We must here revert to the time before Edith had been blessed by receiving intelligence of her husband from Seacomb, and had so cheerfully replied to the note which he wrote to her on a scrap of paper torn from his pocket book. In order not to interrupt the history of Roger's difficulties and their successful issue, we have not yet narrated the trials that his exemplary wife had endured—and endured with a resolution and fortitude equal to his own.
When the joyful news of Roger's safety reached Edith at Salem, she was slowly recovering from a long and dangerous illness, which anxiety and sorrow had brought on her a few weeks after the birth of her child. Through all her sufferings of mind end body, Dame Elliot had been her nurse and her comforter; and she and her husband had sacrificed their own domestic comfort, and their own humble but cherished home, to lessen the sorrows of their afflicted friend.
All the consolation that human sympathy and affection could afford to Edith, was given by these true Christian friends; and all the spiritual strength that the prayers end exhortations of such a minister as Elliot could impart to a sorrowing spirit, were received, and gratefully appreciated, by the object of his solicitude and care. But when weeks and months had elapsed, and still no tidings came of the beloved wanderer, what hope could be given to the desolate heart of Edith Her friends had themselves given up all hope of Roger's having survived the toils end privations of the journey; and how could they bid his wife cheer up, and look for brighter days, which they believed would never come? A letter which Edith received from her parents, by the captain of a fishing-boat from Plymouth, too clearly proved that Williams had never reached that settlement; and from that day the health and spirits of his wife visibly declined. She did not give way to violent grief; but a settled melancholy dwelt on her pale and lovely countenance, and all the thoughtful abstraction of her early year, which happiness had chased from her features, returned again. No object but her infant seemed to rouse her; and then it was only to tears: but tears were better than that look of deep and speechless sorrow that generally met the anxious gaze of her friends, and made them, at times, apprehensive for her reason. At length her physical powers gave way, and a violent attack of fever brought Edith to the brink of the grave.
During this period both Elliot and his wife devoted themselves, day and night, to the poor sufferer, whose mind wandered continually, and whose deeply-touching lamentations for the beloved one, whom she mourned as dead, brought tears to the eyes of her faithful friends. They had no hope of her recovery, nor could they heartily desire it; for they believed her earthly happiness was wrecked for ever, and they could ask no better fate for her than a speedy reunion with her Roger in a home beyond the grave.
Her child they looked on as their own, and cherished her with almost a parent's love and care; while they resolved to bring her up in those high and holy principles that had been so nobly contended for by her unfortunate father, and so beautifully exemplified in the amiable character of her mother.
The fever ran high, and bore down all the strength—both moral and physical—of its victim. At length, after days and nights of restlessness and delirium, a deep and heavy sleep came on; and Edith lay still and motionless for hours, while her untiring friends sat watching her in silence, and offering up fervent prayers for the soul that seemed to be departing. During this anxious period, a gentle knock was made at the door; and Elliot, on opening it, was presented by Edith's single attendant with the small packet that Roger's Indian messenger had brought for her mistress.
In trembling agitation, the pastor showed the direction—which he knew to be in his friend's handwriting—to his wife: and now, indeed, they lifted up their hearts to the God who heareth prayer, that He would be pleased to recall the precious life that seemed to be fast ebbing away; and to permit His tried and faithful servants again to be united, and enjoy the happiness that yet might be their portion on earth.
Noiselessly Elliot glided from the room—for he feared to awaken the sleeper—and sought the friendly Indian, from whom he learnt the good news of Roger's safety, and all the particulars that the red man could relate concerning him. He then returned to Edith's chamber, and, in a low whisper, communicated all that he had heard to his wife, and consulted with her as to the best method of communicating the startling tidings to Edith, should she ever awake from her present death-like slumber.
They were still engaged in earnest, but scarcely audible, conversation, when Dame Elliot, who did not cease from watching her patient, observed her open her large eyes, and fix them with a look of intelligent inquiry on herself and her husband. She made a sign to him; and he likewise was struck with the evident change in Edith's countenance, and filled with hope that her reason had perfectly returned. This hope was quickly confirmed by the invalid saying in a very low voice, but in a collected manner—
'I have slept very long, and my dreams have been very painful. I dreamt that I was alone in the world, and that an angel came to take my soul where he had gone to dwell. And then—just as I bade farewell to earth—a little form came between me and the angel, and held me back. Where is that little being? Dame Elliot, let me look on her, that my trembling spirit may be stayed. No, Roger; no—I must not ask to follow you yet.'
Edith seemed too weak for tears, or for any strong emotion; but she closed her eyes, and slowly clasped her almost transparent hands upon her breast, and looked so still and colorless, that she might have been taken for a marble monument, but for the dark waving hair that fell upon her pillow, and shaded her snowy neck. Dame Elliot took up the infant from its little wicker cradle, and held it towards Edith, saying gently—
Look up, my Edith, and bless the little being that God has given to call you back to life and happiness.'
'Happiness!'murmured Edith. 'That word has no meaning for me! Duty is my only tie to life.'
But she did look up; and as her eyes were long end fondly fixed on the unconscious features of the child, her own sweet look of gentleness rose into them again, and she raised her feeble arms, as if to take the infant.
'And he will never see her,' she whispered. 'He will never look on his child in this world.'
Elliot thought that hope might now be given without danger; and he took her wasted hand in his, and said—
'Edith, you have had much sorrow, and it has nearly brought you down to the grave. But can you bear to feel the agitation of hope? Can you listen calmly while I tell you that some tidings of your husband have reached us, and that he was certainly alive after the time when you believed him dead?'
He paused, and looked anxiously to see the effect of this sentence; and he was almost awed by the expression of Edith's countenance. It was not agitation—it was not joy—it was not trembling uncertainty. But it was a look of concentrated mental power and endurance, and of speechless inquiry, that seemed to say, 'Now utter my sentence of life or death, and do it quickly!'
Dame Elliot could not bear it. Bursting into tears of deep emotion, she beat down and imprinted a kiss on Edith's cold brow, while she exclaimed, in broken accents—
'Yes! it is true, dearest Edith. You may live—and live, we hope, for happiness as great as has ever been your portion.'
'O, my God!' cried Edith-'this is too much!—too much of joy for one so weak and faithless. But tell me, my friends—tell me all. I can bear it now.'
Gently and gradually Elliot prepared her for the blissful certainty of her husband's safety; and when he found that illness had not greatly weakened her natural strength of mind, and that she could bear the joy that awaited her, he gave her Roger's own letter, and felt assured that the tears she, at length, shed at the sight of his hand-writing, would relieve and calm her over-burdened heart.
In this he judged truly; for, though Edith was greatly exhausted after this strong excitement, yet she passed a tranquil night, and was so much recovered on the following morning as to be able to converse composedly with her kind friends. The fever had passed away; and the sense of restored happiness, joined to youth and a naturally good constitution, had a rapid effect in renovating her strength and spirits, and recalling a faint bloom to her cheek.
Before the Indian set out on his return to Seacomb, she insisted on seeing him, and herself delivering to him a letter to Roger, in which she had carefully avoided all mention of her illness. She made numerous inquiries of him relative to her husband's health and present situation; and charged him to convey her packet safely, and tell his employer that he had seen her and his child well and happy. She could say this with truth; for so rapidly had she recovered, that the inexperienced eye of the Indian could detect no remaining indisposition in the slight and graceful form of the interesting pale-face, or any trace of disease in the bright eye that smiled so kindly upon him.
He departed with the friends of Williams, and earnestly did his wife wish that it had been possible for her to accompany them, and join her husband at once. But this could not be; and she could only endeavor to regain her strength, so as to be able to proceed to Plymouth, as soon as the promised vessel arrived. In due time it came: and bidding her kind and devoted friends an affectionate farewell, Edith and her child embarked, with all the little property that remained to her, and soon found herself once more beneath the peaceful roof of her parents.
Until she arrived at Plymouth, she was not aware of the fresh trial that had befallen her husband, in being compelled to abandon his settlement at Seacomb, and remove into the Narragansett district. This change was distressing to her, as it net only placed the lines of her future habitation at a greater distance from her parents and friends at New Plymouth, but also removed it further from all civilized life, and into a district inhabited by a tribe whom she had learnt to dread from her childhood, as the rivals and foes of the friendly Wampanoges. Still these considerations did not, in any measure, abate her eagerness to fellow Roger, and take her part in all his toils and anxieties. The winter had passed away, and, though far from genial, the weather was more tolerable for travelling; and Edith resolved to set out.
All the arguments and entreaties of Helen and Rodolph to induce her to delay her journey for some months, were ineffectual. Her husband lived; and he was suffering hardship—and could she remain separated from him, now that her own strength had been restored? The only concession she could be persuaded to make, was to wait until some friend from Plymouth was found to accompany her. Gladly would her father have done so; but he was suffering so severely from the ague that so often attacked the settlement in the spring months, as to be perfectly incompetent to attempt the toilsome journey. No vessel could now be procured, and it was on foot that Edith proposed to traverse the wide extent of wilderness that stretched between Plymouth and Roger's place of refuge.
Two faithful and active Indians were appointed by Mooanam to be her guides, and to carry the infant which she would not consent to leave behind her; and, in order that this might be accomplished with greater facility, Apannow provided her with one of the Indian cradles—or, rather, pouches—in which the red squaws so commonly carry their young children on their backs. This was thickly lined with soft and elastic bog-moss, and well adapted to the purpose for which it was designed.
All was prepared, and the impatient Edith only waited for a companion from among her own countrymen, who were all so much occupied at that busy season as to feel little disposed to undertake so long a journey. But she found one at length who was sufficiently interested in her happiness, and that of her husband, to leave his home and his occupations, and offer to be her protector. This was the excellent Edward Winslow, who had been her father's constant friend ever since their first emigration, and who bad also learnt to know and value Roger Williams, during his residence at Plymouth.
With such a companion, Edith felt she had nothing to fear; and her anxious parents committed her to his care with greater confidence than they would have done to that of any other protector. His natural sagacity, his courage, and his knowledge of the Indians and their language, rendered him peculiarly suitable for the enterprise; and his warm friendship for Rodolph and all his family, and the lively powers of his pious and intelligent mind, ensured to Edith both a kind and an agreeable fellow-traveler.
Nevertheless, it was not without many prayers and tears that Helen saw her daughter once more leave her childhood's home, and commence her journey. But Edith's spirits were joyous, and her hopes were high; and her child lay smiling contentedly in its strange nest, which was slung on the shoulders of one of the Indian guides. The other carried a small stock of provisions, and other necessaries, and thus the little party set forth.
We will rot follow them, day by day, in their fatiguing journey; but merely state that its length and difficulty exceeded even the expectations of Edith and her companion; but never damped the persevering courage of the former, or drew from her a complaint, or a wish to return. She only felt that every step, however rough and toilsome, carried her nearer to the object that was dearest to her on earth; and this conviction supported her when otherwise her strength must have failed.
Sometimes an Indian wigwam afforded her rest and shelter; but, frequently, a bed of dry leaves, and a roof of boughs, were the best lodging that Winslow and the Indians could provide for her and her little infant. Happily the weather was calm and mild, and the season sufficiently advanced to enable the Indians to find a quantity of nutritious roots, which, with the meal, or nokake, that they carried with them—or procured from the natives by the way—formed the chief subsistence of the party. Occasionally, their fare was improved by a wild turkey, or wood duck; or, perhaps, a squirrel or hare, that Winslow brought down with his gun; but often the day's journey was performed with no other refreshment than a few spoonsful of dry meal, and a draught of cold water, until something more nourishing could be procured at their place of repose for the right.
Roger Williams was standing one evening on the bank of the river, or rather, arm of the sea, called Seacock, near the spot where he had first landed, and to which he had given the name of 'What Cheer?' He was examining the landing-place, and contriving some means of turning it into a sort of harbor for canoes that belonged to the settlers in his new village, when his attention was attracted to the other side of the river, by hearing his own name loudly called by native voices. He looked to the spot, and saw two Indians plunge into the water, and swim rapidly towards him: and, as they did so, he also observed two other figures emerge from a grove of trees that reached nearly to the eastern brink of the inlet.
The distance was considerable, but Roger's keen eye could discern that one of them was a female form; and, as they approached nearer to the water's edge, and the rays of the evening sun fell brightly upon them, he also saw that the arms of that graceful and familiar form carried an infant.
Surely it is an illusion!' he exclaimed. I have so long pictured to my mind that blessed sight, that at length my fancy seems realized. It cannot be!'
But again his name was called—not now with an Indian accent, but in the manly English tones of Edward Winslow 'Bring down a canoe, Roger!' he shouted across the Water. 'Edith and your child cannot swim this, arm of the sea.'
It was then true! Edith—his beloved wife—was there and only that narrow inlet divided them! The Indians had sprung to the shore, and were waiting his directions, to go in search of a canoe; but for a few moments he did not regard them, so riveted were his eyes, and all his senses, on the opposite shore. But now he remembered that only by means of a boat could he attain that shore; and making a signal of wild joy and welcome to Edith, he hurried up the creek with the Indians, and rapidly unloosed the moorings of his canoe, which lay securely behind a projecting rock. He leaped into it, leaving the natives on the shore, and paddled the canoe swiftly down the creek, to the spot where Edith stood waiting to receive him, trembling with agitation and joy.
When the first burst of emotion, at this, long-desired meeting with his wife and hitherto unknown child, had subsided, Roger warmly welcomed the friend who had so kindly protected them during their long journey, and brought them to the wild spot that was now his only home. He then led them to the canoe, and, with Winslow's assistance, soon rowed them to the other side, and conducted them to his, infant settlement.
The huts were indeed erected, and covered in with shingle roofs; but their appearance promised little of outward comfort to Edith. Yet an inward joy and satisfaction were now permitted to her, which, at one time, she had never hoped to enjoy again on earth; and all externals were as nothing when compared with this. Nevertheless, she exerted herself with all a woman's taste and skill to arrange the simple furniture of the hut, and even to add a something of decoration; and both her husband and Winslow wondered at the improvement which she soon effected in the appearance of the dwelling, and the ingenuity with which she converted the rudest materials into articles of use or ornament.
Her joyous spirits, and active moments, gave a life and animation to the hitherto dreary scene; and Roger felt that he had, indeed, in her a helpmate, who would cheer the loneliest situation, and shed a grace and charm ever poverty itself.
Winslow appreciated all her excellent and amiable qualities very highly also; and yet he lamented the lot of both his friends, who had to endure, in this comparative solitude, all the struggles, and all the hardships, that the Pilgrim Fathers had once encountered, and had now conquered.
But the visit of this, 'great and pious soul,' as Roger described Edward Winslow, very greatly cheered the heart of the exiles. He remained for many weeks in the new settlement; and only left it when the advance of the season warned him that the short Indian summer was drawing to an end. A vessel which arrived at that time from Plymouth, and which brought the wives and families of several of the settlers, afforded him the means of returning by sea, and avoiding the tedious land journey. He departed, with the thanks and blessings of his friends, to convey to Edith's, parents the happy intelligence that she was both well and happy, and that it was evident her cheerful spirit had power to sustain her through every difficulty by which she might be surrounded.
'Epictetus says: "Every thing hath two handles." The art of taking things by the right handle, or the better side—which charity always doth—would save much of those janglings and heart-burnings that so abound in the world.' ARCHBISHOP LEIGHTON.
For a long period an unbroken peace had subsisted between the English settlers and the native tribes. But this could no longer be maintained, and a succession of petty injuries and mutual misunderstandings brought about a state of hostility that the Pilgrim Fathers had labored—and, generally, with success—to avert.
Their kind and equitable treatment of the Indians had not been, as we have had occasion to show, adopted by the later emigrants, and doubt and suspicion had taken the place of that confidence and respect with which the red men had soon learnt to regard the settlers of New Plymouth.
The recent colony of Connecticut, which was composed of bands of settlers from Plymouth and Massachusetts, and also a few Dutch planters, first came into hostile collision with the natives. The settlers of New Plymouth had entered upon an almost deserted land; those of Massachusetts had ensured to themselves safety by their superior strength; and those among the Narragansetts were protected from injury by the friendly feelings of the neighboring Indians. But the settlement of Connecticut was surrounded by hardy and hostile races, and could only enjoy security so long as the mutual hatred of the native tribes prevented them from uniting against the intruders.
In the extreme west of the Narragansett district, and near the entrance of Long Island Sound, dwelt a powerful division of the Pequodees; of that race of red warriors whose pride and ambition caused them to be both feared and hated by the other tribes in the vicinity. They could bring upwards of seven hundred warriors into the field, and their Chief, Sassacus, had, in common with almost all the great Indian Sagamores, a number of subordinate chiefs, who yielded to him a certain degree of obedience. The Narragansetts were the only tribe that could at all compete in strength with the fierce and haughty Pequodees; and their young Chieftain, Miantonomo, was already regarded by Sassacus as a dangerous rival.
Such was the feeling that existed among the tribes near the settlements of Connecticut, when an event occurred that disturbed the peace of the whole community. Two merchants of Virginia, who had long dwelt in Massachusetts, and who were engaged in trafficking with the Connecticut settlers, were suddenly and treacherously attacked by a party of Pequodees, and, with their attendants, barbarously murdered. And shortly afterwards another trader, named Oldham, met the same fate, being assassinated while he was quietly sleeping in his boat, by some Indians who had, but an hour before, been conversing with him in a friendly manner. This latter murder did not take place actually among the Pequodees, but on a small island belonging to the Narragansetts, called Block Island. But the inhabitants denied all knowledge of its perpetration, and the murderers fled to the Pequodees, by whom they were received and sheltered. A strong suspicion, therefore, lay on them as being guilty of the latter crime, as well as the former.
The government of Massachusetts immediately resolved on punishing the offenders, and a troop of eighty or ninety men were sent off to Block Island, to seek for the murderers. The natives endeavored to oppose their landing; but, after a short contest, they fled, and hid themselves in the woods. For two days the Boston soldiers remained on the island, burning and devastating the villages and fields, end firing at random into the thickets, but without seeing a single being. They then broke up the canoes that lay on the beach, and sailed away to the country of the Pequodees to insist on the guilty individuals being delivered to them and, on this condition, to offer peace. But neither the murderers nor their protectors were to be found. All had fled to the forests and the marshes, whither the English could not follow them, and they merely succeeded in killing and wounding a few stragglers, and burning the huts that came in their way.
This fruitless expedition rendered the Pequodees bolder than ever, and the neighboring towns were harassed by their nightly attacks, and, notwithstanding all their precautions, and the patrols that were set on every side, the savages fell on the whites whenever they were at work in the distant fields. They slew the men with their tomahawks end dragged their wretched wives and daughters away to captivity; and thus, in a short time, thirty of the English settlers had become the victims of their fury. Meanwhile, messengers were sent to Plymouth and Massachusetts, to implore their aid, and the latter state promised two hundred soldiers, and the former forty, which were as many as its small population could afford.
The Pequodees, dreading the power of the English, endeavored to move the Narragansetts—who had from the most distant times been their rivals and enemies—to join them in an offensive and defensive alliance against the white men, whom they represented as a common foe to the Indians, and the future destroyers of their race.
This intended confederation was discovered by Roger Williams, who spent much of his time in visiting the Indian villages and instructing the natives, with all of whom he obtained a remarkable degree of influence. This noble-minded and truly Christian-spirited man immediately seized the opportunity of repaying with benefits the heavy injuries that he had received from the Massachusetts; and, with an admirable magnanimity and self devotion, he set himself to prevent the dangerous alliance.
The government of Massachusetts were well aware that Williams was the only man who could effect this desirable object; and, on hearing from him of the schemes of Sassacus, they immediately requested the former victim of their unjust persecution to employ his influence with the natives for the benefit of his countrymen: and well and zealously be complied with this request. He left his now comfortable home, and all the various employments that occupied his time, and travelled restlessly from place to place, defying the storms and the waves, in a miserable canoe; and meeting, with an undaunted courage, the assembled parties of hostile tribes whom he sought, at his own extreme peril, to bring into alliance with the English. He succeeded in his patriotic object, and, after along doubtful negotiation, he persuaded the Narragansetts to refuse the proffered coalition with the Pequodees. Their young chief, Miantonomo, even went a journey to Boston, where he was received with distinguished marks of honor and respect, and signed a treaty which allied him to the settlers against his own countrymen.
The troops from the river-towns assembled together, and went down the Connecticut to attack the Pequodees in their own land. Their numbers were but small—not exceeding eighty men—as each town furnished a much weaker force than had been promised. But they were joined by a band of the Mohicans, a hardy race inhabiting the valleys of the Connecticut, and who had been alienated from the Pequodees by the oppression and arrogance that had excited the enmity of so many other tribes. The combined forces of the English and Indians were placed under the command of Captain Mason, a brave and intelligent officer who had served in the Netherlands under General Fairfax.
The detachment that was expected from New Plymouth was not ready to march at the time of the troops taking the field. Captain Standish, therefore, did not set out himself; but he allowed such of his brother- soldiers as were ready, to precede him, and take part in the commencement of the campaign. Among these, Rodolph Maitland, who still retained all the fire and energy of his youth, was the foremost; and he led a little band of brave companions to the place of rendezvous. The learned minister Stone—the friend and colleague of Hooker—accompanied the troops from Boston; for a band of Puritanical warriors would have thought themselves but badly provided for without such spiritual aid.
The instructions of the government of Connecticut directed Mason to land in the harbor of Pequod,[*] and thus attack the Indian forces on their own ground. But he found the natural strength of the place so much greater than he expected, and also observed that it was so watchfully guarded by his enemies, that he resolved to pass on to the harbor in Narragansett Bay; and, after having strengthened his forces with the warriors promised by Miantonomo, to attack the Pequodees from thence. A circumstance occurred here that is so characteristic of the time, and of the manners of the Puritans, that it must not be omitted. The officers under Mason were dissatisfied with this alteration in the plan of the campaign, and asserted that the instructions given to the commander ought to be literally followed. It was, therefore, resolved to refer the question to the minister, who was directed 'to bring down by prayer the responsive decision of the Lord.' Stone passed nearly the whole night in prayer and supplication for wisdom to decide the matter, and the next morning declared to the officers that the view taken by their leader was the right one; on which they all submitted without a murmur.
[Footnote: Now Newhaven]
The Indian reinforcements continued to increase. Miantonomo brought two hundred warriors, and other allied tribes joined them on their march, until the number of native auxiliaries amounted to five hundred. In these Mason placed little confidence, and would gladly have awaited the arrival of the forty men from Plymouth, who were already at Providence on their way to join him. But his men were eager to attack the savages, and the Indians taunted him with cowardice for desiring to delay the conflict; and he was forced to advance at once.
The great strength of the Pequodees consisted in two large forts, in one of which the redoubted Chief, Sassacus, himself commanded. The other was situated on the banks of the Mystic, an inconsiderable river that runs parallel to the Connecticut. These Indian forts or castles consisted of wooden palisades, thirty or forty feet high, generally erected on an elevated situation, and enclosing a space sufficiently large to contain a considerable number of wigwams for the aged men—or whiteheads—and the women and children.
These two fortresses were the pride and the confidence of the Pequodees, who believed them to be invulnerable; as, indeed, they had hitherto found them to the assaults of their own countrymen. And the other Indian tribes appeared to hold them in the same estimation; for when they found that it was Mason's intention to march directly to the fort on the Mystic, their courage failed completely. They were only accustomed to the Indian mode of warfare, which consists in secret attacks and cunning stratagems; and the idea of braving the terrible Pequodees in their strongholds, overpowered their resolution. The very warriors who, only the day before, had boasted of their deeds, now were crest-fallen, and cried out, 'Sassacus is a God; he is invincible!' and they deserted in troops, and returned to their own dwellings. Thus the English found themselves deprived of at least a hundred of their Narragansett allies. The rest remained with them, as did also the Mohicans; but their fear of the Pequodees was so great, that Mason could only employ them as a sort of rear-guard.
Meanwhile, these haughty Indians were exulting in their supposed security, and indulging in songs and feasting. They believed that the English were terrified at their strength and reputed numbers, and had fled from the intended place of landing in Pequod harbor in fear, and had abandoned their enterprise altogether. They, therefore, amused themselves with fishing in the bay; and then inviting their allies to join their revels, they passed the night in vaunting of their own great actions, and defying the cowardly whites.
We have seen that their assuming arrogance had aroused the jealousy and hatred of most of the neighboring tribes; but there were still a few who adhered to their cause, and were willing to unite with them against the British intruders. Among those, none were more powerful or more zealous than the Nausetts—that tribe which had so greatly harassed and annoyed the first settlers at Plymouth, and which still retained the same feelings of enmity that had then influenced them. The presence of Henrich among that portion of the tribe that was governed by Tisquantum had, indeed, secured to himself the respect and regard of almost the whole community; but it had not weakened the strong prejudice that they, as well as the main body of their tribe, entertained against his race, or lessened their ardent desire to rid the land of the powerful invaders.
Sassacus was well acquainted with the sentiments of his Nausett allies, and he had lost no time in securing the co-operation of the Sagamore of the tribe, as soon as he knew that the British troops were preparing to attack him, and he had, also, dispatched a swift messenger to meet Tisquantum and his warriors, and entreat them to use all possible expedition to join him in his own fortress, and assist in defending it against his enemies.
With the present position and intended movements of Tisquantum's party, the Pequodee Chief was perfectly conversant; for there was one in his castle who was acquainted with the plans of the Nausetts, and had only left their councils when their camp was pitched on the banks of the great Missouri.
This individual had reasons of his own, besides his wish to strengthen his countrymen against the English, for desiring the presence of Tisquantum's warriors in the approaching contest. He hoped to place Henrich in such a position, that he would have no alternative but either to lead the Nausetts against his own people or to excite their distrust, and even hatred, by refusing to do so. He expected, and wished, that he should adopt the latter course; for he knew that he had himself still many secret adherents in the tribe, who would gladly make this an excuse for withdrawing their allegiance from the white Sachem, and bestowing it on him; and thus, at length, the long-sought object of his restless ambition might he attained. And then—then revenge!—that burning passion of his soul—might quickly be also satiated!
It was now many months since Coubitant had escaped the punishment that was due to his many crimes, and had fled from the wrath of Tisquantum. But he had contrived to keep up an exact knowledge of the movements of the tribe, and even an intercourse with his own treacherous partisans. Often, indeed, as the Nausetts traveled slowly across the wide plain between the Missouri and the Mississippi, that well-known and terrible eye of fire was fixed upon them from the elevated bough of some thick tree, or from the overhanging summit of a neighboring rock; and often at night, when the camp was sunk in the silence of repose, his guilty confederates crept forth to meet him in some retired spot, and form plans for the future.
In this way Coubitant dodged the path of the Nausetts while they traversed the forests and savannas, the lulls and the valleys, that led them at length to the great lake, now so well known as Lake Superior. Here they encamped for a considerable time, in order to construct a sufficient number of canoes to carry the whole party across it and also, by following the chain of lakes and rivers that intersects that part of the great continent, and ends in Lake Ontario, to enable them to land at no very great distance from their own native district.
When the little fleet set out on its long and circuitous voyage, Coubitant actually contrived to be one of the passengers. His partisans secured a canoe to themselves; and, pretending that some of their arrangements were incomplete, they lingered on the shore until the rest of the boats were nearly out of sight. They then summoned their leader from his place of concealment, and, giving him a seat in the canoe, followed at their leisure. Thus he performed the whole of the voyage; and when the tribe landed on the eastern shore of Ontario, and recommenced their wanderings on land, he left their route, and hastened forward to try and contrive some schemes that could further his own views.
The news of the war between the English and his old friends, the Pequodees, soon reached him; and, in an incredibly short time, he arrived in their country, and joined Sassacus in his fortified village. It was he who travelled from thence to the head-quarters of the Nausetts, near Cape Cod, and secured their assistance in the coming conflict; and then returned in time to send a trusty emissary to meet Tisquantum, and deliver to him a courteous message from Sassacus.
This message had the desired effect; for Tisquantum called a council of his braves, and submitted to them the request of their powerful ally, that they would fight with him against the Narragansetts. The emissary was instructed to say nothing of the quarrel with the English; for Coubitant wished to get Henrich into the power of the Pequodees, before he became aware of the service that was to be required of him; and he trusted that no intelligence would reach him in the desolate country through which he and his warriors would have to march.
All the assembled council were unanimous in their decision, that the request of Sassacus should be complied with; and Tisquantum then turned to Henrich, who sat beside him, and said—
'My son! the days are past when I could lead forth my warriors to the battle, and wield my tomahawk with the best and the bravest. I must sit in my tent with the children and the squaws, and tell of the deeds that I once could perform, while my young braves are in the field of fight. You must now be their leader, Henrich; and let them see that, though your skin is fair, you have in your breast an Indian heart.'
'I will, my father,' replied the Young Sachem. 'Your warriors shall be led into the thickest of the battle, even as if your long-lost Tekoa went before them with his glancing spear. Tisquantum shall never have cause to feel shame for the son of his adoption.'
'I know it, my brave Henrich,' said the old Chief, 'I know that the honor of Tisquantum's race is safe in your hands; and that you will fight in defence of my ancient friends and allies, even as I would have fought in the days of my young strength. Come away, now; my warriors must prepare to go with the messenger of the great Sassacus. No time must be lost in giving him the aid he asks; and you, my son, will be ready by to-morrow's dawn to lead them on their way. I cannot go with you, for these feeble limbs are unfit to travel at the speed with which you must cross the forests and the plains; neither could the women and children bear it. We will follow the course that we designed to take, and go to the land of my fathers in the far east; and there we will wait for our victorious warriors.
As Tisquantum said this, he left the hall of council, which consisted of a shadowing maple tree, and led his companion to the hut of boughs, in which Oriana and Mailah sat anxiously awaiting the result of the conference. They did not regret when they heard that their husbands were to hasten to the scene of war, for they were Indian women, and could glory in the deeds of their warriors. But when they were informed that the main body of the tribe was to pursue the intended route towards Paomet,[*] their grief and disappointment were very great.
[Footnote: Cape Cod]
'Must I leave you, Henrich?' exclaimed Oriana. 'Must I know that you are in the battle-field; and wounded perhaps, and wanting my aid, and I far away? Let me go with you! You know that Oriana can bear danger, and fatigue, and hardship; and with you there would be no danger.'
'It cannot be,' replied Henrich, gently but decidedly. 'Your father cannot travel, as we must do, with no respite or repose; and you, my Oriana, could not leave him and our boy. You must go with them to Paomet, my love; and prepare a home for me after the fight is done. The camp of the fierce Pequodees is no place for you.'
Oriana felt that her husband was right; and she said no more. But she did not the less sorrowfully assist him in his preparations for the journey and the battle, or feel less keenly the grief of separation when, at daybreak on the following morning, he and his warriors were ready to set out.
'My son,' said Tisquantum, as he grasped the hand of Henrich, 'I have one request—I would rather say command—to impress upon you before we part. Let it not be known in the camp that you are a pale-face. I know that your good arm will bring glory on yourself and those who follow you; and I would have that glory belong to my own people, among whom you have learned to fight. I ask it also for your own sake; for in the camp of Sassacus there may be some who regard your race with jealousy and hatred, and would not bear to see a pale-face excelling the red men. You may trust my warriors. They look on you as they would have done on my Tekoa. But you may not trust either our Indian friends, or our Indian foes.'
Henrich regarded this precaution as needless; yet, when Oriana joined her entreaties to those of her father, he readily gave the promise required. His costume and accoutrements were strictly native; and constant exposure to the air and sun had burnt his skin almost to a copper color. But his eyes were a deep blue; and his hair, though now dark, had a rich auburn glow upon it, that differed greatly from the jet black locks so universal among the Indians. To hide this, Oriana gathered it up into a knot on the top of his head in native fashion, and covered it with a close black cap. Over this his Sachem's coronet of feathers was placed; and it would have required a very scrutinising and suspicious eye to have detected the disguise. The blue eyes alone gave intimation of an European extraction; and they were so shaded by long black lashes, and had an expression so deep and penetrating, that few could discover of what color they were. The tongue of Hannah, too, had learnt to speak the Indian language with a pure, native accent, that no one could acquire who had not been brought up among the red men; so that there was little fear of his being known for a pale-face, amid the excitement and confusion of the war.
The warriors departed; and Tisquantum's party resumed their journey, though not so joyously as before their separation from those who were going to meet danger, and, perhaps, death.
With unremitting speed, the Nausett braves pursued their way, and reached the land of the Pequodees before the campaign had begun. Sassacus had, as we have seen, taken up his position in one of his boasted forts, and he wanted no reinforcements there; for his presence was regarded by his people as a panoply of strength. He, therefore, sent to desire the Nausett detachment to march to Fort Mystic, and assist the garrison there in defending it against any attack that might he made.
'Merciful God! how horrible is night!
There the shoutOf battle, the barbarian yell, the brayOf dissonant instruments, the clang of arms,The shriek of agony, the groan of death,In one wild uproar and continuous din,Shake the still air; while overhead, the moon,Regardless of the stir of this low world,Holds on her heavenly way. MADOC.
Henrich was now called on to perform the part of an Indian leader in an Indian camp. It was no new position to him; for, during his years of wandering with the Nansetts, he had taken an active part in many of the wars that were being waged by the tribes among whom they had sojourned, against their hostile neighbors. He, therefore, was fully conversant with Indian modes of warfare; but he was as unaccustomed as his followers were to the defence of a fortress, or to a pitched battle between assembled forces in an open field.
He had not been long at Fort Mystic ere he found that he was about to be opposed to some of his own countrymen, and the information filled him with grief and dismay. It is true, he had dwelt so long among the Nausett Indians, and all his personal interests were so bound up with theirs, that he felt as if they were indeed his kindred. But still his heart yearned towards his own people and the friends of his childhood, and the idea of being instrumental in shedding the blood of a Briton was utterly repugnant to him. It was now, however, too late to retract. He had pledged his word to Tisquantum that he would lead his warriors bravely against the foes of his allies, and honor forbad him to decline the post of their Sachem and commander. He therefore concealed his scruples and anxieties in his own breast, and resolved to do what he now felt to be his duty. It was with much satisfaction that he learnt, from one of the Indian spies, that the detachment of troops from New Plymouth had been unable to join the forces of their countrymen; for thus he should be spared the trial of being placed in opposition to those with whom, perhaps, he had been brought up in childhood. Towards the other settlers be entertained a far less friendly feeling; as reports of their cruel and unjust conduct towards the natives had, from time to time, reached him during his residence in different parts of the continent.
The Pequodees and their allies treated him with respect and honor, as the representative of their ancient friend Tisquantum; and if his English blood was known to any of them, they made no remarks on the subject. They did not dare to notice what such a man as the Nausett Sachem appeared to be, chose to conceal.
But it is certain that there was one in the fortress of Mystic whose keen eye had penetrated the disguise, and to whom the features of Henrich were so familiar, that he could even read his thoughts in his open and ingenuous countenance. Coubitant was already in the castle before the Nausett detachment arrived; and, while he dexterously contrived to conceal himself from Henrich, he watched him narrowly, and his eye was on him when he first became aware that English soldiers were with the foes with whom he must contend. Then did the savage exult in the painful struggle that he could perceive the news excited in his rival's breast, and he hoped that the white Sachem would find some pretext for leaving the fort, and deserting to his own countrymen. He kept spies continually watching his every movement, with orders to allow him full liberty to escape, but to follow and secure him before his purpose could be effected, and bring him in bonds to receive from Coubitant's own hand the punishment of a coward and a deserter.
But he waited in vain for any such attempt on the part of the young Sachem. Henrich never left the fortress, and employed himself in endeavoring to keep his men from sharing in the revelry and wild security of their countrymen.
In this endeavor he had but little success, and Jyanough alone remained with his friend, and took no part in the noisy songs and dances that followed the feast, and con-tinned almost until midnight.
Then a deep and profound stillness gradually succeeded to the barbarous noises of the wild festival; and long before day-break the exhausted revellers were all buried in a heavy sleep. Even the watch, whose business it was to patrol round the fort, had that night carelessly left their respective stations, and come inside the palisades to light their pipes. Here they found none awake but the Nausett Sachem and his friend, who were slowly walking among the weary and sleeping warriors, attended only by a large and powerful dog. There was another wakeful eye in the fortress, and that was even now fixed on Henrich. Bat he whose dark soul looked forth from that singular eye, was himself concealed from view, and was intently watching the object of his hatred, and hoping that he would now attempt some act of cowardice or treachery.
Henrich and Jyanough approached the guard, who had thus thoughtlessly left their post, and desired them immediately to return to their duty. But while the men remonstrated on the uselessness of so strictly keeping a watch, now that no present attack could be expected, they were startled by the loud and furious barking of Rodolph, who had wandered to the open gate, and thus gave ominous warning of approaching danger. The terrified guard now reached to the gate, accompanied by Henrich and Jyanough, when, to their dismay, they beheld in the faint moonlight a large body of men approaching close to the fort.
They easily discerned that the foremost of the troop were Europeans; and they raised a loud cry of Owannux! Owannux!—Englishmen! Englishmen!—which quickly aroused the sleepers, and brought them towards the gate. In the next minute the fort was thickly hemmed in by the British force, and a second dense ring was formed beyond them by their Indian allies.
The main entrance was soon forced by the swords and muskets of the vigorous assailants; and, though the Pequodees fought with all the fury of despair, they were driven back, and compelled to retreat towards the wigwams. They were closely pursued by their foes; and, at length, threw themselves into the huts, which contained the terrified women and children, and resolved to defend them to the last gasp. While the murderous strife continued, the light of day began to dawn; and soon the full glow of the rising sun revealed the work that had been done in darkness. The ground was strewed with dead and dying Indians; but the band of English warriors was yet unbroken, and was fiercely bearing onward towards the wigwams. Their numbers were small, indeed, when compared with those of their opponents; but the latter had no firearms, and a panic seemed to have struck them from the force and suddenness of the attack. Still they defended the lines of wigwams with desperation, until Mason, with amazing boldness, entered one of them, and, seizing a brand from the hearth, set fire to the roof of reeds. An Indian warrior was in the act of levelling his arrow at him, when an English officer sprang forward, and cut the string of the bent bow with his sword.
This officer caught the eye of Henrich; and, though he knew not why, riveted it by a strange and unaccountable attraction. He was a noble- looking man; and, though his dark hair was slightly tinged with grey, his muscular limbs had apparently lost none of their force, and his spirit none of its courage and energy.
So fixedly was the attention of Henrich fastened on the gallant soldier, that, for a time, he was regardless of the battle that raged around him, and of the fearful conflagration that was spreading along the Indian huts. These were only composed of weed and dry moss and reeds; and the flames quickly caught hold of them, and promised soon to bring the conflict to a dreadful close.
The eye of Henrich was still fixed on that noble English officer; and the instinctive feeling of admiration and respect with which his aspect inspired him, was increased by seeing him, regardless of his own safety, actively engaged in rescuing an Indian woman and her child from a mass of burning ruins.
He had been observed by other eyes also—by eyes that recognised him, and glared with irrepressible fury as they fell on him'. An Indian warrior approached him from behind, while he was unguardedly pursuing his work of mercy; and Henrich saw the savage preparing to strike a deadly blow, that would have cleft the head of the stranger in twain. Could he stand and see the noble Briton thus fall by a secret and unresisted attack? No! every feeling and every instinct of his heart forbad it! One instant his tomahawk flew in a gleaming circle round his head; and the next it fell with crushing force on the right shoulder of the savage, and sank deeply into his chest. It was a timely blow, and saved the white man's life. But it could not save him from a severe wound in the back, where the axe of the Indian fell heavily, as his arm dropped powerlessly by his side—never to be raised again.
Coubitant sank on the ground; and, as he turned to look on his unexpected assailant, his blood-shot eyes met those of Henrich, and glared fiercely, first at him, and then at his intended victim, whose life had been so strangely preserved. They stood side by side, unconscious of the tie that bound them so closely together. Coubitant knew it well; and he felt in this awful moment that Mahneto had, in righteous retribution, sent the son to preserve the father's life from the hand of him who had hated both alike. He hated them still: and, even with his dying breath, he would not reveal the secret that would have united those seemingly hostile warriors in the embrace of deep affection.
Rodolph had not seen the friend whose timely aid had partially averted the deadly blow that had been aimed at him by the savage. But, on turning round, he was astonished to perceive that his foe and his avenger were apparently of the same party. The latter—whose countenance expressed the deepest indignation, and who was raising his bloody hatchet from the prostrate form of the wounded Indian—was evidently not one of the allies of the English; and his dress and ornaments, and air of dignified command, indicated him to be a Chief among his own people. Why, then, had he come to the aid of an enemy?
Rodolph gazed inquiringly at the fine countenance of the young Sachem, which was now bent upon the dying Indian at his feet.
'Coubitant!' he exclaimed in the Nausett tongue, is it, indeed, you whom I have thus slain unknowingly? You have been a bitter and an untiring enemy to me; but it was not for this that I smote thee to the earth. I knew you not. But I saw you aim a cowardly blow at the white chief; and I saved him. I forgive you now for all your hatred, and all your evil designs, which Mahneto has thus recompensed upon your own head.'
'I ask not your forgiveness,' replied the savage in a deep, struggling voice—for the hand of death was on him, and the dark fire of his eye was waning out. 'In death, I hate and defy you! And in death I enjoy a revenge that you know not of.'
He strove to raise his hand in menace, but it fell to the ground; and, with a groan of suppressed agony, he expired.
The fight was raging with unabated violence, and the conflagration had already spread to the farthest end of the fortress. Henrich looked around for his comrades, who were bravely contending with their powerful foes at some distance, and he hastily prepared to join them. But, as he turned away, he courteously waved his hand to Rodolph, and said in the English language, but with an Indian accent,
'Farewell, brave Englishman!'
Rodolph started. That voice had thrilled through his heart when it had spoken a strange language: but now it struck upon him with a sense of familiarity that be could not account for, as the Indian Chief was evidently an utter stranger to him. He returned his parting salutation and 'farewell'; but still he watched his retreating form, and thought he distinctly heard him utter the name 'Rodolph!' as a large dog, which had stood near him during their brief encounter, bounded after him over foe heaps of slain and dying.
'Surely it was my own fancy that conjured up that name,' thought Rodolph. The next moment he found himself compelled again to join the conflict, and, at the head of his little band, to fight his way out of the fortress, which was rapidly becoming a prey to the devouring flames. All the English withdrew outside the palisades, and thickly surrounded the fort; while their Indian allies, who had hitherto kept aloof, now took courage to approach, and form a second circle outside. The most furious despair now took possession of the souls of the devoted Pequodees: and their terrible war-cry was heard resounding high, and mingled with the agonising yells of the women and children, and helpless aged men, who were expiring amid the flames. Many of the warriors climbed the palisades, and leaped down among their foes, hoping to escape; but they were quickly despatched by the muskets and bayonets of the English; or if any had power to break through the first hostile line, they fell beneath the battle-axes of the Mohicans.
Rodolph had received a considerable wound, but it had not entirely disabled him. At the head of his men he passed through the open gate of the fortress, and attempted still to lead and command them. He found, however that his strength was failing, and that he could no longer wield his good broad sword. He therefore stood leaning on it, and watching, with mingled feelings of pity and horror, the progress of the work of destruction.
Presently he saw a side entrance to the fort thrown suddenly open, and the form of the Indian Chief—whose tomahawk had saved his life, and whose voice had awakened such strange feelings—appeared rushing forth. He was attended by another striking looking warrior, and followed by a band of determined natives, who were resolved to escape, or sell their lives dearly.
Rodolph's men, who occupied the position opposite to that gate, raised their muskets to fire on these brave men; but their commander loudly and authoritatively bade them desist.
'Hold! I command you!' he exclaimed. 'Let that noble Chieftain escape, and all his attendants for his sake. He saved my life in the fort; and death to the man who injures him!
He attempted to rush forward to enforce his orders, but pain and loss of blond prevented him from moving; and he would have fallen but for the support of one of his comrades.
Meanwhile, Henrich and Jyanough, and their band of Nausetts, had rushed through the unopposing ranks of the English, and were now contending desperately with the Indian line beyond. The British troops paused, and looked after them; and the sympathy that brave men feel for each other prevented any of them from attempting to pursue or molest them. On the contrary, all now wished them success.
With breathless anxiety Rodolph gazed after them, and watched the towering plumes that adorned the noble head of the Sachem, as he bore onward through the opposing crowd of Indians. He passed, and gained the plain beyond, attended by his followers; and, from the elevated position at which the fort was erected, Rodolph could still watch the little band retiring, until the Indian heroes were hidden from view by a thicket.
So fiercely had the fire seconded the efforts of the English that the whole conflict only lasted one hour. In that brief space of time, between five and six hundred Indians—young and old, men and women— were destroyed by fire and sword; and the small remainder were made prisoners of war by the English, or carried off as prizes by the hostile natives. Only two of the British soldiers were slain, but many were wounded; and the arrows remaining some time in the wounds, and the want of necessary medicine and refreshment, added greatly to their sufferings The medical attendants attached to the expedition, and the provisions, had all been left in the boats, and a march of more than six miles through their enemies' land was necessary, in order to reach them.
Litters were therefore constructed and, in these, the wounded were sent off under the charge of the Mohicans, while the able-bodied men, whose number was reduced to little more than forty, prepared to follow as a rear-guard. The whole party were still near the smoking ruins of the fort, when they were startled by perceiving a large body of armed natives approaching. These were a band of more than three hundred Pequodees, sent by Sassacus to aid the garrison of Fort Mystic. Happily, they did not discover the small number of the English who were in a condition to oppose them, and they turned aside, and avoided a re-encounter. The white men took advantage of this mistake on the part of their enemies, and hastened forward with all the speed that circumstances would allow.
But they had not proceeded far when their ears were assailed by the most discordant yells from the Pequodees. They had reached the scene of devastation; and, when they beheld the ruined fort, and the ground strewn with hundreds of mangled corpses and expiring friends, their fury knew no bounds. They stamped and howled with rage and grief, and madly tore their hair; while they gave vent to their excited feelings in that fearful and peculiar yell, at the sound of which the stoutest hearts might quail. Then, with a wild and desperate effort at revenge, they rushed down the bill in pursuit of their cruel enemies. The rear- guard turned, and met the onset bravely. The savages were received with a shower of bullets, which checked their furious assault; but they hung on the rear of the English, and harassed them during the whole of their retreat. They, however, reached their vessels in safety, and arrived in triumph at Hartford, from which port they had sailed three weeks before.
This discomfiture proved a death-blow to the pride and power of the redoubted Sassacus. Disgusted alike by his arrogance, and by his recent defeat, many of his own warriors deserted him and attached themselves to other tribes; and the Sachem then destroyed his second fortress, end carried off his treasure to the land of the Mohawks, near the river Hudson, and, with his principal Chiefs, joined that warlike race.
Meanwhile, the remainder of the troops from Massachusetts, whom the Government had not thought it necessary to send with Captain Mason, had landed at Saybroke, led by Captain Houghton, and attended by Wilson as their spiritual guide. They arrived just in time to hear of the successful issue of the campaign; and had, therefore, nothing left for them to do, except to join a small band from Connecticut, and keep down or destroy the few Pequodees, or other hostile Indians who still lurked about the district, and kept the settlers in fear and anxiety. These wretched natives were chased into their most secret haunts, where they were barbarously slain; their wigwams were burnt, and their fields desolated. Nor were the English the only foes of the once terrible Pequodees. Their Indian rivals took advantage of their present weak and scattered condition, to wreak upon them the suppressed vengeance of bygone years; and pursued, with ruthless cruelty, those whose very name had once inspired them with awe and dread. And yet—with shame be it said!—theChristianleader of the troops of Massachusetts, himself a member of the strict and exclusive Church of Boston, surpassed these savages in cruelty.
On one occasion, he made prisoners of nearly a hundred Pequodees. Of these miserable creatures he sent the wives and children into servitude at Boston, while he caused the men—thirty-seven in number—to be bound hand and foot, and carried in a shallop outside the harbor, where they wore thrown overboard. If this barbarous deed was not committed by the directions of theChristianFathers of Massachusetts, yet they certainly neither disclaimed nor censured it. Indeed, so little were cruelty and oppression, when exercised against the red men, regarded as crimes by many of the settlers, that one of their learned divines, even of the age succeeding the perpetrations of the above appalling event, expressed it as his opinion that Heaven had smiled on the Englishhunt;and added, with horrible and disgusting levity, 'that it was found to be the quickest wayfeed the fisheswith the multitude of Indian captives!'
The other tribes who had joined the Pequodees in opposing the conquering white men, were pardoned on their submission; but that devoted race, who fought like heroes to the very last, were extirpated as a nation from the face of the earth. The very name in which they had so long gloried, and which had been a terror to all the neighboring tribes, was not permitted to remain, and to tell where once they had dwelt and reigned unrivalled. The river, which had been called the Pequod, received the appellation of the Thames; and the native township, on the ruins of which an English settlement was founded, was afterwards called New London. Numbers of the women and boys, who were taken captive from tune to time by the British troops, were sold and carried as slaves to Bermuda, and others were divided among the settlers, and condemned—notnominally to slavery,for that was forbidden by the laws of New England, but—toperpetual servitude,which must, indeed, have been much the same thing to free-born Indian spirits, accustomed to the wild liberty of the forests and the prairies.
Sassacus—the once mighty Chief of this mighty and heroic people—was basely slain by the Mohawks, among whom he had sought fellowship and protection, for the sake of the treasures that be had brought with him from his own lost dominions; and his heart was sent by his murderers as a peace-offering to the government of Connecticut.
Thus ended the war which had been commenced as a necessary measure of self-defence, and in which the pious and high-minded Roger Williams had, at first, taken so active and influential a part. The manner in which it was carried out, and the cruelty that marked so many of its details, were repulsive in the highest degree to his just and benevolent spirit; but where mercy was concerned, his opinion and advice had no influence with the stern men of Boston. The only act which met with his approbation in the conclusion of the campaign, was the assignment of the depopulated lands of the Pequodees to Uncas, the Chief of the Mohicans. As being a conquered territory, the usual laws of war would have annexed it to the territory of the victors. But, in this case, the settlers adhered to their original principle of only obtaining, by purchase from the natives, those tracts of land on which they desired to settle; and a great part of that which was now bestowed on Uncas, was afterwards bought back from him and his inferior Sachems, or obtained by friendly contract, until the English became possessors of the whole district.
At a subsequent period, the Pequodees who had escaped from their desolated land, and joined other tribes, assembled themselves together, and made one final effort at establishing their independence in a distant part of the country. But their power and prosperity were broken for ever. Captain Mason was again sent to subdue this remnant of the tribe; and the destruction that was accomplished on these unhappy exiles spread a fear of the white men through all the Indian race in that part of the continent. From that time the settlers of Connecticut—who had been the original cause of this cruel war—enjoyed an unbroken peace and security for forty years.
'The voices of my home! I hear them still!They have been with me through the stormy night—The blessed household voices wont to fillMy hearts clear depths with unalloyed delight!I hear them still unchanged; though some from earthAre music parted, and the tones of mirth—Wild silvery tones, that rang through days more bright,Have died in others—yet to me they comeSinging of boyhood back!—the voices of my home!' HEMANS.
One Sabbath evening, a few months after the events related in the last chapter, and when the short second Indian summer, that so often returns late in the month of September, was at its height, the inhabitants of New Plymouth were assembled at their meeting-house on 'the Burying Hill,' and engaged at their usual devotions. None were left in their dwellings except those whom age or sickness prevented from joining the rest of the congregation, or those who were necessarily detained by the care of young children.
The habitation of Rodolph Maitland was, therefore, deserted by all but Janet, who would gladly have gone that evening to listen to the husband of her young mistress; for Roger Williams was to lead the prayers of the congregation, and to deliver to them the customary address. But Ediths little girl demanded her care; and old Janet took too much pride and pleasure in the interesting child to repine at having the charge of her, even though it prevented her from attending at the meeting-house on the first occasion of Roger's officiating there since his marriage.
Little Edith was just beginning to walk alone, and it was her delight to play in the bright sunny garden, and pluck the gay flowers that still bloomed there in profusion. She was thus engaged, and murmuring a sweet but inarticulate song that her mother had attempted to teach her, when Janet, apprehending no danger, returned for a moment to the house, to perform some domestic duty.
Just then a stranger, followed by a large dog, entered the garden by the wicket gate that led towards the forest, and stood silently gazing around him, without at first observing the happy and occupied child. He was tall and of a commanding appearance; and his costume, which was richly ornamented in the Indian fashion, bespoke him to be a native of high rank. But had any one closely examined his countenance, they would have discovered beneath those long dark lashes, and clearly marked eyebrows, the deep blue eye of the Saxon race, which was also indicated by the rich brown hair, that, now unconcealed, waved across his manly forehead. A keen eye would also have detected on the features of that seeming Indian Sachem an expression of deep thought and strong emotion, that told of old remembrances not yet obliterated, and of feelings that belonged to home and kindred.
Yes! Henrich was, indeed, absorbed in those recollections that were revived in his breast by the sight of objects once so familiar, but which many years had elapsed since last he had looked on. Much was changed: but much was still the same. The rude hut commodious log-house that once stood on that site was now replaced by a substantial and picturesque dwelling in the Elizabethan style of architecture, whose deep bay windows were hung with the sweet single roses that were natives of the woods, and other flowering plants; while wreaths of the well-known Virginian creeper, now glowing in its scarlet hue of autumn, climbed to the summit of the carved gables and pinnacles that ornamented the building, and hung from thence in rich festoons.
On the front of this dwelling the evening sun fell brightly, and its slanting beams likewise partially illuminated the garden with long streaks of light, while other parts were thrown into strong shadow by the trees and shrubs that grew among the flower-beds. One of these—a noble tulip-tree—rose in the centre of the enclosure and stretched its giant arms wide on every side. On this tree the eyes of the wanderer rested long; and then he approached it, and stood looking wistfully towards a bower that was situated near the old tree, and over which the creepers fell in wild luxuriance.
Was it a tear that glittered in that warlike stranger's eye, as a ray from the western sun fell on his face through the thick overhanging foliage? And did those manly limbs tremble as he clasped his hands over his face, and sank on the rustic seat beneath the tulip-tree?
'I cannot enter the house!' he exclaimed, in a low voice. 'I cannot seek those loved ones there where once we dwelt in happiness together; and where, perhaps, none now remain to welcome the wanderer home! O, that some one would appear who might tell me of their fate!'
Henrich spoke to himself in his native tongue. He could not speak a strange language in that old familiar spot; and his voice attracted the notice of the little girl, who was now slowly moving towards him, her hands filled with the spoils of the flower-beds. She stopped, and gazed at the stranger, and then uttered a faint cry of fear that at once roused Henrich from his reverie. His eyes fell on the lovely child, and instantly his memory recalled the features and expression of his brother Ludovico, to whom the little Edith bore a strong resemblance.
With an irresistible impulse he sprang forward, and caught the little girl in his arms, and sought, by caresses, to soothe her fears, and hush her cries of terror. But those cries had caught the watchful ear of Janet; and, with all the speed that she could use, she came running from the house, merely anticipating that her charge had fallen down, or was alarmed at finding herself alone.
What was, then, her terror and amazement at seeing her in the arms of an Indian! One instant she stood rivetted to the spot, not knowing how to act. The next she turned, and again hurried in to the house, from whence she escaped by a back door, and sped breathlessly towards 'the Burying Hill.' She knew that the service was over—for the last strains of the parting hymn had been borne down by the evening breeze as she left the house—and therefore she would find help and succor from the returning congregation. That deep, melodious sound had been heard by Henrich also; and it had struck a chord in his heart that vibrated almost to agony. The stillness and abstraction of his look, as he listened to the dying cadence, silenced the cries of the little child. She gazed into his upturned eyes; and, possibly, she felt that those eyes had an expression that was neither strange nor terrible—for now she suffered the stranger to seat himself again on the bench beneath the tulip tree, and place her gently on his knee.
Such was the picture that met the eyes of Edith, and her husband, and parents, as they rushed into the garden, followed by the trembling and exhausted Janet.
'My child! my Edith! shrieked the young mother and sprang towards the tree. That name told a long history to the wanderer which his heart had already guessed. The Indian warrior rose, but he did not fly. No! he only met the terrified mother; and as he placed her child in her trembling arms, he folded them both in his own.