The good woman, when she came, made not the slightest objection; but, on the contrary, looked upon the expedition as something very amusing, which would give a relief to the tedium of her daily labors, and at the same time afford full occupation for her active spirit. She was as ready with suggestions as Chaudo; told Edith everything she had better take with her, detailed all her own proposed preparations, and even begged for a rifle, declaring that she was as good a shot as "Massa Walter," and had often fired his gun when he had brought it home undischarged. Edith declined, however, to have a riflewoman in her train; and having told her two chosen attendants that she would be ready in an hour, retired to make her preparations, and write a few lines to her father and her lover to account for her absence when they returned. Both letters were brief, but we will only look at that which she left for Mr. Prevost.
"My dear father," she said, "I am half afraid I am doing wrong in taking the step I am about to take, without your knowledge or approbation; but I cannot sit still and do nothing while all are exerting themselves to save my poor brother. I feel that it is absolutely necessary to any hope for his safety that Otaitsa should be informed immediately of his situation. It may be months before any Indian runner is found, and my poor brother's fate may be sealed. Were it to cost my life, I should think myself bound to go. But I am the only one who can go in perfect safety; for, while promising his protection to me, and insuring me against all danger, the Black Eagle refused to give any assurance in regard to others. You have yourself acknowledged, my dear father, that I shall be perfectly safe; and I have also the advantage of speaking the Indian tongue well. In these circumstances would it not be wrong, would it not be criminal in me to remain here idle when I have even a chance of saving my poor brother? Forgive me, then, if I do wrong, on account of the motives which lead me.
"My course is straight to the Mohawk, by the little pond and the lake, and then up the Mohawk and Wood Creek as far as they will carry me; for I wish to save myself as much fatigue as possible, and I venture to take the canoe from the pond. I have asked Chaudo and Sister Bab to accompany me, as I know you would wish me to have protection and assistance on the way, in case of any difficulty. I hope to be back in six days at the farthest; and, if possible, I will send a runner to inform you of my safe arrival amongst the Oneidas. Once more, my dear father, think of the great object I have in view, and forgive your affectionate daughter."
When these letters were written, Edith dressed herself in full Indian costume, which had been given her by Otaitsa; and a beautiful Indian maiden she looked, though the skin was somewhat too fair and her hair wanted the jetty black. In the Indian pouch, or wallet, she placed some articles of European convenience, and a large hunting knife; and then, making up a small package of clothes for Sister Bab to carry, she descended to the lower story. Here, however, she met with some impediments which she had not expected. The news of her proposed expedition had spread through the whole household and caused almost an open revolt. The white women were in tears; old Agrippa was clamorous; and the fat black cook declared loudly that Miss Edith was mad, and should not go. So far, indeed, did she carry her opposition, that the young lady was obliged to assume a stern and severe tone, which was seldom heard in Edith's voice, and command her to retire at once from her presence. The poor woman was at once overawed, for her courage was not very permanent, and, bursting into tears, she left the room, declaring she was sure she should never see Miss Edith again.
Edith then gave all the keys of the house to old Agrippa, with the two letters which she had written; Chaudo took up the bag of provisions which he had prepared; Sister Bab charged herself with the package of clothes; and Edith, walking between them, turned away from her father's house, amidst the tears of the white women, and a vociferous burst of grief from the negroes.
Her own heart sank for a moment, and she asked herself, "Shall I ever pass that threshold again? Shall I ever be pressed hereafter in the arms of those I so much love?"
But she banished such feelings, and drove away such thoughts; and murmuring, "My brother--my poor brother!" she walked on.
Leaving Edith to pursue her way toward the Oneida territory, and Mr. Prevost, after parting with Lord H---- at the distance of some three miles from his own house, to ride on to Johnson Castle, let us follow the young nobleman to Albany, where he arrived somewhat after nightfall. His first duty, as he conceived it, led him to the quarters of the commander-in-chief, where he made a brief but clear report of all that had occurred in his transactions with the Indians.
"I found," he said, "from information communicated by Sir William Johnson, that there was no need of any concealment; but that, on the contrary, it would be rather advantageous to appear at the meeting with the Five Nations in my proper character. The results were what I have told you. There is one other point, however, which I think it necessary to mention, and which, if imprudently treated, might lead to serious results."
He then went on to state generally the facts in regard to the death of the Indian by the hands of Woodchuck, and the supposed capture of Walter Prevost by a party of the Oneidas. It would be uninteresting to the reader to hear the particulars of the conversation which followed. Suffice it to say, that the government of the colony in all its departments was very well disposed to inactivity at that time, and not at all inclined to exert itself for the protection of individuals, or even of greater interests, unless strongly pressed to do so. This Lord H---- was not at all inclined to do, as he was well aware from all he had heard that no action on the part of the government short of the sudden march of a large body of troops would effect the liberation of Walter Prevost, and that to expect such a movement, which itself might be unsuccessful, was quite out of the question with the officers who were in command at the time.
His conference with the commander-in-chief ended, he declined an invitation to supper, and went out on his search for the small inn where he had been told he would find the man whose act, however justifiable, had brought so much wretchedness upon Mr. Prevost's family.
The city of Albany, in those days, as we have reason to know from very good authority, though not numbering by many thousands as great a population as it contains at present, occupied a space nearly as large as the present city. One long street ran by the river, to the very verge of which beautiful and well cultivated gardens extended; and from the top of the hill down to this lower street ran another, very nearly, if not exactly, of the same position and extent as the present State street. On the top of the hill was the fort; and built in the center of the large, descending street which swept round them on either side, were two or three churches, a handsome market place, and a guard-house. A few other streets ran down the hill in a parallel line with this principal one; and other small streets, lanes, and alleys connected them all together. Nevertheless, the population, as I have said, was comparatively very small, for between house and house, and street and street, throughout the whole town, were large and beautiful gardens filling up spaces now occupied by buildings and thronged with human beings. A great part of the population was at that time Dutch, and all the neatness and cleanliness of true Dutch houses and Dutch streets was to be seen in Albany in those days--would we could say as much at present. No pigs then ran in the streets, to the horror of the eye and the annoyance of the passenger; no cabbage leaves or stalks disgraced the gutter; and the only place in which anything like filth or uncleanliness was to be seen was at the extremity of the littoral street, where, naturally, the houses of the boatmen and others connected with the shipping were placed for the sake of approximating to the water. There, certainly, some degree of dirt existed, and the air was perfumed with the high savor of tar and tobacco.
It was toward this part of the town that Lord H---- directed his steps, inquiring for the inn called "The Three Boatmen." Several times, however, was he frustrated in his attempt to obtain information by the ignorance of a great portion of the inhabitants of the English language; and the pipe was removed from the mouth only to reply in Dutch, "I do not understand."
At length, however, he was directed aright, and found a small and somewhat mean-looking house, in which an adventurous Englishman from the purlieus of Clare Market had established a tavern for the benefit of boatmen. It had in former times belonged to a Dutch settler, and still retained many of the characteristic features of its origin, while four trees stood in line before the door, with benches underneath them for the convenience of those who chose to sit and poison the sweet air of the summer evening with the fumes of tobacco.
Entering through a swing door into the narrow, sandy passage, which descended one step from the street, Lord H---- encountered a negro tapster with a white apron, of whom he inquired if Captain Brooks was still there.
"Oh, yes, Massa Officer," said the man, with a grin. "You mean Massa Woodchuck," he continued, showing that the good man's Indian nickname was very extensively known. "You find him in dere, in de coffee room," and he pointed to a door, once white, now yellow and brown with smoke, age, and dirty fingers.
Lord H---- opened the door and went in amongst as strange and unprepossessing an assemblage of human beings as it had ever been his chance to light upon. The air was rendered obscure by smoke, so that the candles looked dim and red; and it was literally difficult to distinguish the objects around. What the odor was it is impossible to say, for it was as complicated as the antidote of Mithridates; but the predominant smells were certainly those of beer, rum, and Holland gin. Some ten or twelve little tables of exceedingly highly polished mahogany, but stained here and there by the contaminating marks of wet glasses, divided the room amongst them, leaving just space between each to place two chairs, back to back; and in this small den not less than five or six and twenty people were congregated, almost all drinking, almost all smoking, some talking very loud, some sitting in profound silence, as the quantity of liquor imbibed or the national characteristics of the individual might prompt. Gazing through the haze upon this scene, which, besides the sturdy and coarse, but active Englishman, and the heavy, phlegmatic Dutchman, contained one or two voluble Frenchmen, deserters from the Canadas, none of them showing themselves in a very favorable light, Lord H---- could not help comparing the people before him with the free, wild Indians he had lately left, and asking himself: "Which are the savages?"
At length his eye, however, fell upon a man sitting at the table in the corner of the room next to the window. He was quite alone, with his back turned to the rest of the people in the place, his head leaning on his hand, and a short pipe laid down upon the table beside him. He had no light before him, as most of the others had, and he might have seemed asleep, so still was his whole figure, had it not been that the fingers of his right hand, which rested on the table, beat time to an imaginary tune. Approaching close to him, Lord H---- drew a seat to the table and laid a hand upon his arm. Woodchuck looked round, and a momentary expression of pleasure, slight, and passing away rapidly, crossed his rugged features.
The next moment his face was all cold and stern again.
"Very kind of you to come and see me, my lord," he said, in a dull, sad tone. "What do you want with me? Have you got anything for me to do?"
"I am sorry to see you looking so melancholy, Captain," said Lord H----, evading his question. "I hope nothing else has gone amiss."
"Haven't I cause enough to be melancholy," said the other, looking round at the people in the room, "cooped up with a penful of swine? Come out--come out to the door. It's cold enough out, but the coldest wind that ever blew is better than the filthy air of these pigs."
As he spoke he rose, and a little, pert-looking Frenchman, who had overheard him, exclaimed in a bantering tone: "Why you call us pigs more nor yourself de great hog?"
"Get out of my way, for fear I break your back," said Woodchuck, in a low, stern voice. "If your neck had been broken long ago, it would have been better for your country and for mine;" and taking up the little Frenchman by the nape of the neck with one arm, he set him upon the table from which he had just arisen.
A roar of laughter burst from a number of the assembled throats; the little Frenchman sputtered with wrath, without daring to carry the expression of his indignation farther; and Woodchuck strode quietly out of the room, followed by his military visitor.
"Here--let us sit down here," he said, placing himself on a bench under a leafless tree, and leaving room for Lord H---- by his side. "I am gloomy enough, my lord, and haven't I reason to be so? Here I am for life. This is to be my condition with the swine that gather up in these sties of cities, suffocating in such dens as these. I guess I shall drown myself some day, when I am driven quite mad. I know a man has no right to lay hands upon himself. I larnt my Bible when I was young, and know what's God's will, so I sha'n't do anything desperate so long as I be right here," and he laid his finger on his forehead. "No! no! I'll just take as much care of my life," he continued, "as though it were a baby I was nursing; but unless them Ingians catch some other white man and kill him--which God forbid--I've got to stay here for life; and even if they do, it's more nor a chance they'd kill me, too, if they got me; and when I think of them beautiful woods and pleasant lakes, with the pictures of everything round painted so beautiful on them when they are still, and the streams that go dancing and splashing along over the big black stones and the small white pebbles, seeming for all the world to sing as if for pleasure at their freedom, and the open, friendly air of the hillside, and the clouds skimming along, and the birds glancing through the branches, and the squirrels skipping and chattering as if they were mocking everything not so nimble as themselves, I do often believe I shall go crazed to think I shall never see those things again."
Lord H---- felt for him much, for he had in his own heart a sufficient portion of love for the wilder things of nature to sympathize in some degree with one who loved them so earnestly.
"I trust, Woodchuck," he said, "that we shall be able to find some employment for you with the army--if not with my own corps with some other, which may give you glimpses at least of the scenes you love so well, and of the unconfined life you have lived so long; but I have come to consult you upon a subject of much and immediate importance, and we must talk of that the first thing."
"What is that?" asked Brooks, in an indifferent tone, fixing his eyes upon the stones of the street, faintly lighted by the glare from within the house.
Lord H---- began his account of what had happened between the Mohawk and the Hudson with some circumlocution, for he did not feel at all sure of the effect it would produce upon his companion's mind, and the Woodchuck seemed to fall into one of those deep reveries in which one may be said to hear without hearing. He took not the slightest notice of what his noble visitor said regarding the burning of the wood, or the danger of Mr. Prevost and Edith. It seemed to produce no more distinct effect than would the wind whistling in his ears. He sat calm and silent, without an observation, but he grew more attentive, though only in a slight degree, when the narrator came to mention the anxiety of the family at the protracted absence of Walter; and when at last Lord H---- described the finding of the knife and the knapsack, and told of the conclusions to which the whole family had come, he started up, exclaiming: "What's that! What's that!" and then, after a moment's pause, he sank down upon his seat again, saying, with a groan: "They have got him--they have got him, and they will tomahawk him--the bloody, barbarous critters! Couldn't they have chosen some more worthless thing than that!"
Pressing his hand tight upon his forehead, as if he fancied the turbulent thoughts within would burst it, he remained for a moment or two in silence, till Lord H---- asked if he imagined they would execute their bloody purposes speedily.
"No! no!" cried the man. "No fear of that; they'll take time enough; that's the worst of the savages. It's no quick rage, no angry heat with them--no word and a blow. It's cold, bitter, long-premeditated hatred. They wouldn't have half the pleasure if they didn't draw out their revenge by the week and the month--but what's to be done now--gracious God! what's to be done now?"
"That is precisely what I came to consult you upon," said Lord H----; "but let us talk over the matter calmly, my good friend. This is a case where grief, anger, and indignation can do nothing, but where deliberate thought, reason, and policy, even cunning, such as their own--for, if we could arrive at it, we should be quite justified in using it--may, perhaps, do something to save this poor boy!"
"How the devil would you have me calm!" exclaimed the man, vehemently; but then, suddenly checking himself, he said: "You're right, you're right. I am forgetting my old habits in these smoky holes; thought, cunning, those are the only things to do with an Indian. It's tarnation hard to outwit them, but it may be done when one knows his tracks well. I can't get my brain to hold steady tonight; this story has upset all my thoughts, and I've got no consideration in me. You must give me a night and a day to think over the matter, and then I'll see what's to be done. By the Lord, Walter sha'n't die! Poor fellow! What should he die for? However, I guess it's no use talking in that sort of manner. I must think of what's to be done; that's the business in hand. I'll think as soon as I can, my lord; only you just now tell me all you have done, if you've done anything. As for Prevost, I don't suppose he's had time to do much, for though he's always right in the end, and no man's opinion is worth more, yet if you touch his heart and his feelings, as you call them, his wits get all in a work, just like mine at this minute. More fool he, and I, too!"
"We have done something," said Lord H---- in reply. "Mr. Prevost set out this morning to see Sir William Johnson----"
"He's no good!" growled Woodchuck, impatiently.
"I came hither to consult with you," continued Lord H----, "and we have commissioned the boatman, whom they call Robert, a tall, stout man----"
"I know him! I know him!" said Woodchuck. "Passably honest--the best of them."
"Well, we have commissioned him," resumed the young nobleman, "to seek for some Indian runner, or half-breed, to carry news of this event to Otaitsa, whom Edith believes the tribe will keep in the dark in regard to the capture of Walter."
"Likely, likely," said the Woodchuck. "Miss Prevost understands them. They'll not tell the women anything, for fear they should meddle. They've a poor opinion of squaws. But the girl may do a great deal of good, too, if you can get the tidings to her. She's not as cunning as the rest of them, but she has more heart and soul, and resolution, too, than a whole tribe of Indian women--that comes of her mother being a white woman."
"Her mother a white woman!" exclaimed Lord H----.
"Aye; didn't you know that?" said Woodchuck. "Just as white as Miss Prevost, and quite a lady, too, she was, to look at, or to speak to--though she was not fond of speaking with white men, and would draw back into the lodge whenever she saw one. I did speak to her once, though, when she was in a great fright about Black Eagle, who had gone to battle against the French; and I, happening to come that way, gave her some news of him. But we are getting astray from what's of more matter than that. The girl will save him, take my word for it, if there's strength enough in that little body to do it. But let me see--you talk of Indian runners; where is one to be found who can be trusted? They're generally a bad set, the scum of the tribes; no real warrior would take up on such a trade. However, what's to be done? No white person can go; for they'd scalp him to a certainty, and he would give his life for Walter's, that's all. On my life, it would be as well to give the dangerous errand to some felon, as I have heard say they do in despotic countries--give criminals some dangerous task to perform; and they, if they succeed and escape, so much the better for them; if they die, so much the better for the community. But I'm getting wandering again," he continued, rising. "Now, my lord, this is no use. Give me a few hours to think--tomorrow, at noon, if you will--and then I'll come and tell you what my opinion is."
As he spoke, he turned abruptly toward the house, without any ceremonious leave-taking, and only looked round to put one more question:
"At the fort, I suppose?" he said.
Lord H---- assented, and Brooks entered the house and at once sought his own chamber.
In a small room, under a roof which slanted out in a straight line, but made an obtuse angle in the midst of descent, lighted alone by a horn lantern, such as was used on board the river boats at night, sat the stout man whom we have described under the name of Brooks. Little furniture of any kind did the room contain. There was a small half-tester bed with its dull curtains of a broad red and white checkered stuff; there was the little table at the side of the room, jammed close against the wall; there was the solitary chair; the washstand, with its basin and its ewer, both somewhat maimed; there was the little looking-glass hanging from a nail driven in the wall, with its narrow, badly gilt frame, and its plate so distorted that when one looked in it the reflection seemed to be making faces at the original. Dull with imbibing many a year's loaded atmosphere, were those faded walls; and many a guest had written upon them, in pencil, his own name or the name of his sweetheart--permanent memorials of transitory tenants, long-cherished memories of affections gone to the grave. There were two or three distiches, too, and a quatrain somewhat more polished.
But the man who sat there noted none of those things. The dim light, the gloomy aspect of the room, might sink in upon his spirit, and render the darkness within more dark; the strange, ill-looking double arch of the ceiling, the obtrusive two straight lines instead of one, with the blunt, unmeaning angle between them, giving an aspect of brokenness to the roof, as if it were ready to bulge out and then crash down, might irritate, without his knowing why. But still lie noted them not with anything like observation. His mind was busy with things of its own--things in which feeling took a share, as well as thought--and he was, if not dead, sleeping to the external world. Even his beloved woods and streams, and fresh air, and open skies, were forgotten for the time.
He argued with himself a case of conscience hard to solve.
He was as brave a man as ever lived; habituated all his life to perils of many kinds, and had met them all fearlessly. Wake him in the woods at midnight, you would find him ready. Deafen his ear with the drum or the war-whoop, you could not make him start. He blinked not at the cannon flash, or the blaze of the lightning; and would have faced the fiery-mouthed platoon without a wavering step.
And yet the love of life was strong in him. He had so many joys in the bright treasury of nature; to his simple, nay, wild tastes, there were so many pleasures in the wide world, that to part with them was hard--very hard.
He had never known how valuable earthly existence was to him till that hour. He had never felt how different a thing it is to hazard it in bold daring, or to contemplate the throwing of it away in reckless passion, or disappointment and despair, from calmly and deliberately laying it down as a sacrifice, whatever be the end, the inducement, or the duty.
What was case of conscience he proposed to himself? Simply this: whether he should suffer another to die for his act, or place himself not only in the peril from which he had lately escaped, but in the actual grasp of death. Some men of enthusiastic spirit and great constitutional fearlessness might have decided the matter at a dash, and, with the first impulse of a generous nature, cast themselves under the uplifted tomahawk to save their innocent friend. But he was not such, and I do not intend so to represent him. He was not a man to do anything without deliberation, without calculating all things, though he was as generous as most men, as this world goes. All his habits, the very course of his previous life, disposed him to careful forethought. Every day had had its watchfulness, every hour its precaution. The life of the woods, in those days, was a life of peril and preparation, where consideration might be very rapid, but was always needful.
And now he debated the question with himself. Could he live on and suffer Walter Prevost to die in his place? There were strenuous advocates on both sides, but the love of life was the most subtle, if generosity was the most eloquent.
"Poor boy!" he thought. "Why should he die for what I have done? Why should he be cut off so soon from all life's hopes and blessings? Why should his father's eyes be drowned in tears, and his sister's heart wrung with grief, when I can save them all? And he so frank and noble, too! so full of every kindly feeling and generous quality--so brave--so honest--so true-hearted! Innocent, too! Innocent of every offence--quite innocent in this case!"
But then spoke self, and he thought: "Am not I innocent, too? As innocent as he is? Did I ever harm the man? Did I provoke the savage? Did I not slay him in pure self-defence? And shall I lay down the life I then justly protected at the cost of that of another human being, because a race of fierce Indians, unreasoning, bloodthirsty savages, choose to offer a cruel sacrifice to their god of revenge, and have found a victim?
"Still," he continued, taking the other side, "it is for my act the sacrifice is offered; and, if there must be a sacrifice, ought not the victim to be myself? Besides, were it any worthless life that was in jeopardy--were it that of some desperate rover--some criminal--some man without ties, or friendships, or affections, one might leave him to his fate, perhaps, without remorse; but this poor lad--how many hopes are centered in him! What will not his family lose? What will not the world? And I--what am I, that my life should be weighed against his? Is he not my friend, too, and the son of my friend, one who has always overflowed with kindness and regard toward me?"
His resolution was almost taken; but then the cunning pleader, vanquished in direct argument, suggested a self-deceit.
"It is strange," he thought, "that these Indians, and especially their chief, should fix upon one with whom they have ever been so friendly--should choose a youth whom they have looked upon as a brother, when they might surely have found some other victim. Can this be a piece of their savage cunning? They know how well I love the lad, and how much friendship has been shown me by his father. Can they have taken him as a bait to their trap, without any real intention of sacrificing him, and only in the hope of luring me into their power?"
At first sight, the supposition seemed reasonable, and he was inclined to congratulate himself that he had not precipitately fallen into the snare. "How they would have yelled with triumph when they found me bringing my head to the hatchet!"
But speedily his knowledge of the Indian character and habits undeceived him. He knew that in such cases they always made sure of some victim, and that the more near and dear he was to the offender the better for their purpose--himself first, a relation next, a friend next; and he cast the self-fraud away from him.
But the love of life had not yet done, though obliged to take another course and suggest modifications. Was there no middle course to be taken? Was it absolutely necessary that he should sacrifice his own life to save that of Walter Prevost? Could the object not be effected without his giving himself up to the savages? Might not someone else fall into their hands? Might not the lad be rescued by some daring effort? This was the most plausible suggestion of all, but it was the one that troubled him the most. He had detected so many attempts in his own heart to cheat himself, that he suspected he might be deceiving himself still; and his mind got puzzled and confused with doubts.
He went to the bed and lay down in his clothes, but he could not sleep without taking some resolution; and rising again, he pressed his hands upon his aching temples, and determined to cast away self from the question altogether--to look upon it as if it affected some other person and Walter Prevost, and judge accordingly.
His plan succeeded. He separated the truth from the falsehood, and came to the conclusion that it would be folly to go and give himself up to certain death as long as there was a chance of saving his young friend by other means; but that it was right to do so if other means failed; and that neither by delay nor even uncertain efforts, must he risk the chance of saving him by the ultimate sacrifice. He made up his mind accordingly, to re-enter the Indian territory in spite of every peril, to conceal himself as best he could, to watch the Indians as he would watch a wild beast, and be ready for any opportunity or for any decision; and when his resolution was finally taken he lay down and slept profoundly.
And what was Edith's journey? Would the reader have me present it as a picture--as it appeared to her after it was over--massed together in its extraordinary rapidity, and seen but from one point at the end?
Swiftly skimming in a bark canoe upon the glossy bosoms of the lovely lakes, which reflected every hue of herb and tree, and sky and mountain, darting along bright and sparkling streams, sometimes beneath the overhanging canopy of boughs, sometimes under the pure blue eye of heaven. Often struggling with a rapid, often having to pass along the shore to turn a waterfall; at times walking along through the glowing woods, burning with the intense coloring of autumn; at times surrounded by a number of Indians, each rendering quiet, earnest service to the adopted daughter of the great Oneida chief; at times wandering on in the dim forest, with no one but her two dark attendants near; now the fierce howl of the midnight wolf sounding in her ear; now the sharp, garrulous cry of the blue jay; now the shrill scream of the woodhaw. Now the Indian lodge or castle, as the Iroquois sometimes called their dwellings, now the brown canopy of the autumn wood covered her; but still, under the skillful guidance and with the eager help of the two negroes, she went forward with extraordinary rapidity, leaving miles and miles behind her every hour. It seemed almost like a pleasant dream, or at least it would have seemed so had the sad and fearful motives which led her on been ever banished from her mind. Even as it was, the variety of the objects, the constant succession of new matters of interest, the events, small in themselves, but important to her, which occurred to facilitate or impede her progress, were all a relief to her overcharged mind, and she reached the Oneida territory less depressed than when she set out from her home.
One cause, perhaps, of the feeling of renewed strength which she experienced was a renewal of hope from the conduct of the Indians toward her wherever she met them. She found that even amongst the Mohawks she was recognized at once as the adopted daughter of the great Oneida chief; and it was evident that he had spread far and wide, as he returned to his own abode after the conference at Johnson Castle, the fact of his having adopted the daughter of the paleface, Prevost. There is always something, too, in the fact of an enterprise being actually commenced, which gives spirit to pursue it to the end. While we stand and gaze at it from a distance, hesitating whether we shall undertake it or not, the difficulties are magnified, the facilities obscured; the rock and precipice rise up threateningly to our imagination, while the small paths by which they may be surmounted are unseen.
Day had yet an hour of life when Edith approached what we find called in the history of the times, "The Castle of the Oneidas." "Wigwam" it is customary to name all the Indian villages, giving an idea of insignificance and meanness, and completely savage state, which the principal residences of the Five Nations did not at that time merit. Most of them were very like that which Edith now approached. It was built upon a slight elevation near the lake, with a large protruding rock near it; for the Oneidas always affected near their dwelling some symbol significant of their favorite appellation, "The Children of the Stone." Around it were high palisades, enclosing a considerable area, within which the huts of the Indians were constructed. Rising considerably above the rest were two wooden buildings, in the erection of which European workmanship was apparent. The one was a large, oblong building, regularly roofed and shingled, like that of any English settler. It consisted of two stories, and in the upper one regular framed windows were to be seen. In the lower story there were none, light being admitted by the door. That lower story, however, was floored by plain pine boards, and divided by a sort of curtain into two equal compartments. The other building bore the appearance of a church in miniature, with a small cottage or hut attached, which was in reality the residence of the missionary, Mr. Gore.
Even Edith was surprised to see the home of Otaitsa so different from the ideas conveyed to her by the wandering traders, who even while carrying on commercial intercourse with the tribes, were in a state of semi-hostility toward the Indians, representing them as bloody savages, and cheating them whenever they could.
Slowly walking on between her two negro companions, for she was tired with a longer walk than usual, Edith approached the open gates of the Castle and met with no opposition in entering. A tall, handsome warrior passed out, fully clothed in Indian costume, and only marked out from any civilized man by the shaved head and the painfully significant scalp-lock. His step was stately and calm, and his air grave and reserved. Twice he turned his eyes upon Edith's face, with a look of evident wonder and admiration, but he took no farther notice, and passed on. He was the only man whom she saw on entering the village, till after passing through many huts, where women and children were to be seen busily employed, she came in sight of the door of the chief's house, and beheld there a figure seated on the ground, quietly engaged in the art of embroidery, after the fashion in which the Indian women so greatly excel.
It was a figure which she knew well; and the tranquil air and easy grace, as well as the quiet, peaceful employment, showed Edith at once that she had not been mistaken in supposing that Otaitsa was altogether ignorant of the peril of one dear to them both. As she came near, she heard the Indian girl, in her happy ignorance, singing a sweet but somewhat plaintive song; and the next moment, Otaitsa, raising her eyes, beheld the three figures, and at once perceived that they were not of her people.
For an instant she did not recognize Edith in her Indian garb; but when she did recognize her, the emotion produced was alarm rather than joy. She felt at once that some great and important event--some occurrence full of peril or of sorrow--must have brought Edith thither. The beautiful lips parted with a tremulous motion; the large dark eye, Indian in its color, but European in its form, became full of anxiety; the rosy color of her cheek, which probably had obtained for her the name of the Blossom, faded away, and paleness spread over the clear brown skin. Starting up, however, she cast the embroidery away from her, and springing forward, threw her arms around Edith's neck. Then, as her hand rested on her fair companion's shoulder, she asked in a whisper: "What is it, my sister? There must be a storm in the sky--there must be lightning in the cloud! What tempest wind has swept my sister hither? What flood of sorrow has borne Edith to Otaitsa?"
"Hush!" said Edith, in a low tone, for there were some other Indian women near. "I will tell my sister when no ears can hear but her own. There is tempest in the sky. A pine tree has fallen across the threshold of my father's house, and we are sad for fear the hatchet of the woodman should lop all its green branches away. Can I speak with the Blossom speedily, and in secret?"
"Instantly," answered Otaitsa. "The warriors have all gone forth to hunt for three days the bear and the moose. The Black Eagle is with them. There are but three men of deeds in the Castle, now, and why they are women now and go not forth to the hunting with the rest, I cannot tell. But they are little within the palisade--daily they go forth, and remain absent long. Come in hither, my sister, for though few here speak the tongue we speak, it were better not to let the wind hear us."
"Can some of the women give food and lodging to these two negroes?" asked Edith, adding: "They have been well warned, and know that a life depends upon their silence."
Otaitsa called to an elderly Indian woman who was cooking at the door of a cabin near, and placed Chaudo and his companion under her charge. She then turned to Edith, saying: "Come, my sister;" but before they entered the building, Edith inquired if Mr. Gore was there, saying: "Perhaps he might give us counsel."
"My father sent him away some days ago," answered Otaitsa. "He will not be back for a month, perhaps longer. I think he has sent him to secure him from danger."
"Alas," said Edith, "that the danger should have fallen upon others!"
"Alas! alas!" said Otaitsa, and Edith felt her hand tremble much as she led her into the building.
A staircase, rude indeed, but still a staircase, led from the more barnlike part of the building below to the upper floor, and in this respect appeared the first difference between this house--for it deserved the name--and the lodge, or castle, of King Hendrick the younger, though both had been built by European workmen, and that of King Hendrick at the cost of the British government, which was not the case with the dwelling of the Oneida chief. As soon, however, as you reached the upper floor, the differences became more frequent and more remarkable. It was partitioned off into rooms, with regular doors between them; and when Edith entered the chamber of Otaitsa she saw at once how she acquired European habits. Of rude manufacture, but still very correct as imitations, and not without a certain degree of uncouth ornament, were chairs, tables, and writing materials, a bedstead and a bed; and from wooden pegs, driven into the partition, depended some sketches--some colored, some in pencil, but all very different from the gaudy daubs which, at a later period, peddlers were accustomed to take into the Indian territory as articles of barter.
As Edith's eye glanced around, it gleaned a general notion of all these things, but her mind was too full of deeper and sadder thoughts to suffer even curiosity to turn it from its course for a moment.
"There is no one in any other chamber here," said Otaitsa, "None comes up these stairs but myself and my father. Now, Edith, speak, for Otaitsa's heart is very heavy and her mind misgives her sadly. Is it your father they have taken?"
"No; oh no!" answered Edith, "but one as dear;" and she went on briefly to relate all that had occurred, endeavoring to soften and prepare the way for intelligence which she feared would affect the Indian girl much. But Otaitsa darted at her own conclusions, divining the whole truth almost as soon as the words were spoken. She was far more affected than Edith had anticipated. She cast herself upon her fair companion's neck and wept aloud.
"He was mine, Edith," she said, in the full confidence of sorrow. "He was mine, my betrothed, my loved; and they have hidden it from me--hidden it from all the Indian women here, for they knew that everyone in the tribe loved him, though not so well as I. Where was the poor wanderer who passed your house with her infant on her back who did not receive kindness from Walter Prevost? Where was the Indian girl who could say he did not treat her with as kindly gentleness as the highest white woman in the land? He was the tree which had grown up to shelter the hut of the woodman, giving him cool shade and comfort in the days of summer and of gladness, to be cut down and burnt for fire when the winter winds are singing in the bare branches. Oh, my brother, my brother, bad is the return they make thee, and hard the measure that they deal. But shall Otaitsa suffer this?" she cried, rising vehemently, and casting her arms abroad. "Shall the Black Eagle let the ravens pick out the eyes of his young in his own nest? No! my sister, no! They shall take Otaitsa's blood first. They shall shake the Blossom from the old bough that is no longer able to bear it up against the winds of heaven. If the Black Eagle can no longer protect even his daughter's husband, let him cast away the tomahawk, let him lay down the rifle, and be a woman amongst the chiefs of his people!"
It was impossible for some minutes to stop her vehement burst of passionate sorrow; but at length Edith succeeded in somewhat calming her, beseeching her to still her agitation and her anger, and to bend her whole mind to the consideration of what means could best be used to discover whither Walter had been taken, and to rescue him from the peril in which he was placed.
As soon as Otaitsa could listen, however, or rather as soon as she caught the sense of Edith's words, and appreciated their importance, it was wonderful how rapidly she became calm, how soon she stilled all the strong and struggling emotions in her heart, and directed every effort and energy of her spirit to the one great object before her. Enough of the Indian blood flowed along her veins, enough of Indian characteristics had been acquired in early youth, to give her a portion of that strong, stoical self-command which characterized the Indian warrior rather than the woman of the race. The first burst of grief showed the woman, and, perhaps, in some degree, not the pure Indian; but the moment after, those who knew the character of the Five Nations best, might have supposed her not only a pure Indian, but a man and a chief, so quietly did she reason upon and ponder the means of accomplishing her purpose. She remained, at first, for two or three minutes in perfect silence, revolving all the circumstances in her mind, and calculating every chance. But then she said: "The first thing, Edith, is for you to go back to your poor father; not that you are in any danger, but it were well, if possible, that no one knew you had been with me, at least till I have discovered where they have hid our poor brother. The women here will all aid me, and never part their lips, if I desire them not; for though the men think they are very shrewd in hiding the secrets of the nation from their wives and daughters, the women, when they please, can be as secret and as resolute, too. At all events, whether your coming be known or not, it would be better you should go back before the chiefs return. They have gone forth to hunt, they say; but whether it be the black bear, or the brown deer, or the white man, is in great doubt, dear Edith. At all events, they will not know the object of your coming. They may suspect, and probably will, that you came to inquire for your brother; but knowing that I was ignorant of his capture, and am still ignorant of where they keep him, they will think you have gone back disappointed and in sorrow, and leave me unwatched, to act as I will."
"But can I do nothing to aid?" asked Edith. "Remember, dearest Blossom, what it is to remain inactive and ignorant while the fate of one so near and so dear hangs in the balance."
"You shall not remain in ignorance, dear Edith," replied Otaitsa. "With every possible opportunity (and I will find many) my sister shall know what the Blossom does; and if there be any way by which you could give help, you shall have instant tidings. At present I know not what is to be done to save our Walter from the power of the Snake. I know not, even, what they have decided themselves, or whether they have taken any decision; and I have much to think of, much to do. I must seek out those in whom I can place confidence; I must employ many, probably, to obtain me information; I must try some, consult with others, and judge what is to be done. You can rest here, my Edith, for this day, but to-morrow you must speed home again. But be sure of one thing--if Walter dies, Otaitsa is dead, too!"
"That is no consolation," said Edith, throwing her arms round Otaitsa's neck, with tears in her eyes. "Oh, do not do anything rash, dear Blossom! Remember, you are a Christian; and many things are forbidden to Christians as sins which are regarded as virtues by pagan nations."
"Nothing can be rash, nothing can be a sin," answered Otaitsa, "which can save a life innocent, and good, and noble. I would not willingly offend my sister, but my heart is open to God, and He will judge me in mercy, seeing my motives. And now, dear sister, sit you here, and I will send you food, such as we poor Indians eat. I myself may be away for a time, for there must be no delay; but I will return as soon as possible, and you shall know all that is done before you go. Do these blacks who are with you understand the Indian tongue?"
"One of them certainly does," replied Edith; "that is to say, the language of the Mohawks."
"'Tis the same," answered Otaitsa, "or nearly the same. We may have altered a little, but amongst the Five Nations, he who speaks one tongue understands all. Is it the man or woman--and can we trust?"
"It is the man," answered Edith, "and I do believe he can be trusted."
"Then I go," answered Otaitsa, and leaving Edith, she descended to the room below, and then issued forth amongst the Indian huts, gliding from one to another, and stopping generally for a few moments at those lodges before which was to be seen a high pole bearing the ghastly trophies with which the Indians signalized the death of an enemy.
Edith, in the meanwhile, remained for some time in sad meditation, until her eyes turned toward the sketches hanging round the room. On one in particular the reflected light from the surface of the lake streamed as it passed from the window, and Edith, going near, examined it attentively. It represented the head of a young man, apparently from seven and twenty to thirty years of age, and was done well, though not exactly in a masterly manner. It was merely in pencil, but highly finished, and there seemed something in it very familiar to Edith's eye. The features were generally like those of her brother Walter, so like that at first she imagined the drawing must be intended to represent his head; but the nearer view showed that it was that of a much older man, and the dress was one long gone out of fashion.
She was still gazing, and puzzling herself with the questions of whence these drawings could come, and whether they could be Otaitsa's own productions, when several Indian women entered, with their silent and noiseless tread, and placed some carved bowls, filled with different kinds of food, before her. It was all very simple, but she was much exhausted, for she had tasted nothing from an early hour of the day, and the refreshment was grateful to her. The women spoke to her, too, in the Iroquois tongue, and their sweet, low-toned voices, murmuring in the sort of sing-song of the tribes, was pleasant to her ear. It spoke of companionship. Their words, too, were kind and friendly, and she gathered from them that Otaitsa, in order to veil the real object of her coming, had been making inquiries as to whether anyone had seen Walter Prevost. They assured Edith that they had not seen him, that he could not have come into the Oneida country, or someone in the Castle must have heard of him. A paleface amongst them was very rare, they said, but the coming of Walter Prevost, whom so many knew and loved much, must have been noised abroad immediately. They said that his absence from his home was certainly strange, but added, laughing, that young warriors would wander, as Edith would discover when she was old enough.
Thus they sat and talked with her, lighting a lamp in a bowl, till Otaitsa returned, and then they left the two friends alone together.
Otaitsa was agitated, evidently, though she tried hard to hide, if not to suppress her emotions under Indian calmness; but her agitation was evidently joyful. She laid her lovely small hand upon Edith's and pressed it warmly.
"I have found friends," she said, "and those who will work for me and with me. My father's sister, who knew and loved my mother, and who is supposed by some to have a charm from the Great Spirit, to make men love and reverence her; the wife of the sachem of the Bear; the young bride of the Running Deer; and the wife of the Gray Wolf, as well as the wife of Lynx Foot, and many others; all these have vowed to help me, whatever it may cost. They all know him, my sister; they all have called him brother; and they are all resolute that their brother shall not die. But I must first work for him myself, dear Edith," she continued; and then, clasping her hands together, with a burst of joy at the hope lighted up in her young, warm heart, she exclaimed: "Oh, that I could save him all by myself--that I might buy him from his bonds by my own acts alone--aye, or even by my own blood! Huah! huah! That were joyful indeed!"
Edith could hardly raise her mind to the same pitch of hope, but still she felt more satisfied. Her object was accomplished. Otaitsa was informed of Walter's danger, and the bright, enthusiastic girl was already actively engaged in the effort to deliver him. There was something, too, in the young Indian--an eagerness, an energy unusual in the depressed women of her race, probably encouraged by the fond, unbounded indulgence of the chief, her father--which seemed to breathe of hope and success; and it was impossible to look into the eager and kindling eyes, when the fancy that she could deliver her young lover all alone took possession of her, without believing that if his deliverance was within human power, she would accomplish it.
Edith felt that her duty, so far, was done toward him, and that her next duty was toward her father, who, she well knew, would be painfully anxious till she returned, however confident he might have felt of her safety in the hands of the Indians so long as there seemed no immediate chance of her being placed in such a situation. She willingly, therefore, agreed to Otaitsa's suggestion to set out with the first ray of light on the following morning, Otaitsa promising that some Indian women should accompany her a day's journey on the way, who by their better knowledge of the country and their skill in the management of the canoe, would greatly facilitate her progress. About an hour was spent in conversation, all turning upon one subject, and then the two beautiful girls lay down to sleep in each other's arms.