The morning of the following day broke fresh and beautiful. A bright clearness was in the sky--a brisk elasticity in the air--that had not been seen or felt for weeks. Everything looked sparkling, and sharp, and distinct. Distances were diminished; woods and hills, which had looked dim, seemed near and definite; and the whole world appeared in harmony with energy and effort. The heavy rains of the preceding morning had cleared the overcharged atmosphere, as tears will sometimes relieve the loaded breast; and when Lord H---- and Mr. Prevost mounted their horses to set out, it seemed as if the invigorating air had restored to the latter the firmness and courage of which the grief and horror of the preceding day had deprived him.
Edith embraced her father, and gave her cheek to the warm touch of her lover's lips; and then she watched them as they rode away, till the wood shut them out from her sight.
The soldiers were by this time installed in the part of the house destined for them; and some of the negroes were busy in preparing for their accommodation; but old Agrippa, and the gardener's boy, and a woman-servant, stood near, watching their master and his guest as they departed.
As soon as the little party was out of sight, however, Edith turned to Agrippa, and said,--
"Send Chando to me in the parlour; I wish to speak with him."
When the man appeared, she gazed at him earnestly, saying,--
"How far is it to Oneida Creek, Chando? Have you ever been there?"
"Ah, yes, missa, often, when I was a little boy. Why, you know, my fadder run away and live with Ingins long time, 'cause he had bad master. But Ingins cut him and thump him more nor worst massa in de world, and so he come back again. How far be it? Oh, long way; twice so far as Johnson Castle, or more--oh yes, tree time so far."
Edith knew how vague a negro's ideas of distance are, and she then put her question in a form which would get her a more distinct answer.
"Bethink you, Chando," she said, "how long it would take me to reach the lake--how long it would take any one. Consider it well, and let me know."
"You, missy, you!" cried the negro, in great astonishment; "younever think of going there?"
"I don't know, Chando," she replied: "it might be needful; and I wish to know how long it would take."
"Dat 'pend upon how you go, missy," returned the man. "Ride so far as Johnson Castle; but can't ride no farder. Den walk as I walk? You never do dat; and, if you do, take you five day, and walk hard too."
Poor Edith's heart sank.
"Otaitsa walks," she said, in a desponding tone; "but, it is true, she can do much that I cannot do."
"Shewalk! Oh dee no, missy," replied the negro; "she walk little bit o' way from what dey call Wood Creek, or from de Mohawk. She walk no farder. All de rest she go in canoe, sometimes on Mohawk, sometimes on lake, sometimes on creek. She come here once in tree day. I hear old Grey Buzzard, de pipe-bearer, say dat, time when de Sachem came wid his warriors."
"And can I do the same?" asked Edith, eagerly.
"Sure you can, if you get canoe," answered Chando; "but oh, missy, tink ob de Ingins. Dey kidnap Massa Walter--dey kill you too."
"There is no fear, Chando," replied Edith. "Even my father owns that I could safely go from one lodge to another through the whole land of the Five Nations, because Black Eagle has put his blanket round me, and made me his daughter."
"Massa know best," said Chando; "but, if so, why dey kidnap Massa Walter?"
"Black Eagle refused to make him his son, or my father his brother," said Edith, with the tears rising in her eyes. "But the truth, Chando, is, that I go to try if I can save poor Walter's life--I go to tell the Blossom that they holdmyWalter,herWalter, a prisoner, and see whether we cannot find means to rescue him."
"I see--I see, missy," said the man, gravely; and then, after pausing for a moment, he asked, abruptly, "I go with you?"
"Some one I must have to show me the way," replied Edith. "Are you afraid, Chando?"
"Afraid!" cried the man, bursting into a fit of joyous laughter. "Oh, no, not afraid: Ingins no hurt nigger--kick him, cuff him, no scalp him, cause nigger got no scalp-lock. Ha, ha, ha! I go help save Massa Walter. He never hab no good ting, but he give Chando some. Oh, I manage all for you. We find plenty canoe--Mohawk canoe--Oneida canoe--if we say you Black Eagle's daughter going to see you sister Otaitsa. When you go, missy?"
"Very soon, Chando," replied Edith.
She then proceeded to explain to him her plan still further. She said that she wished to set out that very day, and as soon as possible, in order first to communicate the tidings of Walter's capture to Otaitsa without delay, and secondly to save her father as many hours of anxiety as possible. She did not absolutely tell the man that she had not informed her father of her intention; but he divined it well.
Nevertheless, when he heard somewhat more at large the conduct of Black Eagle towards her on the night of poor Walter's capture, he was quite satisfied of her safety, as far as the Indians were concerned. He urged her, however, to go, in the first place, to Johnson Castle, where she could procure a canoe, or even abateau, he felt certain; and it was long before he comprehended her objection to that course. At length, however, his usual "I see--I see," showed that he had caught a light; and then he was soon ready with his resources.
"Den we walk to de nearest end of little pond--only tree mile," he said; "fishing canoe all ready. Next we go down little pond, and de creek, into lake; keep by nort side, and den walk to Mohawk, tree mile more. I carry canoe cross on my back. Den, Ingin or no Ingin, we get along. If missy like to take oder nigger too, we get on very fast, and he carry bundle."
"I must have one of the women with me," said Edith, in a thoughtful tone; "but which?"
The negro's countenance fell a little. He was very proud of the confidence placed in him, and he did not like to share it with a white woman. His tone, then, was rather dejected, though submissive, when he asked,--
"Do missy take white woman Sally wid her? Sally no walk--Sally no run--Sally no paddle, when Chando is tired."
"No," replied Edith, at once. "I can take no white person with me, Chando, for it would risk her life; and, even to save my poor brother, I must not lure another into such peril. One of your colour, Chando, they will not hurt; for it is a white man's blood they will have for a white man's act."
"Then take Sister Bab!" cried Chando, rubbing his hands, with the peculiar low negro chuckle. "Sister Bab walk, run, carry bundle, and twirl paddle wid anybody."
Now, Bab was a stout negro woman of about forty years of age, with a pleasant countenance, and very fine white teeth, who rejoiced in the cognomen of sister, though, to the best of Edith's knowledge, she was sister to no one in the house, at least. Her usual occupations were in the farmyard, the dairy, and the pigsty; so that Edith had not seen very much of her. But all that she had seen was pleasant; for Sister Bab seemed continually on the watch to do everything for everybody, receiving all orders even from "Massa Walter," who was sometimes a little inconsiderate, with a broad, good-humoured grin. Her constant activity and indefatigable energy promised well for an undertaking such as that in which Edith was engaged.
"Well, Chando," said the young lady, "I do not know that I could make a better choice. Send Sister Bab to me; for where dangers such as these are to be encountered, I will not take any woman without her own free consent."
"Oh, she go; I talk wid her," said Chando; "you nebber trouble yourself, missy. She go to world's end wid Miss Edith, and fight like debbel, if dere be need. I nebber saw woman so good at catching fish; she'll hook 'em out like cabbages."
"That also may be useful to us," said Edith, with a faint smile. "But send her to me, Chando; I must speak with her before we go."
The good woman, when she came, made not the slightest objection; but, on the contrary, looked upon the expedition as something very amusing, which would give her relief from the tedium of her daily labours, and at the same time afford full occupation for her active spirit. She was as ready with suggestions as Chando; told Edith everything she had best take with her; detailed all her own proposed preparations, and even begged for a rifle, declaring that she was as good a shot as "Massa Walter," and had often fired his gun when he had brought it home undischarged.
Edith declined, however, to have a rifle-woman in her train; and having told her two chosen attendants that she would be ready in an hour, retired to make her preparations, and write a few lines to her father and her lover, to account for her absence when they returned. Both letters were brief; but we will only look at that which she left for Mr. Prevost.
"My dear father," she wrote, "I am half afraid I am doing wrong in taking the step I am about to take, without your knowledge or approbation; but I cannot sit still and do nothing, while all are exerting themselves to save my dear brother. I feel that it is absolutely necessary to any hope of his safety, that Otaitsa should be informed immediately of his situation.
"It may be months before any Indian runner is found, and meanwhile my poor brother's fate may be sealed. Were it to cost my life, I should think myself bound to go; but I am the only one who can go in perfect safety, for, while promising his protection to me, and insuring me against all danger, the Black Eagle refused to give any assurance in regard to others. You have yourself acknowledged, my dear father, that I shall be perfectly safe; and I have also the advantage of speaking the Indian language well. In these circumstances, would it not be wrong--would it not be criminal--in me to remain here idle, when I have even a chance of saving my poor brother? Forgive me, then, if I do wrong, on account of the motives which lead me.
"My course is straight to the Mohawk, by the little pond and the lake, and then up the Mohawk and Wood Creek, as far as they will carry me; for, wishing to save myself as much fatigue as possible, I shall venture to take the canoe from the pond.
"I have asked Chando and Sister Bab to accompany me, as I know you would wish me to have protection and assistance on the way, in case of any difficulty. I hope to be back in six days at the furthest; and, if possible, I will send a runner to inform you of my safe arrival amongst the Oneidas.
"Once more, my dear father, think of the great object I have in view, and forgive your affectionate daughter."
When her letters were written, Edith dressed herself in a full Indian costume, which had been given her by Otaitsa; and a beautiful Indian maiden she looked, though the skin was somewhat too fair, and the hair wanted the jetty black. In the Indian pouch, or wallet, she placed some articles of European convenience, and a hunter's large knife. Then making up a small package of clothes for Sister Bab to carry, she descended to the lower story.
Here, however, she met with some impediments which she had not expected. The news of her proposed expedition had spread through the whole household, and caused almost an open revolt. The white women were in tears; old Agrippa was clamorous; and the fat black cook declared loudly that Miss Edith was mad and should not go. So far, indeed, did she carry her opposition, that the young lady was obliged to assume a stern and severe tone, which was seldom heard in Edith's voice, and command her to retire at once from her presence. The poor woman was instantly overawed, for her courage was not very permanent, and, bursting into tears, she left the room, declaring she was sure she should never see Miss Edith again.
Edith then gave all the keys of the house to old Agrippa, with the two letters which she had written. Chando took up the bag of provisions which he had prepared; Sister Bab charged herself with the packet of clothes, and Edith, walking between them, turned away from her father's house, amidst the tears of the white women, and a vociferous burst of grief from the negroes.
Her own heart sank for a moment, and she asked herself,--
"Shall I ever pass that threshold again? Shall I ever be pressed hereafter in the arms of those I so much love?"
But she banished such feelings, and drove away such thoughts; and murmuring,--
"My brother--my poor brother!" she walked on.
Leaving Edith to pursue her way towards the Oneida territory, and Mr. Prevost, after parting with Lord H---- at the distance of two miles from his own house, to ride on to Johnson Castle, let us follow the nobleman to Albany, where he arrived somewhat after nightfall. His first duty, as he conceived it, led him to the quarters of the commander-in-chief, where he made a brief but clear report of all that had occurred in his transactions with the Indians.
"I found," he wrote, "from information communicated by Sir William Johnson, that there was no need of any concealment; but, on the contrary, that it would be rather advantageous to appear at the meeting with the Five Nations in my proper character. The results were what I have told you. There is one other point, however, which I think it necessary to mention, and which, if imprudently treated, might lead to serious results."
He then went on to state generally the facts in regard to the death of the Indian by the hands of Woodchuck, and the supposed capture of Walter Prevost by a party of the Oneidas.
It would be uninteresting to the reader to hear the particulars of the conversation which followed. Suffice it to say that the government of the colony, in all its departments, was very well disposed to inactivity at that time, and not at all inclined to exert itself for the protection of individuals, or even of greater interests, unless strongly pressed to do so. This Lord H---- was not at all inclined to do, as he was well aware, from all he had heard, that no action on the part of the government, short of the sudden march of a large body of troops, could effect the liberation of Walter Prevost, and that to expect such a movement, which itself might be unsuccessful, was quite out of the question with the officers who were in command at the time.
His conference with the commander-in-chief being ended, he declined an invitation to supper, and went out on his search for the small inn, where he had been told he would find the man whose act, however justifiable, had brought so much wretchedness upon Mr. Prevost's family.
The city of Albany in those days (as we have reason to know from very good authority), though not numbering, by many thousands, as large a population as it now contains, occupied a space nearly as large as the present city. One long street ran by the bank of the river, to the very verge of which beautiful and well-cultivated gardens extended; and from the top of the hill down to this lower street ran another, very nearly, if not exactly, of the same position and extent as the present State Street. On the summit of the hill was the fort; and, built in the centre of the large descending street, which swept round them on either side, were two or three churches, a handsome market-place, and a guard-house. A few other streets ran down the hill in a parallel line with this principal one; and some small streets, lanes, and alleys, connected them all together.
Nevertheless, the population, as I have said, was, comparatively, very small; for, between house and house and street and street, throughout the whole town, were large and beautiful gardens, filling up spaces now occupied by buildings, and thronged with human beings.
A great part of the population was, at that time, Dutch; and all the neatness and cleanliness of true Dutch houses and Dutch streets were to be seen in Albany in those days--would we could say as much at present! No pigs then ran in the streets, to the horror of the eye and the annoyance of the passenger; no cabbage-leaves or stalks disgraced the gutter; and the only place in which anything like filth or uncleanliness was to be seen, was at the extremity of the littoral street, where naturally the houses of the boatmen and others connected with the shipping were placed, for the sake of approximating to the water. Here certainly some degree of filth existed; and the air was perfumed with a high savour of tar and tobacco.
It was towards this part of the town that Lord H---- directed his course, inquiring for the inn called "The Three Boatmen." Several times, however, was he frustrated, in his attempt to obtain information, by the ignorance of the English language shown by a great portion of the inhabitants; and the pipe was removed from the mouth only to reply, in Dutch, "I do not understand."
At length, however, he was directed aright, and found a small and somewhat mean-looking house, in which an adventurous Englishman, from the purlieus of Clare-market, had established a tavern for the benefit of boatmen. It had, in former times, belonged to a Dutch settler, and still retained many of the characteristic features of its origin. Four trees stood in line before the doors, with benches underneath them, for the convenience of those who liked to sit and poison the sweet air of the summer evenings with the fumes of tobacco.
Entering through a swing-door into the narrow, sandy passage, which descended one step from the street, Lord H---- encountered a negro tapster with a white apron, of whom he inquired if Captain Brooks were still there.
"Oh yes, massa officer," said the man, with a grin. "You mean Massa Woodchuck," he continued, showing that the good man's Indian nick-name was very extensively known. "You find him in dere, in de coffee-room." And he pointed to a door, once white, now yellow and brown with smoke, age, and dirty fingers.
Lord H---- opened the door, and went in amongst as strange and unprepossessing an assemblage of human beings as it had ever been his chance to light upon. The air was rendered obscure by smoke, so that the candles looked dim and red, and it was literally difficult to distinguish the objects round. What the odour was, it is impossible to say, for it was as complicated as the antidote of Mithridates; but the predominant smells were certainly those of tobacco, beer, rum, and Hollands gin. Some ten or twelve little tables of exceedingly highly-polished mahogany, but stained here and there by the contaminating marks of wet glasses, divided the room amongst them, leaving just space between each two to place a couple of chairs back to back.
In this small den, not less than five or six and twenty persons were congregated, almost all drinking, almost all smoking, some talking very loud, some sitting in profound silence, as the quantity of liquor imbibed, or the national characteristics of the individual, might prompt.
Gazing through the haze upon this scene, which, besides the sturdy and coarse, but active, Englishman, and the heavy, phlegmatic Dutchman, contained one or two voluble Frenchmen, deserters from the Canadas, and none of them showing themselves in a very favourable light, Lord H---- could not help comparing the people before him with the free wild Indians he had lately left, and asking himself "Which are the savages?"
At length, his eye fell upon a man sitting at a table in the corner of the room next to the window. He was quite alone, with his back turned to the rest of the men in the place, his head leaning on his hand, and a short pipe laid down upon the table beside him. He had no light before him as most of the others had, and he might have seemed asleep, so still was his whole figure, had it not been that the fingers of his right hand, which rested on the table, beat time to an imaginary tune.
Approaching close to him, Lord H---- drew a seat to the table, and laid a hand upon his arm. Woodchuck looked round, and a momentary expression of pleasure, slight and passing away rapidly, crossed his rugged features.
The next moment, his face was all cold and stern again.
"Very kind of you to come and see me, my lord," he said, in a dull, sad tone. "What do you want with me? Have you got anything for me to do?"
"I am sorry to see you looking so melancholy, captain," said Lord H----, evading his question. "I hope nothing else has gone amiss."
"Haven't I cause enough to be melancholy," said the other, looking round at the people in the room, "cooped up with a penful of swine? Come out--come out to the door. It's cold enough there; but the coldest wind that ever blew is better than the filthy air of these pigs."
As he spoke, he rose; and a little, pert-looking Frenchman, who had overheard him, exclaimed, in a bantering tone, "Why you call us pigs more nor yourself, de great hog?"
"Get out of my way, for fear I break your back," muttered Woodchuck, in a low, stern voice. "If your neck had been broken long ago, it would have been better for your country and for mine." And taking up the little Frenchman by the nape of the neck with one arm, he set him upon the table from the side of which he had just risen.
A roar of laughter burst from a number of the assembled guests; the little Frenchman spluttered his wrath, without daring to carry the expression of his indignation further; and Woodchuck strode quietly out of the room, followed by his military visitor.
"Here--let us sit down here," he said, placing himself on a bench under a leafless tree, and leaving room for Lord H---- by his side. "I am gloomy enough, my lord, and haven't I reason to be so? Here I am for life. This is to be my condition, with the swine that gather up in these pigsties of cities--suffocating in such dens as we have just left. I guess I shall drown myself some day, when I am druv quite mad. I know a man has no right to lay hands upon himself. I larnt my Bible when I was young, and know what's God's will; so I shan't do anything desperate so long as I am right here." And he laid his finger on his forehead. "No, no, I'll just take as much care of my life," he continued, "as though it were a baby I was nursing; but, unless them Ingians catch some other white man, and kill him--which God forbid--I've got to stop here for life; and even if they do, it's more nor a chance they'd kill me too, if they got me; and when I think of them beautiful woods, and the pleasant lakes, with the picture of everything round painted so beautiful on 'em, when they are still, and the streams that go dancing and splashing along over the big black stones and the little white pebbles, seeming for all the world to sing as if for pleasure at their freedom, and the open friendly air of the hill-side, and the clouds skimming along, and the birds glancing through the branches, and the squirrels skipping and chattering, as if they were mocking everything not so nimble as themselves, I do often believe I shall go crazed to think I shall never see those things again."
Lord H---- felt for him much; for he had a sufficient portion of love in his own heart for the wilder things of nature, to sympathize in some degree with one who loved them so earnestly.
"I trust, Woodchuck," he said, "that we shall be able to find some employment for you with the army--if not with my own corps, with some other, which may give you glimpses, at least, of the scenes you love so well, and of the unconfined life you have lived so long. But I have come to consult you upon a subject of much and immediate importance, and we must talk of that the first thing."
"What is it?" asked Brooks, in an indifferent tone, fixing his eyes upon the stones of the street, faintly lighted by the glare from within the house.
Lord H---- began his account of what had happened between the Mohawk and the Hudson, with some circumlocution; for he did not feel at all sure of the effect it would produce upon his companion's mind; and the Woodchuck seemed to fall into one of those deep reveries in which one may be said to hear without hearing. He took not the slightest notice of what his noble visitor said regarding the burning of the wood or the danger of Mr. Prevost and Edith. It seemed to produce no more distinct effect than would the wind whistling in his ears. He sat calm and silent without an observation; but he grew more attentive, though only in a slight degree, when the narrator came to mention the anxiety of the family at the protracted absence of Walter.
When, at last, Lord H---- described the finding of the knife and the knapsack, and told of the conclusions to which the whole family had come, he started up, exclaiming--"What's that--what's that?" Then, after a moment's pause, he sank down upon his seat again, saying, with a groan, "They have got him--they have got him, and they will tomahawk him--the bloody, barbarous critturs! Couldn't they have chosen some more worthless thing than that?"
Pressing his hand tightly upon his forehead, as if he fancied the turbulent thoughts within would burst it, he remained for a moment or two in silence, till Lord H---- asked if he imagined they would execute their bloody purposes speedily.
"No, no," cried the man; "no fear of that; they'll take time enough, that's the worst of the savages. It's no quick rage, no angry heat, with them; no word and a blow. It's cold, bitter, long-premeditated hatred. They wouldn't have half the pleasure if they didn't draw out their revenge by the week or the month. But what's to be done now? Gracious God! what's to be done now?"
"That is precisely what I came to consult you upon," said Lord H----. "But let us talk over the matter calmly, my good friend. This is a case where grief, anger, and indignation can do nothing; but where deliberate thought, reason, and policy, even cunning such as their own (for if we could arrive at it, we should be quite justified in using it), may, perhaps, do something to save this poor boy."
"How the devil would you have me calm?" exclaimed the man, vehemently; but then, suddenly checking himself, he said, "You're right--you're right! I am forgetting my old habits in these smoky holes. Thought, cunning, those are the only things to do with an Indian. It's tarnation hard to outwit him, but it may be done when one knows his tracks well. I can't get my brain to hold steady to-night. This story's upset all my thoughts; and I've got no consideration in me. You must give me a night and a day to think over the matter; and then I'll see what's to be done. By the Lord, Walter shan't die! Poor fellow! what shouldhedie for?--However, I guess it's no use talking in that sort of manner. I must think of what's to be done--that's the business in hand. I'll think as soon as I can, my lord; only you just tell me now all you have done, if you have done anything. As for Prevost, I don't suppose he's had time to do much; for though he is always right in the end, and no man's opinion is worth more, yet, if you touch his heart and his feelings, as you call them, his wits get all in a work, just like mine at this moment. More fool he, and I too!"
"We have done something," said Lord H----, in reply. "Mr. Prevost set out this morning to see Sir William Johnson."
"Heis no good," growled Woodchuck, impatiently.
"I came hither to consult with you," continued Lord H----; "and we have commissioned the boatman whom they call Robert, a tall, stout man----"
"I know him--I know him," interposed Woodchuck; "passably honest--the best of them."
"Well, we have commissioned him," resumed the nobleman, "to seek for some Indian runner, or half-breed, to carry news of this event to Otaitsa, whom Edith believes the tribe will keep in the dark in regard to the capture of Walter."
"Likely--likely," said the Woodchuck. "Miss Prevost understands them; they'll not tell the women anything, for fear they should meddle. They've a poor opinion of squaws. But the girl may do a great deal of good, too, if you can get the tidings to her. She's not as cunning as the rest of them; but she has more heart, and soul, and resolution too, than a whole tribe of Indian women. That comes of her mother being a white woman."
"Her mother a white woman!" exclaimed Lord H----.
"Ay, didn't you know that?" interrogated Woodchuck; "just as white as Miss Prevost; and quite a lady, too, she was to look at, or to speak to--though she was not fond of speaking with white men, and would draw back into the lodge whenever she saw one. I did speak to her once, though, when she was in a great fright about Black Eagle, who had gone to battle against the French; and I, happening to come that way, gave her some news of him. But we are getting astray from what's of more matter than that. The girl will save him, take my word for it, if there's strength enough in that little body to do it. But let me see. You talk of Indian runners. Where is one to be found who can be trusted? They're generally a bad set, the scum of the tribes. No real warrior would take up on such a trade. However, what's to be done? No white person can go; for they'll scalp him to a certainty, and he would give his life for Walter's, that's all. On my life, it would be as well to give the dangerous errand to some felon, as I have heard say they do in despotic countries--give criminals some dangerous task to perform; and then, if they succeed and escape, so much the better for them; if they die, so much the better for the community. But I'm getting wandering again," he continued, rising. "Now, my lord, this is no use. Give me a few hours to think; to-morrow, at noon, if you will; and then I'll come and tell you what my opinion is."
As he spoke, he turned abruptly towards the house, without any ceremonious leave-taking, and only looked round to put one more question.
"At the post, I suppose?" he said.
Lord H---- assented; Brooks entered the house, and at once sought his own chamber.
In a small room, under a roof which slanted not in one straight line, but made an obtuse angle in the midst of its descent, lighted alone by a horn lantern, such as was used on board the river-boats at night, sat the stout man whom we have described under the name of Woodchuck. The furniture of the chamber was of the meanest kind; a small half-tester bed, with its dull curtains of a broad red and white checked stuff; a little table jammed close against the wall; a solitary chair; a wash-stand, with the basin and its ewer both somewhat maimed; and a little looking-glass, hanging from a nail driven into the wall, with its narrow, badly-gilt frame, and its plate so distorted that, when one looked in it, the reflection seemed to be making faces at the original. Dull, with imbibing many a year's loaded atmosphere, were those faded walls; and many a guest had written upon them in pencil his own name, or the name of his sweetheart--permanent memorials of transitory tenants, like the long-cherished memories of affections gone to the grave. There were two or three rude distiches, too, and a quatrain somewhat more polished.
But the man who sat there noted none of these things. The dim light, the gloomy aspect of the apartment, might sink in upon his spirit, and render the darkness within more dark: the strange, ill-looking, double slant of the ceiling--the obtrusive two straight lines instead of one, with the blunt, unmeaning angle between them, giving an aspect of brokenness to the roof, as if it were ready to bulge out, and then crash down--might irritate without his knowing why. Still he noted them not with anything like observation. His mind was busy with things of its own--things in which feeling took a share as well as thought--and he was, if not dead, sleeping to the external world. Even his beloved woods, and streams, and fresh air, and open skies, were forgotten for the time.
He argued with himself a case of conscience hard to solve.
He was as brave a man as ever lived--had been habituated all his life to perils of many kinds, and had met them all fearlessly. Wake him in the woods at midnight, you would find him ready. Deafen his ear with the drum or the war-whoop, you could not make him start. He blinked not at the cannon's flash or the blaze of the lightning, and would have faced the fiery-mouthed platoon without a wavering step.
And yet the love of life was strong in him. He had so many joys in the bright treasury of nature; to his simple--nay, wild--tastes, there were so many pleasures in the wide world, that to part with them was hard, very hard.
He had never known how valuable earthly existence was to him till that hour, or how different a thing it is to hazard it in bold daring, or to contemplate the throwing it away in reckless passion, or disappointment, or despair, to calmly and deliberately laying it down as a sacrifice, whatever be the end, the inducement, or the duty.
What was the case of conscience he proposed to himself? Simply this: Whether he should suffer another to die for his act, or place himself not only in the peril from which he had lately escaped, but in the actual grasp of death.
Some men, of enthusiastic spirit and great constitutional fearlessness, might have decided the matter at a dash, and, with the first impulse of a furious nature, have cast themselves under the uplifted tomahawk to save their innocent friend. But he was not such; and I do not intend so to represent him. He was not a man to do anything without deliberation--without calculating all things--though he was generous as most men, as this world goes. All his habits--the very course of his previous life--disposed him to careful forethought. Every day had had its watchfulness, every hour its precaution. The life of the woods in those days was a life of peril and preparation, where forethought might be very rapid, but was always needful.
And now he debated the question with himself:--
"Could he live on and suffer Walter Prevost to die in his place?"
There were strenuous advocates on both sides. But the love of life was the most subtle, if generosity was the most eloquent.
"Poor boy!" he thought, "why should he die for what I have done? Why should he be cut off so soon from all life's hopes and blessings? Why should his father's eyes be drowned in tears, and his sister's heart wrung with grief, when I can save them all? And he so frank and noble, too--so full of every kindly feeling and generous quality--so brave--so honest--so frank--so true-hearted! Innocent, too--innocent of every offence--quite innocent in this case!"
But then spoke self, and he reflected,--
"Am not I innocent, too?--as innocent as he is? Did I ever harm the man? Did I provoke the savage? Did I not slay him in pure self-defence? And shall I lay down the life I then justly protected at the cost of that of another human being, because a race of fierce Indians, unreasoning, blood-thirsty savages, choose to offer a cruel sacrifice to their God of revenge, and have found a victim?
"Still," he continued, taking the other side, "it is for my act the sacrifice is offered, and, if there must be a sacrifice, ought not the victim to be myself? Besides, were it that any worthless life was in jeopardy--were it that of some desperate rover--some criminal--some man without ties, or friendships, or affections--one might leave him to his fate, perhaps, without remorse. But this poor lad, how many hopes are centred in him? what will not his family lose--what will not the world? And I--what am I, that my life should be weighed against his? Is he not my friend, too, and the son of my friend--one who has always overflowed with kindness and regard towards me?"
His resolution was almost taken; but then the cunning pleader, vanquished in direct argument, suggested a self-deceit.
"It is strange," he thought, "that these Indians, and especially their chief, should fix upon one with whom they have ever been so friendly--should choose a youth whom they have looked upon as a brother, when they might surely have found some other victim. Can this be a piece of their savage cunning? They know how well I love the lad, and how much friendship has been shown me by his father. Can they have taken him only as a bait to their trap, without any real intention of sacrificing him, and only in the hope of luring me into their power?"
At first sight the supposition seemed reasonable; and he was inclined to congratulate himself that he had not precipitately fallen into the snare.
"How they would have yelled with triumph," he thought "when they found me bringing my head to the hatchet!"
But speedily his knowledge of the Indian character and habits undeceived him. He knew that in such cases they always made sure of some victim, and that the more near and dear he was to the offender, the better for their purpose--the offender himself first--a relation next--a friend next; and he cast the self-fraud away from him.
But the love of life had not yet done, though obliged to take another course, and suggest modifications. Was there no middle course to be taken? Was it absolutely necessary that he should sacrifice his own life to save that of Walter Prevost? Could not the object be effected without his giving himself up to the savages? Might not some one else fall into their hands? Might not the lad be rescued by some daring effort? This was the most plausible suggestion of all; but it was the one that troubled him most. He had detected so many attempts in his own heart to cheat himself, that he suspected he might be deceiving himself still; and his mind got puzzled and confused with doubts.
He went to the bed, and lay down in his clothes; but he could not sleep without taking some resolution; and, rising again, he pressed his hands upon his aching temples, and determined to cast away self from the question altogether--to look upon it as if it affected some other person than Walter Prevost, and to judge accordingly.
This plan succeeded. He separated the truth from the falsehood, and came to the conclusion that it would be folly to go and give himself up to certain death, so long as there was a chance of saving his young friend by other means; but that it was right to do so if other means failed; and that neither by delay nor by rash and uncertain efforts must he risk the chance of saving him, even by the ultimate sacrifice.
He accordingly made up his mind to re-enter the Indian territory in spite of every peril; to conceal himself as best he could; to watch the Indians as he would watch a wild beast; and to be ready for any opportunity, or for any decision.
Now that his resolution was finally taken, he lay down and slept profoundly.
And what was Edith's journey? Would the reader have me dwell upon the small particulars--speak of it as if she had been taking a morning's walk, and note every bird, and flower, and insect; each smooth valley or bluff rock? Or would he have me present it as a picture, as it appeared to her after it was over, massed together in its extraordinary rapidity, and seen but from one point--at the end? Let us choose the latter plan, although it would be easy to extend the pages of this work by minute descriptions and passing panoramas, such as critics love.
But it is my object only to dwell upon events which affected the ultimate fate of the principal characters, and not to labour at length upon a mere detail of incidents. In this view of the case, I might say nothing more but that it began and ended--that she arrived safely at the place of her destination. Yet that journey was to her a matter of much interest; and when it was over, she looked back upon it as a picture full of beautiful and pleasant things.
Swiftly skimming in a bark canoe over the glassy bosoms of the lakes, which reflected every hue of herb, and tree, and sky, and mountain; darting along bright and sparkling streams, sometimes beneath the overhanging canopy of boughs, sometimes under the pure blue eye of heaven; often struggling with a rapid, often having to pass along the shore to turn a waterfall; at times walking along through the glowing woods, burning with the intense colouring of autumn; at times surrounded by a number of Indians, each rendering quiet, earnest service to the adopted daughter of the great Oneida chief; at times wandering on in the dim forest with no one but her two dark attendants near; now the fierce howl of the midnight wolf sounding in her ear; now the sharp, garrulous cry of the blue jay, or the shrill scream of the wood-hawk; now beholding the Indian lodge, or castle, as the Iroquois sometimes called their dwellings; then the brown canopy of the autumn woods which covered her: such were the principal incidents of her journey.
Still under the skilful guidance, and with the eager help, of the two negroes, she went forward with extraordinary rapidity, leaving miles and miles behind her every hour. It seemed almost like a pleasant dream, or, at least, it would have seemed so, had the sad and fearful motives which led her on been ever banished from her mind. Even as it was, the quick and continued change of place and scene, the variety of the objects, the constant succession of new matters of interest, the events, small in themselves, but important to her, which occurred to facilitate or impede her progress, were all a relief to her overcharged mind; and she reached the Oneida territory less depressed than when she set out from her home.
One cause, perhaps, of the feeling of renewed strength which she experienced, was the renewal of hope from the conduct of the Indians towards her, wherever she met them. She found that even amongst the Mohawks she was recognized at once as the adopted daughter of the great Oneida chief; and it was evident that he had spread far and wide, as he returned to his own abode after the conference at Johnson Castle, the fact of his having adopted the daughter of the pale-face, Prevost. There is always something, too, in the fact of an enterprise being actually commenced, which gives spirit to pursue it to the end. While we stand and gaze at it from a distance, hesitating whether we shall undertake it or not, the difficulties are magnified--the facilities obscured: rocks and precipices rise up, threatening to our imagination; while the small paths by which they may be surmounted are unseen.
Day had yet an hour of life left when Edith approached what we find called, in the history of the times, "The Castle of the Oneidas." "Wigwam" it is customary to name all the Indian villages, giving an idea of insignificance and meanness, and a completely savage state, which the principal residences of the Five Nations did not at all merit. Most of them were very like that which Edith now approached. It was built upon a slight elevation near the lake, with a large protruding rock close to it; for the Oneidas always affected near their dwelling some object significant of their favourite appellation, "The Children of the Stone."
Around the "Castle" were high palisades, inclosing a considerable area, within which the huts of the Indians were constructed. Rising considerably above the rest, were two wooden buildings, in the erection of which European workmanship was apparent. The one was a large oblong building, regularly roofed and shingled like that of any English settler. It consisted of two stories, and in the upper one regular framed windows were to be seen. In the lower story there were none; light being admitted by the door. That lower story, however, was floored with plain pine-boards, and divided by a sort of curtain into two equal compartments.
The other building bore the appearance of a church in miniature, with a small cottage or hut attached, which was, in reality, the residence of the missionary, Mr. Gore. Around the village, or Castle, were wide, well-cultivated fields, which had evidently lately borne maize, or some other crops of grain; and let not the reader, acquainted with the habits of Indians as they are at present, be surprised to find the art of husbandry practised at this period amongst the rude denizens of the forest; for, to the shame of civilized man be it spoken, the Indians have assuredly lost much socially, and gained little religiously, by the intercourse with the white invaders of their country. The crushing weight of despondency, a sort of morbid awe of the superiority of the white race, seems to have beaten down a spirit of enterprise which formerly bid fair to regenerate the people, and to replace them in a position which they probably at one time occupied.
Such, however, as I have described, was the appearance of a large Indian village, or Castle, in the year one thousand seven hundred and fifty-seven; and we find, from the statements of many an eye-witness, that the wild hunter of the woods, the fierce combatant in the battle, was, in his calmer moments, not at all insensible to many of the advantages and comforts of civilized life. But we refused to lead them on the way; we used their blood and their energies for our service; we even bought and profited by their fierce barbarity; and, instead of giving them, while it was possible, the arts of peace and the benefits of cultivation, we furnished them with the "fire-water," we contaminated them with our vices, and degraded them morally, physically, and intellectually. Great was our offence against our fellow-man; great must be the sin in the eyes of a just God.
The forest had disappeared; all that could be seen appeared as if rolling in grey masses along the distant country. The purple light of evening, increasing in richness every moment as the day declined, spread over the whole scene, and was reflected from the bosom of the lake. Many a light canoe was skimming along over the water, many a one was lying motionless while the Indian fisherman pursued his sport. The blue smoke curled up high and straight in the calm air from the doors of several huts within the inclosure; and, from the maize-fields without, the pleasant musical sounds of children's voices were heard, as the young people of the village wandered here and there, gathering up scattered ears of corn, which had fallen in the rude reaping of the harvest. In one place even a song was heard; and, in short, the whole scene, instead of being one of rude barbarism and fierce, active passion, indicated calm domestic peace, such as is rarely pictured in the common, but exaggerated, descriptions of Indian life. It might serve my purpose better to describe it differently; but such I find it, and so it must remain.
Even Edith was surprised to find the home of Otaitsa so different from the ideas conveyed to her by the wandering traders, who, even while carrying on commercial intercourse with the tribes, were in a state of semihostility towards the Indians, representing them as bloody savages, and cheating them wherever they could.
Slowly walking on between her two negro companions--for she was tired with a longer walk than usual--Edith approached the open gates of the Castle, and met with no opposition in entering. A tall, handsome warrior passed out, fully clothed, in Indian costume, and only distinguished from civilized man by the shaved head and the painfully significant scalp-lock. His step was stately and calm; and his air grave and reserved. Twice he turned his eyes upon Edith's face with a look of evident wonder and admiration; but he took no farther notice, and passed on.
He was the only individual whom she saw on entering the village; till, after passing through many huts, where women and children were to be seen busily employed, she came in sight of the door of the chief's house, and beheld there a figure seated on the ground quietly engaged in the art of embroidery, after the fashion in which the Indian women so greatly excel. It was a figure which she knew well; and the tranquil air and easy grace, as well as the quiet, peaceful employment, showed Edith at once that she had not been mistaken in supposing that Otaitsa was altogether ignorant of the peril of one dear to them both.
As she came near, she heard that the Indian girl, in her happy ignorance, was singing a sweet but somewhat plaintive song; and, the next moment, Otaitsa, raising her eyes, beheld the three figures, and at once perceived that they were not of her people. For a moment, she did not know Edith in her Indian garb; but when she did recognize her, the emotion produced was alarm rather than joy. She felt at once that some great and important event--some occurrence full of peril or of sorrow--must have brought Edith thither. The beautiful lips parted with a tremulous motion; the large, dark eye, Indian in its colour, but European in its form, became full of anxiety; the rosy hue of her cheek, which probably had obtained for her the name of the Blossom, faded away; and paleness spread over the clear brown skin.
Starting up, however, she cast the embroidery away from her, and, springing forward, threw her arms round Edith's neck. Then, as her head rested on her fair companion's shoulder, she asked, in a whisper--
"What is it, my sister? There must be a storm in the sky--there must be lightning in the cloud! What tempest-wind has swept my sister hither? What flood of sorrow has borne Edith to Otaitsa?"
"Hush!" ejaculated Edith, in a low tone, for there were some other Indian women near. "I will tell my sister when no ears can hear but her own. Thereistempest in the sky. A pine-tree has fallen across the threshold of my father's house; and we are sad for fear the hatchet of the woodman should lop all its green branches away. Can I speak with the Blossom speedily and in secret?"
"Instantly," answered Otaitsa. "The warriors have all gone forth to hunt, for three days, the bear and the moose. The Black Eagle is with them. There are but three men of deeds in the Castle; and why they are women now, and go not forth to the hunting with the rest, I cannot tell. But they are little within the palisade--daily they go forth, and remain absent long. Come in hither, my sister; for, though few here speak the tongue we speak, it were better not to let the wind hear us."
"Can some of the women give food and lodging to these two negroes?" asked Edith, adding, "They have been well warned, and know that a life depends upon their silence."
Otaitsa called to an elderly Indian woman, who was cooking at the door of a cabin near, and placed Chando and his companion under her charge. She then turned to Edith, saying,--
"Come, my sister."
But, before they entered the building, Edith inquired if Mr. Gore were there, saying,--
"Perhaps he might give us counsel."
"My father sent him away some days ago," answered Otaitsa; "he will not be back for a month--perhaps longer. I think he sent him to secure him from danger."
"Alas!" exclaimed Edith, "that the danger should have fallen on others!"
"Alas, alas!" cried Otaitsa.
And Edith felt her hand tremble much as she led her into the building.