CHAPTER XVIII.

“While through the broken pane the tempest sighs, And his step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around him rise, With many a face that smiles on him no more; With many a voice, that thrills of transport gave, Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!”

ROGERS.

Nearly a year had elapsed since the commencement of our story, and the night was cold and rainy, when two friends were regaling themselves with pipes by a comfortable fire in a small building which stood apart from the few houses at that time constituting the village of Bowling Green. This place was even then beginning to show marks of civilization, for log cabins had in many instances, been superseded by well built frame edifices, and taste and culture were now exhibited in many of their walks and gardens.

As the friends sat smoking, the wind ever and anon whistled as it hurried fitfully past, causing them to shrug up their shoulders, and draw still nearer to the fire.

“It makes me feel cold,” said Earth, “to hear the wind whistle as it does, for many and many's the time I've slept out, just sich a night as this,—and I think, Rolfe, you have had a small touch at it too.”

“Yes, Earth, but my experience is nothing in comparison with yours. I often think of the time we passed together in the woods and always with pleasure; though we have had some singular adventures. We ought to have found that girl, Earth.”

“Yes, we ought so, Rolfe; I have never felt satisfied about it. We ought to have found her, and, but for that lying Prophet, we should.”

“I think now,” said Rolfe, “that she was concealed, and that he knew it, but he deceived me at the time.”

“And would do it agin,” said Earth; “you know nothing about Ingens. He is the cause of all this fracas now, and has brought down war upon our heads. What say you, Rolfe; the governor wants volunteers; suppose we go on and take a brush; I reckon this will be about the last chance we shall have, and I am getting right rusty: I hain't killed one now for nearly a year. This business of collecting taxes, and keeping out of the woods, civilizes one mightily. I feel so slick and smooth, I hardly know myself,—what say you?”

“Why, we will talk about that another time; if there is a necessity, we will go. But I am thinking of something else. Earth, the idea will sometimes come across my mind, that the girl who was captured, is the same I once loved.”

“It is all nonsense, Rolfe, you are nation hard to satisfy,—didn't that letter from Petersburg put it all straight?”

“Why, yes; it does seem so, but, you know, I caught a glimpse of her face.”

“Well now,” said Earth, “if you set up your glimpses agin black and white, I've got no more to say about it.”

Rolfe, seeing that Earth was not in a humour to converse on the subject which he had most at heart, was silent; and Earth then asked, “Did you never hear any thing from the old woman nor the Ingen boy.”

“Never,” said Rolfe, “not a word.”

“Just like 'em,” said Earth, “I never know'd one, that was worth a ninepence”—then pausing an instant, he added, “I beg the Prophet's pardon, he is worth a dollar.”

“Why so?” inquired Rolfe.

“Because,” said Earth, “he has roasted so many of 'em. But Rolfe, what can the fellow be arter? if 'twas white men he burned, I could see through it plain enough, but he takes Ingens altogether, and then he picks the best of 'em, and besides this, I am told, he has run 'em all mad, and made 'em believe they can catch the whites in log traps as I used to catch 'coons.”

“I cannot tell,” said Rolfe, and he shuddered, for there passed through his mind the thought that the captive maiden might be she whom he loved, and would yet be brought to the stake.

Earth saw him shudder, and thinking he was cold, stirred up the fire, and replenished his pipe. The wind still howled as it hurried past, and Rolfe also drew his chair closer, complained of being cold, and added fuel to the fire.

“I hate a night like this,” said Earth, “it always make me think of spirits.”

“Rather makes you drink spirits,” said Rolfe; “will you have some?”

“No, I was not speaking of that; you know I don't hate a little, if it is good, worse than any thing else in this world, but that has nothing to do with it. I mean that a night like this always makes me think of ghosts.”

“Earth, you don't believe in ghosts?”

“Don't I believe what I see, and havn't I seen them?”

“I think not,” said Rolfe.

“Well, now the difference is, I think I have,” said Earth.

“Well Earth, I see we can't agree about ghosts, but there is one thing I wish you would tell me.”

“What is it?”

“Will you promise to tell?”

“Name it, and, if it be proper, I will.”

“It is,” said Rolfe, “what I have often heard you allude to, the fate of your family.”

As Rolfe announced this, a shade seemed to pass over Earthquake's countenance, and he was for a moment silent, then removing his pipe, he said, “I will gratify you, Rolfe, for I promised to do so, and we shall never have a more fit opportunity. It is a sad story, and soon told, and I want to tell it, because I know you think me cruel, but I aint so. Let us fill our pipes agin.” Having done so, he began:—

“My father was an early settler in Kentucky. He emigrated while I was a child from one of the counties along the sea coast in North Carolina. What induced him to do so, I never learned; he was poor, and may have moved to better his condition, yet I have always thought that there was some private reason which forced him away. However, my principal recollections now, are of the family, as they were when,—when they perished. My father was, before he moved, though poor, a good liver, and had had the advantages of a good education. I was too young to judge of this at that time, but many recollections now convince me,—for when we moved we brought many books with us, and our neighbours often came to him to write for them, and to settle their accounts.

“Well, when we came out, we settled about fifteen miles from here;—I will show you the place some of these days, though there are now few marks of its ever having been cultivated, and built us a house which was remarked for its neatness and comfort. But it was too far from any other settlement, there were no persons sufficiently near to be called neighbours, and for that I blame the old man, though, I suppose, for doing so, he had his own reasons. I say, I blame him, because I remember I often heard persons ask him, if he was not afraid to reside so far from assistance, in case it should be needed. He said ‘no,’ for he was a brave man and knew no fear. Rolfe, I said I blamed him;—he is gone, and I loved him;—let me blot out that word blamed. Well, we made a small clearing; the old man was very industrious, and though I was a child, yet I assisted him, for I was large enough to plough, and we managed to live very comfortably. My mother, I think I have not before mentioned her, was a good woman, and as kind and gentle as one can be. I have never seen one like her since, and now, while I am talking to you, Rolfe, I can see them all as they used to be. I can see my mother meet the old man with smiles when he would return from his work, and see him, happy as he was, when he could collect us all around him, and make us play for his amusement. We were six in the family, and I the eldest of the children. I had two sisters, a brother, a father and a mother.

“While thus situated, we frequently heard of the Indians, and of acts of violence committed by them; but they generally happened at a distance, and caused us no actual fear. I say fear,—yet we were always on the look out, and somewhat prepared for them, and whenever we had cause to suspect that they were about, word was sent to the neighbours, and we all retreated to the block-house.

“But, one morning, the old man being sick, I took my gun and went out hunting. The Ingens had not then been heard of for some time, and we suspected nothing. I wandered from home a considerable distance farther than was prudent at that time, and it was the middle of the day when I returned, and was distant a mile or two, when I heard the voices of persons who seemed moving along. This was unusual, for sometimes months passed without our seeing any one; and I at once concealed myself, that I might see who they were. I soon discovered that they were a party of Ingens. My heart sank within me, for I was more afraid of an Ingen then than I am now, Rolfe. They were about a dozen in number, and many of them had large bundles; and, what I did not observe at first, I soon noticed, namely, that one of them was riding an old gray mare, which we had brought from Carolina, and which I knew they must have stolen. I recollected having left her in the stable, but thought she had gotten out, and that the Ingens had perhaps found her in the woods. They were all armed, as if for battle, and seemed to be hurrying along. I hardly breathed while they were passing, lest they should discover me; and as soon as they were out of sight, I ran home, to tell what I had seen.

“I had nearly reached there, before I began to think what might have happened, and as soon as the thought struck me, that they might have been to our house, I dashed along until I reached our enclosure. Yes, I reached it, Rolfe, but there was no house to be seen, nor a living soul! no, not even a farm-yard animal. Every thing was deserted, and a thin smoke was rising up from where the house had stood!—Pass me the tobacco, Rolfe.—Well, I cried, as any other boy would have done, and ran blubbering along to the yard; I entered it, and what think you, Rolfe, I stood over the smoking ruins of our house, and saw my father, mother, two sisters, and a brother, lying mangled before me!—Several of them wanted some of their limbs, and, more or less burned, they all lay a black and smoking mass! Yet the size of the skeletons pointed out each, and I knew them as well as I did in the morning. And, Rolfe, they were all innocent and knew no crime, unless it was to love each other too much, and to be happy within themselves. They died, however, not without a struggle, for two red devils lay with them.

“Rolfe, you can never know the agony of that moment!” and a shudder ran over him as he recurred to it—“how utterly lone and desolate I felt!—I cried no more, I ceased to be a boy, and every feeling was instantly merged in the desire for vengeance! Rolfe, you have often thought me cruel, now have I not cause?”

“Your misfortunes, Earth, have been greater than I thought, but I do not deem it just to punish the innocent for the guilty. Those who were not present could not have injured you.”

“Rolfe,” continued Earthquake, “before that fatal day, I was too gentle and meek for a boy. The old man often chided me, for I would cry at the crushing of an insect. I mention this to show that my disposition was not naturally cruel. But, Rolfe, to be left alone in the wide world in one unlucky hour! and Rolfe, hear me, I alone scooped their shallow grave, and shovelled the fresh earth over their smoking bodies! Yes, covered up, hid,—buried the only persons in this world who loved me,—I may say who knew me; and I watched over them, and lay for two nights upon their graves! and the first night, Rolfe, was just such a night as this. It was cold, and raw, and drizzling, and the wind moaned as it passed over me. I thought it sighed to meet with a child so wretched and lonely. From that moment, Rolfe, I vowed vengeance, and I have often fed it with the red man's blood, but it hungers for more. Innocent or guilty, I know not the difference,—every red skin is guilty in my eyes. I owe them a debt yet, and if this Prophet shall stir up a fight, believe me, Rolfe, I will try and settle that account;—it will be, perhaps, the last chance I shall have. But, come, let us drop this subject, for talking of it almost runs me crazy.”

Earthquake was much excited by the incidents he had been narrating, and Rolfe wishing him to become composed, said nothing, and each remained for a time silent.

It was now near ten o'clock at night. A drizzling rain still pattered against the windows, and the winds whistled as they hurried along, when a sudden rapping at the door started Rolfe and Earth from their reverie. The rap was loud and bold, not that of a dependant, but of one who had a right to enter.

“Who's there?” cried Rolfe.—No answer was returned. “Who's there?” he repeated.—Still no answer.

Earth, being nearest the door, arose, saying, “I will see who it is,” then approached, and opened it. A figure wrapped in a blanket, stood on the topmost step, and as the door was thrown open, entered without the least ceremony. The face and shoulders were muffled up, the legs perfectly naked, the feet clad in much worn moccasins, and from the whole figure the rain was running off in streams. Without making a remark, and waiting only a few seconds, it approached the fire.

“A red skin,” cried Earth, and he sprang to a corner to seize a gun. Rolfe involuntarily caught a stick; the blanket fell from the shoulders of the stranger, who stood forth an Indian warrior, and gazing at Earthquake, cried out in good English when he saw him presenting the gun, “Hold! hunter:—art thou afraid of Oloompa?” Rolfe and Earthquake paused, for they did not at first remember the name, but in an instant it flashed upon Rolfe, and he said, “the wounded boy!”

“The same,” was the brief reply, and Oloompa's visage grew darker as he added, “Oloompa is a man in conflict.”

Rolfe seized his hand and pressed it with joy—Earth carelessly replaced the gun, and advanced, but Oloompa was cold and indifferent to each, for he had not met with the reception which his arduous services entitled him to, and drawing a chair he seated himself by the fire.

“What tidings, Oloompa?” cried Rolfe, with breathless anxiety.

“The maiden lives,” was the answer. “Oloompa has sought her,—he has journeyed far. The hunters receive him with guns and sticks—”

“Is she the same I seek;—oh! Oloompa, tell me.”

Oloompa spoke not, nor even looked at Rolfe, but withdrawing from his belt the letter which he bore, delivered it;—then, after a moment he added, “Oloompa has served the white man, and he is now his enemy.”

Earthquake eyed him from head to foot, then said to Rolfe in an under-tone, “What does he mean by saying he is our enemy?—Rolfe, I have a great mind to use him up.”

“Hush, Earth,” said Rolfe, “regard nothing that he says, he is vexed now, but it will wear off,” and tearing open the note, he read the lines which Gay had written.

“Yes, yes, she is the same,” cried he; and for a moment he was overpowered by contending emotions. He knew not at first, whether to be sorry or glad. He regretted her misfortunes and the sufferings she must have experienced, and his brow was touched with sadness. Then again, she was alive and well, and he was to rescue her and restore her to her friends, and thinking of this, he became almost frantic with joy; and passing the note which he had received to Earth, he approached Oloompa, begged his pardon for the reception they had given him; gave him a thousand thanks for the trouble he had taken, and used all his exertions to make him comfortable and happy.

But Oloompa manifested the utmost indifference to all his attentions, and repulsed every effort at hospitality. He seemed to regard them as disagreeable, and partook of only such refreshments as nature required. Rolfe regretted exceedingly, the reception he had met with, and by his gentleness of manner, and continued efforts to win him from his reserve, succeeded in obtaining from him a history of his journey, together with details of the appearance and occupation of Gay, and a thousand other incidents which were full of interest to him alone.

The more Rolfe thought on the subject, the more happy he became. Every other feeling now gave place to joy. He was now to be happy, and saw before him the accomplishment of all his wishes. He judged from Gay's letter that she still loved him, and his desire was to set off at once to seek her. In making her his, he saw no obstacle, he anticipated no difficulty. He was aware of the excitement which prevailed among the Indians, and also of the general belief that hostilities would be commenced. But Gay was now with friends who loved her, and who would protect her if necessary; and furthermore, he had been assured of her safety by Oloompa, whom he could not doubt, since he had already taken so much trouble to serve him. His object, therefore, was now to make Oloompa happy, and also to make preparations for his intended journey.

In accomplishing the former, however, he still found much difficulty, for his civilities were received with indifference, and Oloompa's wants were few; and even when he conversed, it was as if he considered it a matter of duty, and seemed not to spring from any disposition to talk. Every thing he did was repulsive in its nature, and served to prove that he was disagreeably situated. He would receive nothing as compensation for his labour, save only a small present which he designed for his mother, and told Rolfe that he would lead him to the maiden, and expressed a wish to set off as soon as he should be ready to accompany him. Rolfe felt how much he owed him, he saw that something was heavy at his heart, and he renewed his exertions to entertain him, but in vain; and having exhausted his efforts, he had only to admire the individual whose good will there seemed no hope of purchasing, and who had already done so much to serve one, whom he seemed to consider as his enemy. The cause of this Rolfe could not divine, and it was upon the second evening of Oloompa's arrival, that the two being alone, Rolfe ventured to inquire.

“Will you tell me, Oloompa,” said he, “why it is you have done so much to serve me, placed me under a thousand obligations, and then will not even permit me to be kind to you.”

“The white man was good to my mother,” answered Oloompa;—“he asked me to serve him. I promised.—I have done so. My path was long. Oloompa's moccasins know the travel of two moons. He journeyed far. It was to serve the white man, who hates him. He is ready to lead him to the maiden.”

“Oloompa, you are mistaken,” said Rolfe; “I have no ill feeling toward thee. Thou hast acted nobly; thou hast served me, and I love thee for it. Now only name what I shall do for thee.”

“Go with me at once to the maiden, that Oloompa may be free.”

“And wilt thou accept nothing?” said Rolfe. “I owe thee much; I am thy friend; suffer me to be kind to thee for thy mother's sake, if not thy own. Should Oloompa go thus, Pukkwana will say the white man was ungrateful.”

“Oloompa has spoken,” was the reply. “He wants nothing; let the morrow's sun find him on his journey. He is a caged bird. His spirit longs to be free.”

“Then I can do no more,” said Rolfe, “but will prepare for our journey. You said you desired this, that you might be free. You will conduct me to the maiden, and then leave me. Does danger await me?”

Oloompa smiled, as if in scorn, and said, “the white man knows not Oloompa:—Oloompa is not a snake, to bite without warning. His words are straight. What he says, he does. The white man wrongs him when he suspects. Oloompa has said he will show him the maiden. He still says so, and if her path is watched, he will return with her to the settlements. She shall be safe. Then, Oloompa is free, and his hatred of the white men is a fire which will never burn out.”

“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know not what to think. I grieve to hear you speak as you do. Forget those thoughts which prey upon your mind, and be my friend. Return with me after having shown me the maiden, and you shall have a house and lands for yourself and mother, and your days shall pass in peace and quiet. Do this, and you will make me happy. If not, say why, what preys upon your mind?”

Oloompa's feelings were touched, by the manner of Rolfe, and he replied, “Oloompa is not ungrateful;—he loves not the white man, yet he thanks him for his kindness. Oloompa's cradle was the tree top. His spirit is as free as the wind that blows. The wild woods must be his home. The hunter asks why it is that Oloompa's mind is troubled? Would he know? Listen:—the Great Spirit made this great island for his red children. The white people came across the wide water, and have taken it from them. Here, where Oloompa stands, his father hunted the deer and buffalo. The whites wanted his hunting grounds. He would not give them up. His blood was spilled upon the ground, and the wigwam of the white man now rises over it! Dost thou know why the red man's heart is sorry?”

“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know thy feelings, and can make many allowances for them. I never think of the fate of the Indians with a light heart.”

“The white man is not yet satisfied,” continued Oloompa; “he wants more hunting grounds, and again he is kindling the red torch.”

“No,” said Rolfe; “the red man is kindling the torch, and the whites are assembling, to defend themselves. I myself had friends who fell victims to Indian barbarity. Not only that, but our frontiers have been desolated, and women and children inhumanly butchered, to gratify their vengeance. Oloompa, can we suffer that?”

“The white man,” continued Oloompa, “says to-day, ‘here is my boundary’; to-morrow, he moves over it. If the Indians go farther, he follows on; he will not let them live in peace.”

“They are both to blame,” said Rolfe, “and the state of feeling which exists among them is much to be lamented.”

“Indian barbarity!” repeated Oloompa, who seemed not to have regarded Rolfe's last remark:—“The white man taught the red man cruelty.—The white man came to us a stranger and asked for bread:—our fathers gave it. They clothed him,—they nursed him,—they made him grow strong. He turned upon his benefactors, and asked them for their hunting grounds. They refused to give them. What did the white man do, hunter? He kindled the torch;—and the red flames of war devoured, not only our warriors who fought for their wigwams, and their wild lands, but our women and children, who knew no harm. Yes, hunter, they butchered them, not because they had wronged them,—an Indian could have forgiven that,—but for the sake of gain,—for silver. Hunter, art thou proud of being a white man? Tell me.” Then pausing an instant, he continued, “Oloompa loves the red men. They are gone; their spirits would not stay when their hunting grounds were taken from them. They have gone to the Great Spirit, to tell him of the treatment of the white men.”

Rolfe was silent, for he knew not what reply to make, and he was also unwilling to excite Oloompa more.

Oloompa continued, “Hunter, before the white man came, the Indians were happy. They knew no crime. The Great Spirit supplied all their wants, and they believed that all he gave belonged to his red children in common. They protected the weak,—they fed the hungry,—they clothed the naked,—they gave shelter to the stranger. If their hearts were troubled, they would leave their wigwams, and retreating alone to some sacred tree or fountain, in the wilds of the forest, there pour out their most secret thoughts to him whom they knew only as the Great Spirit; there offer up their thanks for the game he had given them,—the care he had bestowed on their squaws and their little ones;—there implore him to take care of a father or a mother who had gone before them;—there entreat him to give them fine fields to hunt in, filled with deer and buffalo; or they would tell the wrongs they suffered from some other tribe to him whom they looked upon as a common father, and ask for vengeance. Hunter, was it wrong? Is the white man's heart glad when he knows what the Indians once were, and sees what the Indians now are?—The white man came:—he gave strong water to the Indians, and made them weak. He made one tribe war with another. He made brothers meet brothers, and fathers, sons, in bloody fray. When weak and divided, the white man himself took up the hatchet, and marched to battle. Our streams ran red with the blood of our children, and our plains were whitened with the bones of the slain. Our warriors were all laid low! Hunter, canst thou now tell, why the red man's heart is sorry? But Oloompa will away. He longs to be free. He will rove the few hunting grounds which are yet left him. Will the white man go to-morrow?”

“Oloompa, while you are excited as I see you,” said Rolfe, “will it be safe for me to venture so far into your country with only a small guard? Tell me, before I name the time for setting out.”

“Oloompa hates the white man,” was the reply, “and the white man knows it. Oloompa has promised to serve him,—he will do it. His path is clear, and the maiden shall return safe. Oloompa came alone,—the white man must go alone. He is safe. What Oloompa has done proves that he will not speak false.”

“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I never can doubt thee. You tell me I shall be safe;—I believe it;—yet still I would like that some few friends should accompany me.”

“They will make our path longer,” said Oloompa. “Oloompa wants to go quick. He wishes to be free. The white man, perhaps, is afraid,—he may take one friend. Oloompa again tells him his path is clear.”

Rolfe saw that a farther discussion would most probably only tend to provoke him, and he observed, “I am satisfied, and will obey;—the hunter whom you saw here shall accompany us.”