"There is a light, sir, at the Castle," said one of the servants of Sir William Johnson, entering the room where he was seated with Mr. Prevost; "it comes from the great court."
"Then they have arrived," said the officer, turning to his guest; "let us set out at once. Are the horses saddled?"
"They have been kept ready, sir, ever since the morning," replied the servant, to whom the last words were addressed.
"It is strange," said Mr. Prevost, as he followed his host towards the door of the room, "that the negro I sent to tell Edith the cause of my delay has not returned, as I told him. He might have been here four hours ago. I am growing somewhat anxious."
"Be not so, be not so!" replied Sir William. "Two or three years of forest life, my good friend, are not enough to inure a man to all the little accidents and discomforts he must meet with; and the first serious danger so shakes his nerves that they vibrate at a trifle. The man's horse may have fallen, or he may have purloined a bottle of brandy, and got drunk, or he may have missed his way, or set out late. Between this house and yours there is room for chances enough to make a moderate volume. Let us not look out for uncertain evils, when there are real ones enough around us."
"Real ones enough, indeed!" ejaculated Mr. Prevost, with a deep sigh.
A moment after, they reached the front of the stables, from which their horses were immediately brought forth; and, mounting, they set out, followed by a small party both on horseback and on foot; for Sir William, though he affected the simplicity of the Indian, was not at all averse to a little appearance of state and dignity in his dealings with his red allies. There is a certain sort of pride which clothes itself in humility; and without at all meaning to assert that the very remarkable man in question desired to make the Indian chiefs feel that his adoption of their manners was a condescension, yet it is certain that from time to time he judged it expedient--perhaps from good motives of policy--to make a somewhat ostentatious display of power and authority.
The night was exceedingly dark. The moon now rose at a very late hour; and dim clouds hid the stars from the dwellers upon earth. In such a night, and in such circumstances, the fancy even of the most stout-hearted is apt to indulge in deceits; and as the eye of Mr. Prevost wandered round, dim forms like spectres seemed to be gliding about the field of maize, cut in many places, but not yet garnered.
Not feeling certain whether imagination cheated him or not, he made no observation, and for some time Sir William Johnson was silent also; but, at length, the latter said, in a commonplace tone--
"Our good friends seem to have come in great force, probably, in consequence of the urgency of my summons. Now, be patient, Prevost, and bear with their cool, phlegmatic ways; for these people often feel the strongest sympathies and serve their friends the best when they seem the most cold and indifferent."
Mr. Prevost felt already how difficult it was to maintain that equanimity which in theory he estimated as highly as an Indian, and in practice strove for always, but not unfrequently lost. He promised, however, to leave entirely to Sir William Johnson the management of a conference with the chiefs of the Mohawk and Onondaga Nations, which had been proposed by that officer himself, for the purpose of inducing the two most powerful tribes of the Iroquois to interfere in behalf of Walter, and save him from the fate that menaced him.
Through the gate of the castle (the door of which stood open as usual, for, although it was filled with large quantities of those stores which the Indians most coveted, its safety was left entirely to the guardianship of their good faith) the two gentlemen entered the large courtyard, which, on this occasion, was quite deserted, the weather being cold enough now to render some shelter agreeable even to an Indian. From the open door of the great hall, which stretched along the larger part of the whole building, came forth a blaze of light; and, on entering, Sir William Johnson and his companion found a number of Mohawk and Onondaga chiefs assembled, sitting gravely ranged in a semi-circle round the fire. Each was fully clothed in his garb of ceremony, and bright and brilliant were the colours displayed in the dresses and ornaments of the red men; but, as this was a peaceful occasion, their faces were destitute of paint, and the scalp-lock was concealed under the brilliant and graceful Gostoweh, or cap, in many of which was seen the plume of the white egret, used to distinguish the great chiefs of the different tribes, ever since the feathers of the famous white bird of heaven had been exhausted.
All rose with quiet, native dignity when the Indian agent and his companion entered, and a murmur of gratulation ran round while Sir William and Mr. Prevost seated themselves in two large chairs.
"This is our brother," said Sir William Johnson, pointing to Mr. Prevost.
"Hai, hai!" exclaimed the Indian chiefs. "Peace, peace! he isourbrother."
King Hendrick then approached Mr. Prevost, dressed in his sky-blue coat of European manufacture, presented to him by the reigning monarch of England, and took his hand, saying, in a tone of friendly sympathy, and in the English tongue, "Our brother is sad. Be comforted."
He then seated himself, and the Attotarho, or grand chief of the whole confederacy, an office held by descent by the chief of the Onondaga Totem of the Bear, advanced to Walter's father, and spoke the same words in Iroquois, showing clearly that the object of the meeting was understood by the Indian leaders.
When all had arranged themselves around again, a silence of some minutes succeeded. It was painful to Mr. Prevost; for no one who has not associated with the Indians can fully comprehend the impressive--I might almost call it oppressive--effect of their exceeding stillness upon grave occasions.
At length the Attotarho said, rising to his full height, which might be almost termed gigantic, "Our father has sent for us; and we are obedient children. We are here to listen to his sweet words, and understand his mind."
Sir William Johnson then, in a speech of very great power and beauty, full of the figurative language of the Indians, related the events which had occurred in the family of Mr. Prevost, and made an appeal to his hearers for council and assistance. He represented his friend as an old tree from which a branch had been torn by the lightning; he strove to depict his desolate state; and he told a story of a panther, one of whose young ones had been carried off by a wolf, but who, on applying for assistance to a bear and a stag, recovered her young by their means. "The panther was strong enough," he said, "with the aid of the lion, to take back her young one from the wolf and to tear the wolf to pieces; but the wolf was of kin to the bear and the stag, and therefore the panther forbore."
"But the bear is slow, and the stag is not strong, when he goes against his kindred," said the Attotarho, significantly; "and the lion will never take the war-path against his allies."
"Heaven forbid that there should be need!" exclaimed Sir William; "but the lion must consider his children, and the panther is his son."
Poor Mr. Prevost remained in a state of painful anxiety while the discussion proceeded in this course, wandering, as it seemed to him, round the subject, and affording no indication of any intention, on the part of the chiefs, to give him assistance; for figures, though they be very useful things to express the meaning of a speaker, are sometimes equally useful to conceal it.
At length he could bear it no longer, and, forgetting his promise to Sir William Johnson, he started up with all the feelings of a father strong in his heart, and appealed directly to the Indians in their own tongue, which he had completely mastered, but in a style of eloquence very different from their own, and, perhaps, the more striking to them on that account.
"My child!" he exclaimed, earnestly, "give me back my child! Who is the man amongst the Five Nations whom he has wronged? Where is the man to whom he has refused kindness or assistance? When has his door been shut against the wandering red man? When has he denied to him a share of his food or of his fire? Is he not your brother and the son of your brother? Have we not smoked the pipe of peace together? and has that peace ever been violated by us? I came within the walls of your Long House trusting to the truth and the hospitality of the Five Nations. I built my lodge amongst you in full confidence of your faith and of your friendship. Is my hearth to be left desolate, is my heart to be torn out, because I trusted to the truth and honour of the Mohawks, to the protection and promises of the Onondaga, because I would not believe the songs of the singing-bird, that said, 'They will slay thy children before thy face?' If there be fault or failing in me or mine towards the red man in any of the tribes--if we have taken aught from him--if we have spoken false words in his ear--if we have refused him aught that he had a right to ask--if we have shed any man's blood,--then slayme; cut down the old tree at the root, but leave the sapling. If we have been just and righteous towards you--if we have been friendly and hospitable--if we have been true and faithful--if we have shed no man's blood, and taken no man's goods,--then give me back my child. To you, chiefs of the Five Nations, I raise my voice; from you I demand my son, for a crime committed by one of the league is a crime committed by all. Could ye find none but the son of your brother to slay? Must ye make the trust he placed in you the means of his destruction? Had he doubted your hospitality--had he not confided in your faith--had he said, 'the lightning of the guns of Albany and the thunder of her cannon are better protection than the faith and truth of the red man,'--ye know he would have been safe. But he said: 'I will put my trust in the hospitality of the Five Nations; I will become their brother. If there be bad men amongst them, their chiefs will protect me, their Attotarho will do me justice. They are great warriors, but they are good men. They smite their enemies, but they love their friends.' If, then, ye are good men--if ye are great warriors--if ye are brothers to your brother--if ye are true to your friends--if ye are fathers yourselves,--give me back my son."
"Koué, koué!" cried the Indians, in a sad tone, more profoundly affected by the vehement expression of a father's feelings than Sir William Johnson had expected; but the moment that the word was uttered which, according to the tone and rapidity with which it is pronounced, signifies either approbation and joy, or sympathy and grief, they relapsed into deep silence.
Sir William Johnson, though he had been a good deal amazed and alarmed at Mr. Prevost taking upon himself to speak, and fearful lest he should injure his own cause, now fully appreciated the effect produced; and would not add a word to impair it.
At length, King Hendrick arose, and said, in a grave and melancholy tone--
"We are brothers; but what can we do? The Oneidas are our brethren also. The Mohawks, the Oneidas, the Onondagas, the Cayugas, and the Senecas are separate nations, though they are brethren and allies. We are leagued together for common defence, but not that we should rule over each other. The Oneidas have their laws, and they execute them; but this law is common to all the nations, that if a man's blood be shed, except in battle, the man who shed it must die. If he cannot be found, one of his nearest kin must be taken. If he have none, one of his tribe or race. The same is it with the Mohawk as with the Oneida. But in this thing the Oneidas have done as the Mohawks would not have done. They have not sought diligently for the slayer, neither have they waited patiently to see whether they could find any of his kindred. The Oneidas have been hasty. They have taken the first man they could find. They have been fearful like the squirrel; and they keep their prisoner lest, in the time of need, they should not find another. This is unjust. They should have first waited, and searched diligently, and should not have taken the son of their brother till they were sure no other man could be found. But, koué, koué! what is to be done? Shall the Mohawk unbury the hatchet against the Oneida? That cannot be. Shall the Mohawk say to the Oneida: 'Thou art unjust?' The Oneida will answer,--'We have our laws and you have yours: the Mohawk is not the ruler of the Oneida: repose under your own tree; we sit upon a stone.' One thing perchance may be done," and a very slight look of cunning intelligence came into his face; "subtlety will sometimes do what force cannot. The snake is as powerful as the panther. I speak my thought; and I know not if it be good. Were my brother, the Attotarho, to choose ten of the subtlest serpents of his nation, and I to choose ten of the subtlest of mine, they might go unpainted and unarmed, and, creeping through the woods without rattle or hiss, reach the place where the young man lies. If there be thongs upon his hands, the breath of a snake can melt them. If there be a door upon his prison, the eyes of a snake can pierce it. If there be a guard, the coil of the snake can twine around him; and many of the Oneida chiefs and warriors will rejoice that they are thus friendly forced to do right, and seek another. I speak my thought; I know not whether it is good. Let those speak who know; for no nation of the Five can do aught against another nation alone, otherwise we break to pieces like a faggot when the thong bursts."
Thus saying, he ended, sat down, and resumed his stillness; and, after a pause, as if for thought, the Attotarho rose, addressing himself directly to Mr. Prevost, and speaking with a great deal of grave dignity.
"We grieve for you, my brother," he said, "and we grieve for ourselves. We know that our great English father, who sits under the mighty pine-tree, will be wrath with his red children; but let him remember, and speak it in his ears, that the Mohawk and the Onondaga, the Seneca and the Cayuga, are not to blame for this act. They say the Oneidas have done hastily, and they will consult together, around the council-fire, how thou mayest best be comforted. Haste is only fit for children. Grown men are slow and deliberate. Why should we go quickly now? Thy son is safe; for the Oneidas cannot, according to their law, take any sacrifice, except the life of the slayer, till they be well assured that he, the slayer, cannot be found."
Mr. Prevost's lip quivered with emotion as if about to speak; but Sir William Johnson laid his hand upon him, saying, in a quick whisper, "Leave him to me." And the Onondaga proceeded.
"We will do the best that we can for our brother; but the meadow-lark has not the strength of the Eagle, nor the fox of the panther; and if we should fail, it would not be the fault of the Mohawks or the Onondagas.--I have said."
Sir William Johnson then rose to reply, seeing that the Attotarho sought to escape any distinct promise, and judging that, with the support of King Hendrick, a little firmness might wring something more from him.
"My brother, the Attotarho," he said, "has spoken well. The Five Nations are leagued together in peace and in war. They take the scalps of their enemies as one man. They live in brotherhood. But my brother says that if the Oneida commits a crime, the Mohawk and the Onondaga, the Seneca and the Cayuga, are not guilty of the act, and therefore deserve no wrath. But he says at the same time, that if the man named Woodchuck slays a red man, Walter Prevost, the brother of the red man, must die for it. How is this? Have the children of the Five Nations forked tongues? Do they speak double words? If the Onondagas are not guilty of what the Oneidas do, neither is Walter Prevost guilty of what the pale-face Woodchuck does. May the Great Spirit forbid that your great father, near the rising of the sun, should deal unjustly with his red children, or be wrath with them for acts done by others; but he does expect that his children of the Five Nations will show the same justice to his pale-face children; and, unless they are resolved to take upon themselves the act of the Oneidas, and say their act is our act, that they will do something to prevent it. My brother says that haste is for children; and true are his words. Then why have the Oneidas done this hasty thing? We cannot trust that they will not be children any more, or that, having done this thing hastily, they will not hastily do worse. True, everything should be done deliberately; we should show ourselves men, if we want children to follow our example. Let us take counsel then fully, while we are here together. The council-fire burns in the midst of us; and we have time enough to take thought calmly. Here I will sit till I know that my brothers will do justice in this matter, and not suffer the son of my brother to remain in the hands of those who have wrongfully made him a prisoner. Yes, truly, here I will sit to take counsel with the chiefs, till the words of wisdom are spoken, even although the sun should go five times round the earth before our talk were ended. Have I spoken well?"
"Koué! Koué!" exclaimed a number of voices; and one of the old Sachems rose, saying, in slow and deliberate tones,--
"Our white brother has the word of truth and resolution. The Oneida has shown the speed of the deer, but not the wisdom of the tortoise. The law of the Oneida is our law; and he should have waited at least one moon, to see if the right man could be found. The Oneida must be in trouble at his own hastiness. Let us deliver him from the pit into which he has fallen; but let us do it with the silent wisdom of the snake, which creeps through the grass where no one sees him. The rattlesnake is the most foolish of reptiles; for he talks of what he is going to do beforehand. We will be more wise than he is; and, as our thoughts are good, we will keep them for ourselves. Let us only say, the boy shall be delivered, if the Mohawks and the Onondagas can do it; but let us not say how, for a man who gives away a secret deprives himself of what he can never recover, and benefits nothing but the wind.--I have said."
All the assembled chiefs expressed their approbation of the old man's words, and seemed to consider the discussion concluded. Mr. Prevost, indeed, was anxious to have something more definite; but Sir William Johnson nodded his head significantly, saying, in a low tone, "We have done as much,--nay, more, than we could expect. It will be necessary to close our conference with some gifts, which will be, as it were, a seal upon our covenant."
"But have they entered into any covenant?" rejoined Mr. Prevost. "I have heard of none made yet on their part."
"As much as Indians ever do," answered Sir William Johnson; "and you can extract nothing more from them with your utmost skill."
He then called some of his people from without into the hall, ordered the stores to be opened, and brought forth some pieces of scarlet cloth, one of the most honourable presents which could be offered to an Indian chief. A certain portion was cut off for each, and received with grave satisfaction. Mats and skins were then spread upon the floor in great abundance. Long pipes were brought in, and handed round; and, after having smoked together in profound silence for nearly half an hour, the chiefs stretched themselves upon the ground, and composed themselves to rest.
Sir William Johnson and his guest, as a mark of confidence and brotherhood, remained with them throughout the night, but retired to the further end of the hall. They did not sleep so soon as their dusky companions. Their conversation, carried on in low tones, was, nevertheless, eager and anxious; for the father could not help still feeling great apprehension regarding the fate of his son; and Sir William Johnson was not altogether without alarm regarding the consequences of the very determination to which he had brought the chiefs of the Mohawks and Onondagas. Symptoms of intestine discord had of late been perceived in the great Indian confederacy. They had not acted on the behalf of England with the unanimity which they had displayed in former years; and it was the policy of the British Government by every means to heal all divisions and consolidate their union, as well as to attach them more and more firmly to the English cause. Although he doubted not that whatever was done by the chiefs with whom he had just been in conference, would be effected with the utmost subtlety and secrecy, yet there was still the danger of producing a conflict between them and the Oneidas in the attempt, or causing angry feeling even if it were successful; and Sir William, who was not at all insensible to the value of his government's approbation, felt some alarm at the prospect before him.
He and Mr. Prevost both slept at length; and the following morning saw the chiefs dispersing in the gray dawn of a cold and threatening day.
The snow was falling fast; the early snow of Northern America. The woods had not yet parted with all the splendour of their autumnal foliage; and the rivers still sang along their beds, confined, indeed, and narrowed in their channel by a ledge of thin ice along their banks, but still gay and sparkling. The air, however, was raw and cold; the ground hard beneath the tread; the sky dark and lowering; and the flakes rested unmelted on the earth, covering rapidly the green grass and the brown leaves.
Otaitsa stole forth from the shelter of the great lodge, passed amongst the huts around, and out into the fields through the opening in the palisade. She was going where she wished not her steps to be traced, and she knew that the fast-falling snow would speedily fill up every foot-print. Quietly and gracefully she glided on till she reached the edge of the deep wood, and then along a little-frequented trail, till, at the distance of about half a mile, her eyes, keenly bent forward, perceived something brown crouching still and motionless under cover of a young hemlock, the branches of which nearly swept the ground.
As the Blossom approached, a head, covered with glossy black hair, rolled up behind, was raised above a little bush which partly hid the woman's figure; and, coming nearer, Otaitsa asked, in a low voice,--
"Did he pass?"
"No," answered the young maiden to whom she spoke; "it was Apukwa, the medicine-man."
Otaitsa waved her head sadly to and fro, saying, "I understand." Then, speaking to the girl again, she said, "Now back to the castle, through the brush there to the other trail, and then home."
Her own walk was to be longer; and on she went, with the same gliding step, till, about half a mile further, she turned a little out of the path to the right; and there, concealed amongst the bushes, she found an old woman of her tribe, to whom she put the same question, and received nearly the same answer.
"Thou art cold, my mother," said Otaitsa, unfastening her mantle, and throwing it over the old woman; "get thee back with the step of a mole through the most covered ways thou canst find. How far on is the other?"
"More than a mile," replied the old woman; "close at the foot of the rocks."
Otaitsa made no reply, but hastened forward to a spot where some abrupt, but not very elevated, crags rose up out of the midst of the wood. For a moment there seemed no one there; and the trail at that spot divided into two, one running to the right, and the other to the left, at the very base of the rocks.
Otaitsa gazed cautiously about. She did not dare to utter a sound; but at length her eye fixed upon a large mass of stone tumbled from the bank above, crested and feathered with some sapling chestnuts. It seemed a place fit for concealment; and, advancing over some broken fragments, she was approaching carefully, when again a head was raised, and a hand stretched out beckoning to her.
Still she trod her way cautiously, taking care not to set her foot on prominent points where the trace might remain, and contriving, as far as possible, to make each bush and scattered tree a screen. At length she reached her companion's place of concealment, and crouched down behind the rock, by the side of a young woman a few years older than herself.
"Has he passed?" asked Otaitsa. "Which way did he take?"
"To the east," replied the other; "to the rising sun; but it was not the brother of the Snake. It was Apukwa, the Bull-rush; and he had a wallet with him, but no tomahawk."
"How long is it since he passed?" asked the Blossom, in the same low tone which they had hitherto used.
"While the crow would fly a mile," answered the young woman. "Has my husband yet come back?"
"Not so," replied Otaitsa; "but let us both go, for thou art weary for thy home, my sister, and I am now satisfied. Their secret is mine."
"How so?" inquired the other; "canst thou see through the rock with thy bright eyes, Blossom?"
"The cunning medicine-man goes not to pray to his Maneto," answered Otaitsa, "nor to converse with his Hawenergo. Neither does he wander forth to fulfil his fasts in the solitude to the east. Yet he will find no dry deer's-flesh there, my sister; nor any of the fire-water he loves so well. But away there, where I have gathered many a strawberry when I was young, there is a deep rift in the rock, where you may walk a hundred paces on flat ground with the high crags all around you. The wild cat cannot spring up, and the deer winks as he looks down. It has but a narrow entrance, for the jaws of the rock are but half open; and I know now where they have hid my brother. That is enough, for this night, to Otaitsa."
"And what wilt thou do next?" asked her companion.
"Nay, I know not," answered the Blossom. "The sky grows darker--the night is coming on, and we must follow the setting sun if we would not have Apukwa see us. We have yet time, for the gloomy place he goes to is two thousand paces further. Come. Be assured, dear sister, I will call for thy aid when it is needful; and thou wilt as soon refuse it as the flower refuses honey to the bee. Step carefully in the low places, that they see not the tracks of thy feet."
Thus saying, Otaitsa led the way from their place of concealment with a freer air (for she knew that Apukwa had far to go), but with as cautious a tread as ever, lest, returning before the night had fully fallen, he should see the foot-prints in the snow.
They had been gone about ten minutes, when, creeping silently down along the trail from the east, the medicine-man appeared at the furthest corner of the rock within sight; but he was not alone. The Indian, whom they called the brother of the Snake, was with him. The latter, however, remained at the point where he could see both ways, while Apukwa came swiftly forward. At the spot where the trail separated, he paused, and looked earnestly down upon the ground, bending his head almost to his knees. Then he seemed to track something along the trail towards the Indian Castle; and then, turning back, walked slowly up to the rock, following exactly the path by which the two women had returned.
At length he seemed satisfied; and, quickening his pace, he rejoined his companion.
"Thou art right, brother," he said. "There were two. What dimmed thine eyes that thou canst not tell who they were?"
"I was far," answered the other; "and there is shadow upon shadow."
"Was not one Otaitsa?" asked the medicine-man, slowly. "Could the brother of the Snake fail to know the Blossom he loves to look at?"
"If my eyes were not hidden, it was not she," replied his companion. "Never did I see the great Sachem's daughter go out, even when the sun has most fire, without her mantle round her. This woman had none."
"Which woman?" asked Apukwa; "thou saidst there were two."
"One came, two went," replied the other Oneida; "but the second could not be the Blossom, for she was tall. The other might have been, but she had no mantle, and she seemed less than Black Eagle's daughter--more like Koya, the daughter of the Bear. What were the print of the moccassins?"
"The snow falls fast; and covers up men's steps, as time covers the traditions of our fathers," replied the medicine-man; "they were not clear, brother. One was bigger than the other, but that was all I could see. Yet I scent the Blossom in this thing, my brother. The worshipper of the God of the pale-faces would save the life of the pale-face, had he made milk of the blood of her brother. She may love the boy too well, as her father loved the white woman. She has been often there, at the lodge of Prevost, with the pale-face priest or her father--very often; and she has stayed long. That trail she likes to follow better than any other; and the Black Eagle may think that his Blossom is a flower fit to grow by the lodge of the Yengees, and too beautiful for the red man. Has not my brother dreamed such dreams? has not his Maneto whispered to him such things?"
"He has," answered the brother of the Snake, in a tone of stern meaning; "and my tomahawk is sharp. But we must take counsel on this with our brethren, to make sure that there be no double tongues amongst us. How else should these women see our tracks, when we have covered them with leaves?"
It is probable that this last expression was used figuratively: not actually to imply that a precaution, very common amongst Indians, had been taken in this case; but that every care had been used to prevent a discovery, by the women of the nation, of any part of the proceedings in regard to poor Walter Prevost.
"My tongue is single," said the brother of the Snake; "and if I had a double tongue, would I use it when my enemy is under my scalping-knife? Besides, am I not more than my brother?"
And, baring his arm, he pointed with his finger to that small blue stripe which Woodchuck had exhibited on his own arm to Lord H---- in Albany.
"My brother listens with the ears of the hare," said Apukwa. "The Honontkoh never betray each other. But there are young men with us who are not of our order. Some are husbands, some are lovers; and with women they are women. Yet we must be watchful not to scatter our own herd. There must be no word of anger; but our guard must be made more sure. Go thou home to thine own lodge; and to-morrow, while the East is still white, let us hold council in the wigwam further down the lake. The home wind is blowing strong, and there will be more snow to cover our trail."
Thus saying, they parted for the night.
But the next morning early, from one of the small fortified villages of the Indians some miles from their great Castle, no less than six young men set out at different times, and took their way separately through the woods. One said to his wife, as he left her,--
"I go to hunt the moose." And one to his sister, "I go to kill the deer." And another told his squaw the same story; but she laughed, and answered,--
"Thou art careful of thy goods, my husband. Truth is too precious a thing to be used on all occasions. Thou keepest it for the time of need."
The man smiled, and patted her cheek, saying,--
"Keep thine own counsel, wife; and when I lie to thee, seem not to know it."
In the chain of low cliffs which ran at the distance of four or five miles from the Oneida village, and to which, probably, at one time the waters of the lake had extended, was a deep cleft or fissure in the hard rock, fourteen or fifteen yards in width at its widest part, and narrower at the mouth than in the interior. One of the rocks, at the time I speak of, though large masses have fallen since, and a good deal altered the features of the scene, abutted considerably over its base, and projected so far as almost to touch the opposite crag, giving the mouth of the fissure somewhat the appearance of a cave. On either side, the walls of this gloomy dell were perpendicular--in some places even overhanging; and at the end, where it might have been expected to slope gradually away to the upland, the general character of the scene was merely diversified by a break fifteen or sixteen feet from the ground, dividing the face of the crag nearly into two equal parts. Beneath this ledge was a hollow of four or five feet in depth, rendering ascent from that side impracticable.
It is probable that at some time in the long, unknown past of America a river poured here over the edge of the cliff, wearing away the solid rock by its continued action; and, as in the case of Niagara, carrying the cataract further and further back with each succeeding year, but without diminishing the precipitancy of the fall. The stone was of a loose and friable nature, breaking, by all the various accidents of the seasons, into strange and uncouth forms; and altogether the place, rarely if ever visited by the sun, would have been one of the most dim and gloomy that can be conceived, had not some light feathery shrubs and trees perched themselves upon several prominent points, especially where the ledge I have mentioned marked out the former site of the cascade.
Underneath that ledge, at the time referred to, had been hastily constructed a small hut or Indian lodge, formed of stakes driven into the ground, and covered over skilfully enough with bark, branches, and other materials of the forest. A door had apparently been brought for it from some distance; for it was evidently old, and had strange figures painted on it in red. Across this door was fixed a great bar, which would indeed have been very useless, had not the stakes forming the walls of the hut been placed close together, rendering it in reality much stronger than an ordinary Indian lodge.
On the day after Otaitsa's expedition, mentioned in the preceding chapter, sixteen or eighteen Oneidas of different ages, but none of them far advanced in life, gathered round the mouth of the cleft, and conversed together for several minutes, in low tones, and with their usual slow and deliberate manner. At the end of their conference, one seated himself on a stone near the entrance, two advanced into the chasm, and the rest dispersed themselves in different directions through the woods.
The two who advanced approached the hut, following each other so closely that the foot of each trod in the step of the other; and when they reached the lodge, the foremost took down the bar and opened the door, suffering the light to enter the dark chamber within. The spectacle which that light displayed was a very painful one.
There, seated on the ground, with his head almost bent down to his knees, his brown hair falling wild and shaggy over his face, his dress soiled, and in some parts torn, and his hands thin and sallow, sat poor Walter Prevost, the image of despair. All the bright energies of his eager, impetuous nature seemed quelled; the look of happy, youthful enjoyment was altogether gone; and with it the warm hopes and glowing aspirations, the dreams of future happiness or greatness, of love, and joy, and tenderness. The sunshine had departed; the motes of existence no longer danced in the beam.
He lifted not his head when the Indians entered; still and impassible as themselves, he sat without movement or word; the very senses seemed dead in the living tomb where they had confined him. But the sight touched them with no pity.
Grazing at him with a curious, cunning, serpent-like look, Apukwa placed before him a wallet which he carried, containing some dried deer's-flesh and parched Indian corn; and, after having watched him for a moment without a change of countenance, he said, in a cold tone--"There is food--take it and eat."
As if the sound of his hated voice had startled the youth from a death-like sleep, Walter sprang suddenly to his feet, exclaiming,--
"Why should I eat, to prolong my misery? Slay me! Take thy tomahawk and dash my brains out! Put an end to this torment, the most terrible that thy fiend-like race have ever devised!"
The two Indians laughed with a low, quiet, satisfied laugh.
"We cannot slay thee," said the brother of the Snake, "till we know that thy pale-face brother who killed our brother, cannot be found to take thy place."
"He is far beyond your power," cried Walter vehemently; "he will never be within your grasp. I helped him to escape; I delivered him from you. Slay me, slay me, dogs of Indians! Your hearts are wolves' hearts; you are not men, you are women who dare not use a tomahawk. You are the scoff of your enemies. They laugh at the Oneidas; they spit at them. They say they are children, who dare not kill an enemy till the old men say, 'Kill him.' They fear the rod of their chief. They are like hares and rabbits, that tremble at the sound of the wind."
It was in vain that he tried to provoke them. They only seemed to enjoy his agony, and the bitter words that it called forth.
"Eat and drink," said Apukwa coldly, as soon as Walter became silent; "for we are going to tie thee. We must hunt the deer, we must grind the corn--we cannot watch thee every day, till the time of the sacrifice comes. Eat and drink, then; for here are the thongs."
Walter glared at him for a moment, and then snatched up a gourd filled with water, which the brother of the Snake had brought, and drained it with a long and eager draught. He then cast it from him, and stood still and stern before them, saying,--
"I will disappoint you. Henceforth I will eat no more. Tie me if you will. I can fast as well as you Indians."
The two men looked in each other's faces, apparently puzzled how to act; for, if he kept his resolution, their object would, indeed, be frustrated. The death of their kinsman, according to their superstition, required blood; and by starvation the prisoner would escape from their hands. Still, they dared not disobey the decision of the chiefs.
A slight sign seemed to pass between them; and, taking hold of the poor lad somewhat roughly, they bound both his hands and feet, twining the stout thongs of deer-skin round and round, and through and through, in what seemed inextricable knots. He stood quite still and passive; and, when they had done, cast himself down upon the ground again, turning his face from them. The two men gazed at him for a moment or two, and then, leaving the hut in silence, replaced the bar.
For some time after they were gone, Walter lay just as he had fallen. The dead apathy of despair had taken possession of him; life, thought, feeling, were a burden. The many days which had passed in that dull, dark, silent abode were rapidly producing on his mind that effect which solitary confinement is said too often to occasion. The transition is easy from anxiety, grief, fear, through melancholy and gloom, to despair and madness. Oh, man, never shut out hope from thy fellow-creature! or, if it must be so--if crime requires relentless punishment--then, whatever a false philanthropy would say, give thou death when thou takest away this world's hope, for then thou openest the gate of the grave to a brighter light than that which is extinguished. The All-seeing Eye beams with mercy as well as light.
He lay in that death-like stillness for several hours; and there came not a sound of any kind during all that time, to relieve the black monotony of the day. His ear, by suffering, had been rendered painfully acute; but the snow fell noiselessly; the wild animals were in their coverts or in their dens; the very wind had no breath.
Suddenly there was a sound. What was it? It seemed like a cracking branch far up above his head. Then a stone rolled down and rattled over the bark roof, making the snow slip before it. Another crashing branch, and then a silence, which seemed to him to last for hours.
"Some panther or catamount," he thought, "in the trees above." And he laid his half-raised head down again upon the ground.
No! There were fingers on the bar. He heard it move. Had the Indians come back to urge the food upon him? The touch upon the bar, however, seemed feeble, compared with theirs. It lifted the heavy log of wood slowly, and with difficulty. Walter's heart beat--visions came over his mind--hope flickered up; and he raised himself as well as he could into a sitting posture. From the ground he could not rise, for his hands were tied.
Slowly and quietly the door opened; the light rushed in, and, in the midst of its blaze, stood the beautiful figure of the Blossom, with her head partly turned away, as if in the act of listening. Her long wavy hair, broken from its band, and spotted with the white snow, fell almost to her feet. But little was the clothing that she wore: no mantle, no over-dress, nothing but the Indian woman's embroidered shirt, gathered round her by a belt, and leaving the arms and legs bare. Her hands were torn and bloody; her bright face and brow scratched by the fangs of the bramble; but still to Walter Prevost, as she stood listening there, it was the loveliest sight his eyes had ever rested on.
Thus, for a moment, she listened; then gazed into the hut, sprang forward, cast her arms around his neck, and wept as she had never wept before.
"My brother--my husband!" she exclaimed, leaning her forehead on his shoulder, "Otaitsa has found thee at length!"
He would fain have cast his arms around her; he would fain have pressed her to his heart; he would fain have told her that he could bear death, or even life, or any fate, for such love as hers. But his hands were tied, and his tongue was powerless with emotion.
A few moments passed in silence; and then Otaitsa said,--
"The cruel wolves have tied thee; but Otaitsa will give thee freedom."
In an instant, her small, delicate fingers were busy with the thongs; and with the rapidity of thought they were all untied, and hands and feet were both loose; but, as she worked, the blood dropped from her fingers on his wrists, and while he held her to his heart with--oh, how fond, how warm an embrace! he said,--
"Thou bleedest, my Blossom. Oh! Otaitsa, what hast thou risked, what hast thou encountered for Walter's sake?"
"But little, my beloved," she answered; "would it were ten times more, to prove my love. What! they have put meat within thy sight, and tied thy hands to make thee die of famine, with food before thee! Out on the cruel monsters!"
"No, no, my Otaitsa," returned Walter, "I would not eat. I wished to die. I knew not that an angel would come to cheer and help me."
"And to deliver thee too, my Walter," answered Otaitsa, with a bright smile. "I trust it is certain, my beloved. By the wayIcame, by that wayyoucan go."
"How came you?" asked Walter, seating her beside him, and pressing her closer with his arm to the bosom on which she leaned. "I thought it was impossible for any one to reach me, so hidden is this place, so close the watch they kept. It must have been very perilous for thee, my Blossom. Art thou not hurt?"
"Oh, no," she answered; "nor was the peril really great. God gave me wings to fly to thee. Love bore me up. But let me tell thee how I came. I have a friend, the wife of one of thine enemies, a young bride to whom his heart is open as the lake. From her I heard of all their plans; how they have filled the wood below the rocks with watchers; how they have set guards on every trail. They never dreamed that from the morning-side a way could be found down over the rock into this dell. I pondered over the tidings, and remembered that, when I was a little happy child, I clambered some way down by the aid of shrubs and crevices in search of fruit; and I laid my plan against theirs. I took two ropes, which I had woven long ago, of the tough bark of the moose-plant; and, making a wide circle round, I reached the upland above the cliffs. My only trouble was to find the exact spot from that side; for I knew that there was a cloud between me and thy enemies, and that I walked unseen. At length, however, I found the rock overlooking the chasm. I cast off all burdens, all that the brambles or branches might snatch at; and, with the ropes wound round me, came down as far as I could find safe footing. There was a tree, a small tree, on the pinnacle; and I tried it before I trusted it. One branch broke; but the root and stump stood firm, griping the rock fast. To them I fixed the end of one rope, and easily swung down to a point below where there was a larger, stronger tree. A stone, however, slipped from under my foot, and fell rattling down. Round the strong tree I twisted the rope again, and thus reached the very ledge overhead; but there, as there had been noise and some crashing of the branches, I stood for a while hidden behind the bushes, to make sure that I was not discovered. At length, however, I was satisfied; and now the other rope was a friend to give me help. I fastened it to the first, knotted it into tight loops, and thus, aiding hands and feet with sometimes the aid of a projecting stone, and sometimes a small shrub, came slowly down. By the same way I shall return, my love; and by it, too, my Walter must go back this night to his own people."
"Why not with you now?" asked Walter eagerly. "Let Otaitsa go with me, and, whenever we reach my father's house, become my wife indeed. Oh, how gladly will he fold her to his heart! how fondly will Edith call her sister!"
"It cannot be, beloved," she answered. "I came to save him I love--to save him who is the husband of my heart, but not to abandon my father till he gives me to you; and, besides, there would be none to help us. This night you must climb by the ropes and boughs up to the top of the cliff, when, as near as you can reckon, there have been six hours of darkness. At the top you will find people waiting. They are but women, yet they all love you, and me likewise; and they have sworn by their Great Spirit, that if it cost their lives they will set you free. Each will help you in some way. One has a canoe upon the creek--another knows the deepest woods on the Mohawk side, and can guide you well. Others will lead you down Wood Creek to Sir William Johnson's Castle, where you are safe. Eat now, my beloved; for you must have strength, and Otaitsa must leave you soon. Before she goes, she must tie your hands again, lest your enemies come ere the night; but she will tie them in such a sort, that with your teeth you can undraw the knot; and she will loosen the fastening of the bar, so that even a weak hand can push it out."
She had hardly uttered the words, when a low, mocking laugh came upon their ears, and two or three dark forms shadowed the doorway. Otaitsa instantly started to her feet, and drew a knife from the belt around her waist.
"Stand back," she cried aloud, in the Iroquois tongue, as the men glided in. "I am your great chief's daughter; and the blood of the Black Eagle will not bear a touch."
"We touch thee not, Blossom," answered Apukwa. "Thou shalt go free; for the Black Eagle is a great chief, a mighty warrior, reverenced by his people. But our prisoner we keep; and though thou hast loosened his bands, we can fasten them again. Put thy tomahawk in thy belt, brother of the Snake. It must taste no blood here, though it is hungry, I know well. He shall die; but not now."
As he spoke, he thrust his arm between the younger Indian and Walter, who had cast himself before Otaitsa as if for one desperate struggle, if he saw any violence offered to her. The words of the medicine-man, however, quieted him on that score; and it was but too plain that all resistance on his part would be in vain. A few hours before, he had sought death as a boon; but the coming of the Blossom had changed all his thoughts and feelings, had relighted hope, and restored firmness and constancy. He was willing to live on for the chances of what some other day might bring; the love and self-devotion of that beautiful creature made existence seem too valuable to cast away the slightest chance of its preservation. He suffered them to bind him then, while Otaitsa turned away her head, and struggled against the tears that sought to rise. It cost her a great effort; but resolution triumphed; and, with a lofty air very different from the tenderness of her demeanour a few moments before, she waved her hand for the Indians to make way, saying--
"Unworthy Oneidas! I go to carry my own tale to my father's feet; to tell him that, with his own blood warm in my heart, I came hither to save my brother, my lover, my husband; and to warn him that the tomahawk which falls on that beloved head severs the chain of Otaitsa's life. But fear not, Walter," she continued, turning towards him, "fear not, my beloved. Live, and laugh thine enemies to scorn. Thou shalt be delivered yet, let these men do what they will. It is written on high, that thou shalt not perish by their hands."
Thus saying, she left the hut; and, followed closely by two of the Oneidas, pursued her way back towards the Castle.
When she reached the gate of the palisade, she at once perceived a good deal of commotion and activity within, though none but women, youths, and children were to be seen.
"Where is the Black Eagle?" she asked of the first woman whom she met. "Has he returned to the lodge?"
"He returned with forty warriors," replied the other, in a grave tone; "painted himself for battle, and has gone forth upon the war-path, taking with him every warrior he could find."
"Against whom?" asked Otaitsa in as calm a tone as she could assume, but with her heart beating fast.
"We do not know," replied the woman sadly; "but a tale spread, coming out of darkness through which none could see, that the Black Eagle had gone against our brethren the Mohawks and Onondagas. It was said they had unburied the hatchet, and cut down the tree of peace, before the door of the Oneidas."
Otaitsa clasped her hands together, bent her head, and took some steps towards the door of the lodge. Then, turning to the two men who had followed her, she said, bitterly--"And ye were absent when the Black Eagle called for warriors? Ye were right; for ye are women, and have only courage to torment a captive."
Thus saying, she passed on with a quiet step into the lodge; and there, where no eye could see her, gave way in tears to all the sad and bitter feelings of her heart.