretty a piece of palisading” as he had ever laid eyes on. The “garrison” wanted only one thing, now, to render it a formidable post—and that was water—no spring or well existing within its narrow limit; however, he procured two or three empty barrels, portions of le Bourdon's effects, placed them within the works, and had them filled with sweet water. By emptying this water two or three times a week, and refilling the barrels, it was thought that a sufficient provision of that great necessary would be made and kept up. Luckily the corporal's “garrison” did not drink, and the want was so much the more easily supplied for the moment.
In truth, the chiente was now converted into a place of some strength, when it is considered that artillery had never yet penetrated to those wilds. More than half the savages of the west fought with arrows and spears in that day, as most still do when the great prairies are reached. A rifleman so posted as to have his body in a great measure covered by the trunk of a burr-oak tree, would be reasonably secure against the missives of an Indian, and, using his own fatal instrument of death, under a sense of personal security, he would become a formidable opponent to dislodge. Nor was the smallness of the work any objection to its security. A single well-armed man might suffice to defend twenty-five feet of palisades, when he would have been insufficient to make good his position with twice the extent. Then le Bourdon had cut loops on three sides of the hut itself, in order to fire at the bears, and sometimes at the deer, which had often approached the building in its days of solitude and quiet, using the window on the fourth side for the same purpose. In a word, a sense of increased security was felt by the whole party when this work was completed, though one arrangement was still wanting to render it perfect. By separating the real garrison from the nominal garrison during the night, there always existed the danger of surprise; and the corporal, now that his fortifications were finished, soon devised a plan to obviate this last-named difficulty. His expedient was very simple, and had somewhat of barrack-life about it.
Corporal Flint raised a low platform along one side of the chiente, by placing there logs of pine that were squared on one of their sides. Above, at the height of a man's head, a roof of bark was reared on poles, and prairie grass, aided by skins, formed very comfortable barrack-beds beneath. As the men were expected to lie with their heads to the wall of the hut, and their feet outward, there was ample space for twice their number. Thither, then, were all the homely provisions for the night transported; and when Margery closed the door of the chiente, after returning the bee-hunter's cordial good night, it was with no further apprehension for the winding of the mysterious horn.
The first night that succeeded the new arrangement passed without any disturbance. Pigeonswing did not return, as usual, at sunset, and a little uneasiness was felt on his account; but, as he made his appearance quite early in the morning, this source of concern ceased. Nor did the Chippewa come in empty-handed; he had killed not only a buck, but he had knocked over a bear in his rambles, besides taking a mess of famously fine trout from a brawling stream at no great distance. The fish were eaten for breakfast, and immediately after that meal was ended, a party.
“I know no more than he has himself told me. By his account there is to be a great council of red men on the prairie, a few miles from this spot; he is waiting for the appointed day to come, in order to go and make one of the chiefs that will be there. Is not this true, Chippewa?”
“Yes, dat true—what dat council smoke round fire for, eh? You know?”
“No, I do not, and would be right glad to have you tell me, Pigeonswing. Perhaps the tribe mean to have a meetin' to determine in their own minds which side they ought to take in this war.”
“Not dat nudder. Know well 'nough which side take. Got message and wampum from Canada fadder, and most all Injin up this-a way look for Yankee scalp. Not dat nudder.”
“Then I have no notion what is at the bottom of this council. Peter seems to expect great things from it; that I can see by his way of talking and looking whenever he speaks of it.”
“Peter want to see him very much. Smoke at great many sich council fire.”
“Do you intend to be present at this council on Prairie Round?” asked the bee-hunter, innocently enough. Pigeonswing turned to look at his companion, in a way that seemed to inquire how far he was really the dupe of the mysterious Indian's wiles. Then, suddenly aware of the importance of not betraying all he himself knew, until the proper moment had arrived, he bent his eyes forward again, continuing onward and answering somewhat evasively.
“Don't know,” he replied. “Hunter nebber tell. Chief want venison, and he must hunt. Just like squaw in pale-face wigwam—work, work—sweep, sweep—cook, cook—never know when work done. So hunter hunt—hunt—hunt.”
“And for that matter, Chippewa, just like squaw in the red man's village, too. Hoe, hoe—dig, dig—carry, carry—so that she never knows when she may sit down to rest.”
“Yes,” returned Pigeonswing, coolly nodding his assent as he moved steadily forward. “Dat do right way wid squaw—juss what he good for—juss what he MADE for—work for warrior and cook his dinner. Pale-face make too much of squaw.”
“Not accordin' to your account of their manner of getting along, Injin. If the work of our squaws is never done, we can hardly make too much of them. Where does Peter keep HIS squaw?”
“Don't know,” answered the Chippewa. “Nobody know. Don't know where his tribe even.”
“This is very extraor'nary, considering the influence the man seems to enjoy. How is it that he has so completely got the ears of all the red men, far and near?”
To this question Pigeonswing gave no answer. His own mind was so far under Peter's control that he did not choose to tell more than might be prudent. He was fully aware of the mysterious chief's principal design, that of destroying the white race altogether, and of restoring the red men to their ancient rights, but several reasons prevented his entering into the plot heart and hand. In the first place, he was friendly to the “Yankees,” from whom he, personally, had received many favors and no wrongs; then, the tribe, or half-tribe, to which he belonged had been employed, more or less, by the agents of the American government as runners, and in other capacities, ever since the peace of '83; and, lastly, he himself had been left much in different garrisons, where he had not only acquired his English, but a habit of thinking of the Americans as his friends. It might also be added that Pigeonswing, though far less gifted by nature than the mysterious Peter, had formed a truer estimate of the power of the “Yankees,” and did not believe they were to be annihilated so easily. How it happened that this Indian had come to a conclusion so much safer than that of Peter's, a man of twice his capacity, is more than we can explain; though it was probably owing to the accidental circumstances of his more intimate associations with the whites.
The bee-hunter was by nature a man of observation, a faculty that his habits had both increased and stimulated. Had it not been for the manner in which he was submitting to the influence of Margery, he would long before have seen that in the deportment of the Chippewa which would have awakened his distrust; not that Margery in any way endeavored to blind him to what was passing before his face, but that he was fast getting to have eyes only for her. By this time she filled not only his waking, but many of his sleeping thoughts; and when she was not actually before him, charming him with her beauty, enlivening him with her artless gayety, and inspiring him with her innocent humor, he fancied she was there, imagination, perhaps, heightening all those advantages which we have enumerated. When a man is thoroughly in love, he is quite apt to be fit for very little else but to urge his suit. Such, in a certain way, proved to be the case with le Bourdon, who allowed things to pass unheeded directly before his eyes that previously to his acquaintance with Margery would not only have been observed, but which would have most probably led to some practical results. The conduct of Pigeonswing was among the circumstances that were thus over-looked by our hero. In point of fact, Peter was slowly but surely working on the mind of the Chippewa, changing all his opinions radically, and teaching him to regard every pale-face as an enemy. The task, in this instance, was not easy; for Pigeonswing, in addition to his general propensities in favor of the “Yankees,” the result of mere accident, had conceived a real personal regard for le Bourdon, and was very slow to admit any views that tended to his injury. The struggle in the mind of the young warrior was severe; and twenty times was he on the point of warning his friend of the danger which impended over the whole party, when a sense of good faith toward Peter, who held his word to the contrary, prevented his so doing. This conflict of feeling was now constantly active in the breast of the young savage.
Pigeonswing had another source of uneasiness, to which his companions were entirely strangers. While hunting, his keen eyes had detected the presence of warriors in the openings. It is true he had not seen even one, but he knew that the signs he had discovered could not deceive him. Not only were warriors at hand, but warriors in considerable numbers. He had found one deserted lair, from which its late occupants could not have departed many hours when it came under his own notice. By means of that attentive sagacity which forms no small portion of the education of an American Indian, Pigeonswing was enabled to ascertain that this party, of itself, numbered seventeen, all of whom were men and warriors. The first fact was easily enough to be seen, perhaps, there being just seventeen different impressions left in the grass; but that all these persons were armed men, was learned by Pigeonswing through evidence that would have been overlooked by most persons. By the length of the lairs he was satisfied none but men of full stature had been there; and he even examined sufficiently close to make out the proofs that all but four of these men carried firearms. Strange as it may seem to those who do not know how keen the senses become when whetted by the apprehensions and wants of savage life, Pigeonswing was enabled to discover signs which showed that the excepted were provided with bows and arrows, and spears.
When the bee-hunter and his companion came in sight of the carcase of the bear, which they did shortly after the last remark which we have given in the dialogue recorded, the former exclaimed with a little surprise:
“How's this, Chippewa! You have killed this beast with your bow! Did you not hunt with the rifle yesterday?”
“Bad fire rifle off now-a-day,” answered Pigeonswing, sententiously. “Make noise—noise no good.”
“Noise!” repeated the perfectly unsuspecting bee-hunter. “Little good or little harm can noise do in these openings, where there is neither mountain to give back an echo, or ear to be startled. The crack of my rifle has rung through these groves a hundred times and no harm come of it.”
“Forget war-time now. Bess nebber fire, less can't help him. Pottawattamie hear great way off.”
“Oh! That's it, is it! You're afraid our old friends the Pottawattamies may find us out, and come to thank us for all that happened down at the river's mouth. Well,” continued le Bourdon, laughing, “if they wish another whiskey-spring, I have a small jug left, safely hid against a wet day; a very few drops will answer to make a tolerable spring. You redskins don't know everything, Pigeonswing, though you are so keen and quick-witted on a trail.”
“Bess not tell Pottawattamie any more 'bout springs,” answered the Chippewa, gravely; for by this time he regarded the state of things in the openings to be so serious as to feel little disposition to mirth. “Why you don't go home, eh? Why don't med'cine-man go home, too? Bess for pale-face to be wid pale-face when red man go on war-path. Color bess keep wid color.”
“I see you want to be rid of us, Pigeonswing; but the parson has no thought of quitting this part of the world until he has convinced all the red-skins that they are Jews.”
“What he mean, eh?” demanded the Chippewa, with more curiosity than it was usual for an Indian warrior to betray. “What sort of a man Jew, eh? Why call red man Jew?”
“I know very little more about it than you do yourself, Pigeonswing; but such as my poor knowledge is, you're welcome to it. You've heard of the Bible, I dare say?”
“Sartain—med'cine-man read him Sunday. Good book to read, some t'ink.”
“Yes, it's all that, and a great companion have I found my Bible, when I've been alone with the bees out here in the openings. It tells us of our God, Chippewa; and teaches us how we are to please him, and how we may offend. It's a great loss to you red-skins not to have such a book among you.”
“Med'cine-man bring him—don't do much good, yet; some day, p'r'aps, do better. How dat make red man Jew?”
“Why, this is a new idea to me, though Parson Amen seems fully possessed with it. I suppose you know what a Jew is?”
“Don't know anything 'bout him. Sort o' nigger, eh?”
“No, no, Pigeonswing, you're wide of the mark this time. But, that we may understand each other, we'll begin at the beginning like, which will let you into the whole history of the pale-face religion. As we've had a smart walk, however, and here is the bear's meat safe and sound, just as you left it, let us sit down a bit on this trunk of a tree, while I give you our tradition from beginning to end, as it might be. In the first place, Chippewa, the earth was made without creatures of any sort to live on it—not so much as a squirrel or a woodchuck.”
“Poor country to hunt in, dat,” observed the Chippewa quietly, while le Bourdon was wiping his forehead after removing his cap. “Ojebways stay in it very little time.”
“This, according to our belief, was before any Ojebway lived. At length, God made a man, out of clay, and fashioned him, as we see men fashioned and living all around us.”
“Yes,” answered the Chippewa, nodding his head in assent. “Den Manitou put plenty blood in him—dat make red warrior. Bible good book, if tell dat tradition.”
“The Bible says nothing about any colors; but we suppose the man first made to have been a pale-face. At any rate, the pale-faces have got possession of the best parts of the earth, as it might be, and I think they mean to keep them. First come, first served, you know. The pale-faces are many, and are strong.”
“Stop!” exclaimed Pigeonswing, in a way that was very unusual for an Indian to interrupt another when speaking; “want to ask question—how many pale-face you t'ink is dere? Ebber count him?”
“Count him!—Why, Chippewa, you might as well count the bees, as they buzz around a fallen tree. You saw me cut down the tree I last discovered, and saw the movement of the little animals, and may judge what success tongue or eye would have in counting THEM; now, just as true would it be to suppose that any man could count the pale-faces on this earth.”
“Don't want count ALL,” answered Pigeonswing. “Want to know how many dis side of great salt lake.”
“That's another matter, and more easily come at. I understand you now, Chippewa; you wish to know how many of us there are in the country we call America?”
“Juss so,” returned Pigeonswing, nodding in assent. “Dat juss it—juss what Injin want to know.”
“Well, we do have a count of our own people, from time to time, and I suppose come about as near to the truth as men can come in such a matter. There must be about eight millions of us altogether; that is, old and young, big and little, male and female.”
“How many warrior you got?—don't want hear about squaw and pappoose.”
“No, I see you're warlike this morning, and want to see how we are likely to come out of this struggle with your great Canada father. Counting all round, I think we might muster hard on upon a million of fighting men—good, bad, and indifferent; that is to say, there must be a million of us of proper age to go into the wars.”
Pigeonswing made no answer for near a minute. Both he and the bee-hunter had come to a halt alongside of the bear's meat, and the latter was beginning to prepare his own portion of the load for transportation, while his companion stood thus motionless, lost in thought. Suddenly, Pigeonswing recovered his recollection, and resumed the conversation, by saying:
“What million mean, Bourdon? How many time so'ger at Detroit, and so'ger on lakes?”
“A million is more than the leaves on all the trees in these openings”—le Bourdon's notions were a little exaggerated, perhaps, but this was what he SAID—“yes, more than the leaves on all these oaks, far and near. A million is a countless number, and I suppose would make a row of men as long as from this spot to the shores of the great salt lake, if not farther.”
It is probable that the bee-hunter himself had no very clear notion of the distance of which he spoke, or of the number of men it would actually require to fill the space he mentioned; but his answer sufficed deeply to impress the imagination of the Indian, who now helped le Bourdon to secure his load to his back, in silence, receiving the same service in return. When the meat of the bear was securely bestowed, each resumed his rifle, and the friends commenced their march in, toward the chiente; conversing, as they went, on the matter which still occupied their minds. When the bee-hunter again took up the history of the creation, it was to speak of our common mother.
“You will remember, Chippewa,” he said, “that I told you nothing on the subject of any woman. What I have told you, as yet, consarned only the first MAN, who was made out of clay, into whom God breathed the breath of life.”
“Dat good—make warrior fuss. Juss right. When breat' in him, fit to take scalp, eh?”
“Why, as to that, it is not easy to see whom he was to scalp, seeing that he was quite alone in the world, until it pleased his Creator to give him a woman for a companion.”
“Tell 'bout dat,” returned Pigeonswing, with interest—“tell how he got squaw.”
“Accordin' to the Bible, God caused this man to fall into a deep sleep, when he took one of his ribs, and out of that he made a squaw for him. Then he put them both to live together, in a most beautiful garden, in which all things excellent and pleasant was to be found—some such place as these openings, I reckon.”
“Any bee dere?” asked the Indian, quite innocently. “Plenty honey, eh?”
“That will I answer for! It could hardly be otherwise, when it was the intention to make the first man and first woman perfectly happy. I dare say, Chippewa, if the truth was known, it would be found that bees was a sipping at every flower in that most delightful garden!”
“Why pale-face quit dat garden, eh? Why come here to drive poor Injin 'way from game? Tell me dat, Bourdon, if he can? Why pale-face ever leave DAT garden, when he so han'some, eh?”
“God turned him out of it, Chippewa—yes, he was turned OUT of it, with shame on his face, for having disobeyed the commandments of his Creator. Having left the garden, his children have scattered over the face of the earth.”
“So come here to drive off Injin! Well, dat 'e way wid pale-face I Did ever hear of red man comin' to drive off pale-face?”
“I have heard of your red warriors often coming to take our scalps, Chippewa. More or less of this has been done every year, since our people have landed in America. More than that they have not done, for we are too many to be driven very far in, by a few scattering tribes of Injins.”
“T'ink, den, more pale-face dan Injin, eh?” asked the Chippewa, with an interest so manifest that he actually stopped in his semi-trot, in order to put the question. “More pale-face warrior dan red men?”
“More! Aye, a thousand times more, Chippewa. Where you could show one warrior, we could show a thousand!”
Now, this was not strictly true, perhaps, but it answered the purpose of deeply impressing the Chippewa with the uselessness of Peter's plans, and sustained as it was by his early predilections, it served to keep him on the right side, in the crisis which was approaching. The discourse continued, much in the same strain, until the men got in with their bear's meat, having been preceded some time by the others, with the venison.
It is a little singular that neither the questions, nor the manner of Pigeonswing, awakened any distrust in the bee-hunter. So far from this, the latter regarded all that had passed as perfectly natural, and as likely to arise in conversation, in the way of pure speculation, as in any other manner. Pigeonswing intended to be guarded in what he said and did, for, as yet, he had not made up his mind which side he would really espouse, in the event of the great project coming to a head. He had the desire, natural to a red man, to avenge the wrongs committed against his race; but this desire existed in a form a good deal mitigated by his intercourse with the “Yankees,” and his regard for individuals. It had, nevertheless, strangely occurred to the savage reasoning of this young warrior that possibly some arrangement might be effected, by means of which he should take scalps from the Canadians, while Peter and his other followers were working their will on the Americans. In this confused condition was the mind of the Chippewa, when he and his companion threw down their loads, near the place where the provision of game was usually kept. This was beneath the tree, near the spring and the cook-house, in order that no inconvenience should arise from its proximity to the place where the party dwelt and slept. For a siege, should there be occasion to shut themselves up within the “garrison,” the men depended on the pickled pork, and a quantity of dried meat; of the latter of which the missionary had brought a considerable supply in his own canoe. Among these stores were a few dozen of buffaloes' or bisons' tongues, a delicacy that would honor the best table in the civilized world, though then so common among the western hunters, as scarce to be deemed food as good as the common salted pork and beef of the settlements.
The evening that followed proved to be one of singular softness and sweetness. The sun went down in a cloudless sky, and gentle airs from the southwest fanned the warm cheeks of Margery, as she sat, resting from the labors of the day, with le Bourdon at her side, speaking of the pleasures of a residence in such a spot. The youth was eloquent, for he felt all that he said, and the maiden was pleased. The young man could expatiate on bees in a way to arrest any one's attention; and Margery delighted to hear him relate his adventures with these little creatures; his successes, losses, and journeys.
“But are you not often lonely, Bourdon, living here in the openings, whole summers at a time, without a living soul to speak to?” demanded Margery, coloring to the eyes, the instant the question was asked, lest it should subject her to an imputation against which her modesty revolted, that of wishing to draw the discourse to a discussion on the means of preventing this solitude in future.
“I have not been, hitherto,” answered le Bourdon, so frankly as at once to quiet his companion's sensitiveness, “though I will not answer for the future. Now that I have so many with me, we may make some of them necessary. Mind—I say SOME, not all of my present guests. If I could have my pick, pretty Margery, the present company would give me ALL I can desire, and more too. I should not think of going to Detroit for that companion, since she is to be found so much nearer.”
Margery blushed, and looked down—then she raised her eyes, smiled, and seemed grateful as well as pleased. By this time she had become accustomed to such remarks, and she had no difficulty in discovering her lover's wishes, though he had never been more explicit. The reflections natural to her situation threw a shade of gentle seriousness over her countenance, rendering her more charming than ever, and causing the youth to plunge deeper and deeper into the meshes that female influence had cast around him, In all this, however, one of the parties was governed by a manly sincerity, and the other by girlish artlessness. Diffidence, one of the most certain attendants of a pure passion, alone kept le Bourdon from asking Margery to become his wife; while Margery herself sometimes doubted whether it were possible that any reputable man could wish to connect himself and his fortunes with a family that had sunk as low as persons could well sink, in this country, and not lose their characters altogether. With these doubts and distrusts, so naturally affecting the mind of each, these young people were rapidly becoming more and more enamored; the bee-hunter betraying his passion in the close, absorbed attentions that more properly belong to his sex, while that of Margery was to be seen in sudden blushes, the thoughtful brow, the timid glance, and a cast of tenderness that came over her whole manner, and, as it might be, her whole being.
While our young folk were thus employed, now conversing cheerfully, now appearing abstracted and lost in thought, though seated side by side, le Bourdon happened to look behind him, and saw that Peter was regarding them with one of those intense, but mysterious expressions of the countenance, that had, now, more than once attracted his attention; giving reason, each time, for a feeling in which doubt, curiosity, and apprehension were singularly mingled, even in himself.
At the customary hour, which was always early, in that party of simple habits, the whole family sought its rest; the females withdrew within the chiente, while the males arranged their skins without. Ever since the erection of the palisades, le Bourdon had been in the habit of calling Hive within the defences, leaving him at liberty to roam about inside, at pleasure. Previously to this new arrangement, the dog had been shut up in his kennel, in order to prevent his getting on the track of a deer, or in close combat with some bear, when his master was not present to profit by his efforts. As the palisades were too high for his leap, this putting him at liberty within them answered the double purpose of giving the mastiff room for healthful exercise, and of possessing a most vigilant sentinel against dangers of all sorts. On the present occasion, however, the dog was missing, and after calling and whistling for him some time, the bee-hunter was fain to bar the gate, and leave him on the outside. This done, he sought his skin, and was soon asleep.
It was midnight, when the bee-hunter felt a hand laid on his own arm. It was the corporal, making this movement, in order to awake him. In an instant the young man was on his feet, with his rifle in his hand.
“Did you not hear it, Bourdon?” demanded the corporal, in a tone so low as scarce to exceed a whisper.
“Hear what! I've been sleeping, sound as a bee in winter.”
“The horn!—The horn has been blown twice, and, I think, we shall soon hear it again.”
“The horn was hanging at the door of the chiente, and the conch, too. It will be easy to see if they are in their places.”
It was only necessary to walk around the walls of the hut, to its opposite side, in order to ascertain this fact. Le Bourdon did so, accompanied by the corporal, and just as each laid a hand on the instruments, which were suspended in their proper places, a heavy rush was made against the gate, as if to try its fastenings. These pushes were repeated several times, with a violence that menaced the bars. Of course, the two men stepped to the spot, a distance of only a few paces, the gateway of the palisades and the door of the chiente being contiguous to each other, and immediately ascertained that it was the mastiff, endeavoring to force his way in. The bee-hunter admitted the dog, which had been trained to suppress his bark, though this animal was too brave and large to throw away his breath when he had better rely on his force. Powerful animals, of this race, are seldom noisy, it being the province of the cur, both among dogs and men, to be blustering and spitting out their venom, at all hours and seasons. Hive, however, in addition to his natural disposition, had been taught, from the time he was a pup, not to betray his presence unnecessarily by a bark; and it was seldom that his deep throat opened beneath the arches of the oaks. When it did, it told like the roaring of the lion in the desert.
Hive was no sooner admitted to the “garrison,” than he manifested just as strong a desire to get out, as a moment before he had manifested to get in. This, le Bourdon well knew, indicated the presence of some thing, or creature, that did not properly belong to the vicinity. After consulting with the corporal, Pigeonswing was called; and leaving him as a sentinel at the gate, the two others made a sortie. The corporal was as brave as a lion, and loved all such movements, though he fully anticipated encountering savages, while his companion expected an interview with bears.
As this movement was made at the invitation of the dog, it was judiciously determined to let him act as pioneer, on the advance. Previously to quitting the defences, however, the two adventurers looked closely to their arms. Each examined the priming, saw that his horn and pouch were accessible, and loosened his knife in its sheath. The corporal, moreover, fixed his “baggonet,” as he called the formidable, glittering instrument that usually embellished the end of his musket—a MUSKET being the weapon he chose to carry, while the bee-hunter himself was armed with a long western RIFLE.
The raptures of a conqueror's moodRushed burning through his frame;The depths of that green solitudeIts torrents could not tame,Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile,Round those far fountains of the Nile—MRS HEMANS.
When the bee-hunter and Corporal Flint thus went forth in midnight, from the “garrison” of Castle Meal (Chateau au Miel), as the latter would have expressed it, it was with no great apprehension of meeting any other than a four-footed enemy, notwithstanding the blast of the horn the worthy corporal supposed he had heard. The movements of the dog seemed to announce such a result rather than any other, for Hive was taken along as a sort of guide. Le Bourdon, however, did not permit his mastiff to run off wide, but, having the animal at perfect command, it was kept close to his own person.
The two men first moved toward the grove of the Kitchen, much to Hive's discontent. The dog several times halted, and he whined, and growled, and otherwise manifested his great dislike to proceed in that direction. At length so decided did his resistance become, that his master said to his companion:
“It seems to me best, corporal, to let the mastiff lead us. I have never yet seen him so set on not going in one way, and on going in another. Hive has a capital nose, and we may trust him.”
“Forward,” returned the corporal, wheeling short in the direction of the dog; “one thing should be understood, however, Bourdon, which is this—you must act as light troops in this sortie, and I as the main body. If we come on the inimy, it will be your duty to skrimmage in front as long as you can, and then fall back on your resarves. I shall depend chiefly on the baggonet, which is the best tool to put an Injin up with; and as he falls back, before my charge, we must keep him under as warm a fire as possible. Having no cavalry, the dog might be made useful in movements to the front and on our flanks.”
“Pooh, pooh, corporal, you're almost as much set in the notions of your trade as Parson Amen is set in his idees about the lost tribes. In my opinion there'll be more tribes FOUND in these openings before the summer is over than we shall wish to meet. Let us follow the dog, and see what will turn up.” Hive WAS followed, and he took a direction that led to a distant point in the openings, where not only the trees were much thicker than common, but where a small tributary of the Kalamazoo ran through a ravine, from the higher lands adjacent into the main artery of all the neighboring watercourses. The bee-hunter knew the spot well, having often drank at the rivulet, and cooled his brow in the close shades of the ravine, when heated by exertions in the more open grounds. In short, the spot was one of the most eligible for concealment, coolness, and pure water, within several miles of Castle Meal. The trees formed a spacious grove around it, and, by means of the banks, their summits and leaves answered the purpose of a perfect screen to those who might descend into the ravine, or, it would be better to say, to the bottom. Le Bourdon was no sooner satisfied that his mastiff was proceeding toward the great spring which formed the rivulet at the head of the ravine mentioned, than he suspected Indians might be there. He had seen signs about the spot, which wore an appearance of its having been used as a place of encampment—or for “camping out,” as it is termed in the language of the west—and, coupling the sound of the horn with the dog's movements, his quick apprehension seized on the facts as affording reasonable grounds of distrust. Consequently he resorted to great caution, as he and the corporal entered the wood which surrounded the spring, and the small oval bit of bottom that lay spread before it, like a little lawn. Hive was kept close at his master's side, though he manifested a marked impatience to advance. “Now, corporal,” said the bee-hunter in a low tone, “I think we have lined some savages to their holes. We will go round the basin and descend to the bottom, in a close wood which grows there. Did you see that?”
“I suppose I did,” answered the corporal, who was as firm as a rock. “You meant to ask me if I saw fire?”
“I did. The red men have lighted their council fire in this spot, and have met to talk around it. Well, let 'em hearken to each other's thoughts, if they will; we shall be neither the better nor the worse for it.”
“I don't know that. When the commander-in-chief calls together his principal officers, something usually comes of it. Who knows but this very council is called in order to take opinions on the subject of besieging or of storming our new garrison? Prudent soldiers should always be ready for the worst.”
“I have no fear, so long as Peter is with us. That chief is listened to by every red-skin; and while we have him among us there will be little to care for. But we are getting near to the bottom and must work our way through these bushes with as little noise as possible. I will keep the dog quiet.”
The manner in which that sagacious animal now behaved was truly wonderful. Hive appeared to be quite as much aware of the necessity of extreme caution as either of the men, and did not once attempt to precede his master his own length. On one or two occasions he actually discovered the best passages, and led his companions through them with something like the intelligence of a human being. Neither growl nor bark escaped him; on the contrary, even the hacking breathing of an impatient dog was suppressed, precisely as if the animal knew how near he was getting to the most watchful ears in the world.
After using the greatest care, the bee-hunter and the corporal got just such a station as they desired. It was within a very few feet of the edge of the cover, but perfectly concealed, while small openings enabled them to see all that was passing in their front. A fallen tree, a relic of somewhat rare occurrence in the openings of Michigan, even furnished them with a seat, while it rendered their position less exposed. Hive placed himself at his master's side, apparently trusting to other senses than that of sight for his information, since he could see nothing of what was going on in front.
As soon as the two men had taken their stations, and began to look about them, a feeling of awe mingled with their curiosity. Truly, the scene was one so very remarkable and imposing that it might have filled more intellectual and better fortified minds with some such sensation. The fire was by no means large, nor was it particularly bright; but sufficient to cast a dim light on the objects within reach of its rays. It was in the precise centre of a bit of bottom land of about half an acre in extent, which was so formed and surrounded, as to have something of the appearance of the arena of a large amphitheatre. There was one break in the encircling rise of ground, it is true, and that was at a spot directly opposite the station of le Bourdon and his companion, where the rill which flowed from the spring found a passage out toward the more open ground. Branches shaded most of the mound, but the arena itself was totally free from all vegetation but that which covered the dense and beautiful sward with which it was carpeted. Such is a brief description of the natural accessories of this remarkable scene.
But it was from the human actors, and their aspects, occupations, movements, dress, and appearance generally, that the awe which came over both the bee-hunter and the corporal had its origin. Of these, near fifty were present, offering a startling force by their numbers alone. Each man was a warrior, and each warrior was in his paint. These were facts that the familiarity of the two white men with Indian customs rendered only too certain. What was still more striking was the fact that all present appeared to be chiefs; a circumstance which went to show that an imposing body of red men was most likely somewhere in the openings, and that too at no great distance. It was while observing and reflecting on all these things, a suspicion first crossed the mind of le Bourdon that this great council was about to be held, at that midnight hour, and so near his own abode, for the purpose of accommodating Peter, whose appearance in the dark crowd, from that instant, he began to expect.
The Indians already present were not seated. They stood in groups conversing, or stalked across the arena, resembling so many dark and stately spectres. No sound was heard among them, a circumstance that added largely to the wild and supernatural aspect of the scene. If any spoke, it was in a tone so low and gentle, as to carry the sound no farther than to the ears that were listening; two never spoke at the same time and in the same group, while the moccasin permitted no footfall to be audible. Nothing could have been more unearthly than the picture presented in that little, wood-circled arena, of velvet-like grass and rural beauty. The erect, stalking forms, half naked, if not even more; the swarthy skins; the faces fierce in the savage conceits which were intended to strike terror into the bosoms of enemies, and the glittering eyes that fairly sparkled in their midst, all contributed to the character of the scene, which le Bourdon rightly enough imagined was altogether much the most remarkable of any he had ever been in the way of witnessing.
Our two spectators might have been seated on the fallen tree half an hour, all of which time they had been gazing at what was passing before their eyes; with positively not a human sound to relieve the unearthly nature of the picture. No one spoke, coughed, laughed, or exclaimed, in all that period. Suddenly, every chief stood still, and all the faces turned in the same direction. It was toward the little gateway of the rill, which being the side of the arena most remote from the bee-hunter and the corporal, lay nearly in darkness as respected them. With the red men it must have been different, for THEY all appeared to be in intent expectation of some one from that quarter. Nor did they have to wait long; for, in half a minute, two forms came out of the obscurity, advancing with a dignified and deliberate tread to the centre of the arena. As these newcomers got more within the influence of the flickering light, le Bourdon saw that they were Peter and Parson Amen. The first led, with a slow, imposing manner, while the other followed, not a little bewildered with what he saw. It may be as well to explain here, that the Indian was coming alone to this place of meeting, when he encountered the missionary wandering among the oaks, looking for le Bourdon and the corporal, and, instead of endeavoring to throw off this unexpected companion, he quietly invited him to be of his own party.
It was evident to le Bourdon, at a glance, that Peter was expected, though it was not quite so clear that such was the fact as regarded his companion. Still, respect for the great chief prevented any manifestations of surprise or discontent, and the medicine-man of the pale-faces was received with as grave a courtesy as if he had been an invited guest. Just as the two had entered the dark circle that formed around them, a young chief threw some dry sticks on the fire, which blazing upward, cast a stronger light on a row of as terrifically looking countenances as ever gleamed on human forms. This sudden illumination, with its accompanying accessories, had the effect to startle all the white spectators, though Peter looked on the whole with a calm like that of the leafless tree, when the cold is at its height, and the currents of the wintry air are death-like still Nothing appeared to move HIM, whether expected or not; though use had probably accustomed his eye to all the aspects in which savage ingenuity could offer savage forms. He even smiled, as he made a gesture of recognition, which seemed to salute the whole group. It was just then, when the fire burned brightest, and when the chiefs pressed most within its influence, that le Bourdon perceived that his old acquaintances, the head-men of the Pottawattamies, were present, among the other chiefs so strangely and portentously assembled in these grounds, which he had so long possessed almost entirely to himself.
A few of the oldest of the chiefs now approached Peter, and a low conversation took place between them. What was said did not reach le Bourdon, of course; for it was not even heard in the dark circle of savages who surrounded the fire. The effect of this secret dialogue, however, was to cause all the chiefs to be seated, each taking his place on the grass; the whole preserving the original circle around the fire. Fortunately, for the wishes of le Bourdon, Peter and his companions took their stations directly opposite to his own seat, thus enabling him to watch every lineament of that remarkable chief's still more remarkable countenance. Unlike each and all of the red men around him, the face of Peter was not painted, except by the tints imparted by nature; which, in his case, was that of copper a little tarnished, or rendered dull by the action of the atmosphere. The bee-hunter could distinctly trace every lineament; nor was the dark roving eye beyond the reach of his own vision. Some attention was given to the fire, too, one of the younger chiefs occasionally throwing on it a few dried sticks, more to keep alive the flame, and to renew the light, than from any need of warmth. One other purpose, however, this fire DID answer; that of enabling the young chiefs to light the pipes that were now prepared; it seldom occurring that the chiefs thus assembled without SMOKING around their council-fire.
As this smoking was just then more a matter of ceremony than for any other purpose, a whiff or two suffices for each chief; the smoker passing the pipe to his neighbor as soon as he had inhaled a few puffs. The Indians are models of propriety, in their happiest moods, and every one in that dark and menacing circle was permitted to have his turn with the pipe, before any other step was taken. There were but two pipes lighted, and mouths being numerous, some time was necessary in order to complete this ceremony. Still, no sign of impatience was seen, the lowest chief having as much respect paid to his feelings, as related to his attention, as the highest. At length the pipes completed their circuit, even Parson Amen getting, and using, his turn, when a dead pause succeeded. The silence resembled that of a Quaker meeting, and was broken only by the rising of one of the principal chiefs, evidently about to speak. The language of the great Ojebway nation was used on this occasion, most of the chiefs present belonging to some one of the tribes of that stock, though several spoke other tongues, English and French included. Of the three whites present, Parson Amen alone fully comprehended all that was said, he having qualified himself in this respect, to preach to the tribes of that people; though le Bourdon understood nearly all, and even the corporal comprehended a good deal. The name of the chief who first spoke at this secret meeting, which was afterward known among the Ojebways by the name of the “Council of the Bottom Land, near to the spring of gushing water,” was Bear's Meat, an appellation that might denote a distinguished hunter, rather than an orator of much renown.
“Brothers of the many tribes of the Ojebways,” commenced this personage, “the Great Spirit has permitted us to meet in council. The Manitou of our fathers is now among these oaks, listening to our words, and looking in at our hearts. Wise Indians will be careful what they say in such a presence, and careful of what they think. All should be said and thought for the best. We are a scattered nation, and the time is come when we must stop in our tracks, or travel beyond the sound of each other's cries. If we travel beyond the hearing of our people, soon will our children learn tongues that Ojebway ears cannot understand. The mother talks to her child, and the child learns her words. But no child can hear across a great lake. Once we lived near the rising sun. Where are we now? Some of our young men say they have seen the sun go down in the lakes of sweet water. There can be no hunting-grounds beyond THAT spot; and if we would live, we must stand still in our tracks. How to do this, we have met to consider.
“Brothers, many wise chiefs and braves are seated at this council-fire. It is pleasant to my eyes to look upon them. Ottawas, Chippeways, Pottawattamies, Menominees, Hurons, and all. Our father at Quebec has dug up the hatchet against the Yankees. The war-path is open between Detroit and all the villages of the red men. The prophets are speaking to our people, and we listen. One is here; he is about to speak. The council will have but a single sense, which will be that of hearing.”
Thus concluding, Bear's Meat took his seat, in the same composed and dignified manner as that in which he had risen, and deep silence succeeded. So profound was the stillness, that, taken in connection with the dark lineaments, the lustrous eyeballs that threw back the light of the fire, the terrific paint and the armed hands of every warrior present, the picture might be described as imposing to a degree that is seldom seen in the assemblies of the civilized. In the midst of this general but portentous calm, Peter arose. The breathing of the circle grew deeper, so much so as to be audible, the only manner in which the intensity of the common expectation betrayed itself. Peter was an experienced orator, and knew how to turn every minutiae of his art to good account. His every movement was deliberate, his attitude highly dignified—even his eye seemed eloquent.
Oratory! what a power art thou, wielded, as is so often the case, as much for evil as for good. The very reasoning that might appear to be obtuse, or which would be over looked entirely when written and published, issuing from the mouth, aided by the feelings of sympathy and the impulses of the masses, seems to partake of the wisdom of divinity. Thus is it, also, with the passions, the sense of wrong, the appeals to vengeance, and all the other avenues of human emotion. Let them be addressed to the cold eye of reason and judgment, in the form of written statements, and the mind pauses to weigh the force of arguments, the justice of the appeals, the truth of facts: but let them come upon the ear aided by thy art, with a power concentrated by sympathy, and the torrent is often less destructive in its course, than that of the whirlwind that thou canst awaken!
“Chiefs of the great Ojebway nation, I wish you well,” said Peter, stretching out his arms toward the circle, as if desirous of embracing all present. “The Manitou has been good to me. He has cleared a path to this spring, and to this council-fire. I see around it the faces of many friends. Why should we not all be friendly? Why should a red man ever strike a blow against a red man? The Great Spirit made us of the same color, and placed us on the same hunting-grounds. He meant that we should hunt in company; not take each other's scalps. How many warriors have fallen in our family wars? Who has counted them? Who can say? Perhaps enough, had they not been killed, to drive the pale-faces into the sea!”
Here Peter, who as yet had spoken only in a low and barely audible voice, suddenly paused, in order to allow the idea he had just thrown out to work on the minds of his listeners. That it was producing its effect was apparent by the manner in which one stern face turned toward another, and eye seemed to search in eye some response to a query that the mind suggested, though no utterance was given to it with the tongue. As soon, however, as the orator thought time sufficient to impress that thought on the memories of the listeners had elapsed, he resumed, suffering his voice gradually to increase in volume, as he warmed with his subject.
“Yes,” he continued, “the Manitou has been very kind. Who is the Manitou? Has any Indian ever seen him? Every Indian has seen him. No one can look on the hunting-grounds, on the lakes, on the prairies, on the trees, on the game, without seeing his hand. His face is to be seen in the sun at noonday; his eyes in the stars at night. Has any Indian ever heard the Manitou? When it thunders, he speaks. When the crash is loudest, then he scolds. Some Indian has done wrong. Perhaps one red man has taken another red man's scalp!”
Another pause succeeded, briefer, and less imposing than the first, but one that sufficed to impress on the listeners anew, the great evil of an Indian's raising his hand against an Indian.
“Yes, there is no one so deaf as not to hear the voice of the Great Spirit when he is angry,” resumed Peter. “Ten thousands of buffalo bulls, roaring together, do not make as much noise as his whisper. Spread the prairies, and the openings, and the lakes, before him, and he can be heard in all, and on all, at the same time.
“Here is a medicine-priest of the pale-faces; he tells me that the voice of the Manitou reaches into the largest villages of his people, beneath the rising sun, when it is heard by the red man across the great lakes, and near the rocks of the setting sun. It is a loud voice; woe to him who does not remember it. It speaks to all colors, and to every people, and tribe, and nation.
“Brothers, that is a lying tradition which says, there is one Manitou for a Sac, and another for the Ojebway—one Manitou for the red man, and another for the pale-face. In this, we are alike. One Great Spirit made all; governs all; rewards all; punishes all. He may keep the happy hunting-grounds of an Indian separate from the white man's heaven, for he knows that their customs are different, and what would please a warrior would displease a trader; and what would please a trader would displease a warrior. He has thought of these things, and has made several places for the spirits of the good, let their colors be what they may. Is it the same with the places of the spirits of the bad? I think not. To me it would seem best to let THEM go together, that they may torment one another. A wicked Indian and a wicked pale-face would make a bad neighborhood. I think the Manitou will let THEM go together.
“Brothers, if the Manitou keeps the good Indian and the good pale-face apart in another world, what has brought them together in this? If he brings the bad spirits of all colors together in another world, why should they come together here, before their time? A place for wicked spirits should not be found on earth. This is wrong; it must be looked into.
“Brothers, I have now done; this pale-face wishes to speak, and I have said that you would hear his words. When he has spoken his mind, I may have more to tell you. Now, listen to the stranger. He is a medicine-priest of the white men, and says he has a great secret to tell our people—when he has told it, I have another for their ears too. Mine must be spoken when there is no one near but the children of red clay.”
Having thus opened the way for the missionary, Peter courteously took his seat, producing a little disappointment among his own admirers, though he awakened a lively curiosity to know what this medicine-priest might have to say on an occasion so portentous. The Indians in the regions of the great lakes had long been accustomed to missionaries, and it is probable that even some of their own traditions, so far as they related to religious topics, had been insensibly colored by, if not absolutely derived from, men of this character; for the first whites who are known to have penetrated into that portion of the continent were Jesuits, who carried the cross as their standard and emblem of peace. Blessed emblem! that any should so confound their own names and denunciatory practices with the revealed truth, as to imagine that a standard so appropriate should ever be out of season and place, when it is proper for man to use aught, at all, that is addressed to his senses, in the way of symbols, rites, and ceremonies! To the Jesuits succeeded the less ceremonious and less imposing priesthood of America, as America peculiarly was in the first years that followed the Revolution. There is reason to believe that the spirit of God, in a greater or less degree, accompanied all; for all were self-denying and zealous, though the fruits of near two centuries of labor have, as yet, amounted to little more than the promise of the harvest at some distant day. Enough, however, was known of the missionaries, and their views in general, to prepare the council, in some small degree, for the forthcoming exhibition.
Parson Amen had caught some of the habits of the Indians, in the course of years of communication and intercourse. Like them he had learned to be deliberate, calm, and dignified in his exterior; and, like them, he had acquired a sententious mode of speaking.
“My children,” he said, for he deemed it best to assume the parental character, in a scene of so great moment, “as Peter has told you, the spirit of God is among you! Christians know that such has he promised to be always with his people, and I see faces in this circle that I am ready to claim as belonging to those who have prayed with me, in days that are long past. If your souls are not touched by divine love, it does not kill the hope I entertain of your yet taking up the cross, and calling upon the Redeemer's name. But, not for this have I come with Peter, this night. I am now here to lay before you an all-important fact, that Providence has revealed to me, as the fruit of long labor in the vineyard of study and biblical inquiry. It is a tradition—and red men love traditions—it is a tradition that touches your own history, and which it will gladden your hearts to hear, for it will teach you how much your nation and tribes have been the subject of the especial care and love of the Great Spirit. When my children say, speak, I shall be ready to speak.”
Here the missionary took his seat, wisely awaiting a demonstration on the part of the council, ere he ventured to proceed any further. This was the first occasion on which he had ever attempted to broach, in a direct form, his favorite theory of the “lost tribes.” Let a man get once fairly possessed of any peculiar notion, whether it be on religion, political economy, morals, politics, arts, or anything else, and he sees little beside his beloved principle, which he is at all times ready to advance, defend, demonstrate, or expatiate on. Nothing can be simpler than the two great dogmas of Christianity, which are so plain that all can both comprehend them and feel their truth. They teach us to love God, the surest way to obey him, and to love our neighbor as ourselves. Any one can understand this; all can see how just it is, and how much of moral sublimity it contains. It is Godlike, and brings us near the very essence of the Divinity, which is love, mercy, and truth. Yet how few are content to accept the teachings of the Saviour in this respect, without embarrassing them with theories that have so much of their origin in human fancies. We do not mean by this, however, that Parson Amen was so very wrong in bestowing a part of his attention on that wonderful people, who, so early set apart by the Creator as the creatures of his own especial ends, have already played so great a part in the history of nations, and who are designed, so far as we can penetrate revelation, yet to enact their share in the sublime drama of human events.
As for the council, its members were moved by more than ordinary curiosity to hear what further the missionary might have to say, though all present succeeded admirably in suppressing the exhibition of any interest that might seem weak and womanly. After a decent delay, therefore, Bear's Meat intimated to the parson that it would be agreeable to the chiefs present to listen to him further.
“My children, I have a great tradition to tell you,” the missionary resumed, as soon as on his feet again; “a very great and divine tradition; not a tradition of man's, but one that came direct from the Manitou himself. Peter has spoken truth; there is but one Great Spirit; he is the Great Spirit of all colors, and tribes, and nations. He made all men of the same clay.” Here a slight sensation was perceptible among the audience, most of whom were very decidedly of a different opinion, on this point of natural history. But the missionary was now so far warmed with his subject as to disregard any slight interruption, and proceeded as if his listeners had betrayed no feeling. “And he divided them afterward into nations and tribes. It was then he caused the color of his creatures to change. Some he kept white, as he had made them. Some he put behind a dark cloud, and they became altogether black. Our wise men think that this was done in punishment for their sins. Some he painted red, like the nations on this continent.” Here Peter raised a finger, in sign that he would ask a question; for, without permission granted, no Indian would interrupt the speaker. Indeed, no one of less claims than Peter would hardly have presumed to take the step he now did, and that because he saw a burning curiosity gleaming in the bright eyes of so many in the dark circle.
“Say on, Peter,” answered the missionary to this sign; “I will reply.”
“Let my brother say WHY the Great Spirit turned the Indian to a red color. Was he angry with him? or did he paint him so out of love?”
“This is more than I can tell you, friends. There are many colors among men, in different parts of the world, and many shades among people of the same color. There are pale-faces fair as the lily, and there are pale-faces so dark, as scarcely to be distinguished from blacks. The sun does much of this; but no sun, nor want of sun, will ever make a pale-face a red-skin, or a red skin a pale-face.”
“Good—that is what we Indians say. The Manitou has made us different; he did not mean that we should live on the same hunting-grounds,” rejoined Peter, who rarely failed to improve every opportunity in order to impress on the minds of his followers the necessity of now crushing the serpent in its shell.
“No man can say that,” answered Parson Amen. “Unless my people had come to this continent, the word of God could not have been preached by me, along the shores of these lakes. But I will now speak of our great tradition. The Great Spirit divided mankind into nations and tribes. When this was done, he picked out one for his chosen people. The pale-faces call that favorite, and for a long time much-favored people, Jews. The Manitou led them through a wilderness, and even through a salt lake, until they reached a promised land, where he permitted them to live for many hundred winters. A great triumph was to come out of that people—the triumphs of truth and of the law, over sin and death. In the course of time—”
Here a young chief rose, made a sign of caution, and crossing the circle rapidly, disappeared by the passage through which the rill flowed. In about a minute he returned, showing the way into the centre of the council to one whom all present immediately recognized as a runner, by his dress and equipments. Important news was at hand; yet not a man of all that crowd either rose or spoke, in impatience to learn what it was!