CHAPTER V.

“Where is the stony eye that hath not shed Compassion's heart drops o'er the sweet McCrea? Through midnight's wilds by savage bandits led, Her heart is sad, her lover far away.”

DRAKE.

The leader of the party which Rolfe and Earth were following, was named Yanatah, who only halted for a few moments, that he might consult with his followers as to where they should rest; when again setting off, they soon emerged from the woods into an open prairie, and seeking a small elevation, which was no other than an ancient mound, they prepared to pass the remainder of the night. The spot which they selected commanded a view for some distance in every direction, and as the grass was too short for concealment, the hunters were obliged to content themselves with lying on the edge of the prairie under cover of the woods.

Each one of the Indians as they left the forest, picked up some wood, and in a few moments they had a large fire blazing, around which they gathered.

“We are not all here,” said Yanatah; “where is Begwa?”

“He had a heavy pack,” said a warrior, “and stays behind; he is tired.”

“Give the pale face a blanket,” continued the chieftain, “and let her sleep; she wants rest; she must travel to the Prophet's camp.”

This was done; but her heart seemed breaking, and death for her had no terrors. From the first moment of her capture until the present, she had been hurried along without time for reflection; and now, at rest, began to doubt whether she was dreaming, or whether her situation was really what it appeared to be; and when consciousness came with its sad reality, she gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears.

Some time elapsed, and yet Begwa had not arrived. His absence occasioned much anxiety, until some one hinted that he had gone off in order to secure to himself the plunder with which he was loaded. There being no other rational way to account for his sudden disappearance, the suggestion was agreed to, and vowing vengeance, they were silent.

After a few moments, Yanatah said, “while we sleep, let two warriors keep watch; I fear the pale faces are on our steps; I doubt if Begwa would have left us for the sake of plunder. Begwa was a good warrior.”

“Begwa,” replied one of the party, “would not have fallen without a struggle. If the pale faces were on our steps we should have heard them.”

“Can you hear an eel,” asked Yanatah, “when it moves through the water? say no more, but let the watch be kept.”

Soon after this, they were all reposing by the fire, save the two warriors on duty, who were perfuming the air with kinny kaneek, and inhaling its odour through the handles of their tomahawks, the heads of which were fashioned into pipes. The captive maiden soon sank into a troubled slumber, for although she slept, her frame was often violently agitated, and there were moments, when her limbs quivered as in the agonies of death; with this exception, the Indian camp was quiet.

The prairie, as we have before observed, was too naked to allow the hunters to approach nearer to the Indian camp, than the outer edge of the woods; and nothing remained for them, but to rest where they were as mere spectators; for although at some distance, they had it entirely within their view.

Having seated themselves with their backs against a tree, whose widely spreading branches kept off the dew, they gathered themselves up and adjusted their garments that they might be as comfortable as possible.

“There is as yet no chance to benefit the captive,” said Rolfe.

“No,” said Earth, “see! those two devils are wide awake; but let them fall asleep if they dare, and we will not have crossed the river for nothing.”

The feelings, like every thing else, require relaxation, and Rolfe and Earthquake forgot in a few minutes the excitement under which they had been labouring.

“Earth,” said Rolfe, “the dews are very heavy, I feel a little chilly.”

“That is, you would like a little back-warmer,” said Earth, “come out like a man, and don't be so mealy-mouthed.”

“I thought it was all gone.”

“No,” said Earth, drawing from his pocket a small, flat, _stone tickler_, and shaking it, he smiled as he heard it wash up against its sides. “I'll try it first, to convince you 'tan't poison,” and throwing his head back, he emptied a part of its contents into his throat, and smacking his lips, passed the tickler to Rolfe.

Rolfe went through the same ceremony, and as gurgling out, it pronounced the words, _good_, _good_, “there's no lie in that,” said Earth, “it speaks the truth every word _on_ it.”

“It's all _lie_, I believe,” replied Rolfe, “for it has taken the skin from my tongue, why did you not put some water with it?”

“What! wade through water in order to get at the liquor! no, no, Rolfe, never do that when you have any respect for the spirit.”

“Earth,” said Rolfe, changing the subject, “how little do the people in the States know of the life of a Western hunter; here are we sleeping night after night without a bed, often without food, and now lying in an enemy's country, watching a party of Indians four times our number.”

“Not quite four times, I think,” said Earth; and so saying, he looked archly at Rolfe.

“I understand you, Earth; I saw it all, but did not like the deed; there were eight.”

“I could not help it, Rolfe, 'twas so good a chance. Moreover, I thought I might as well put him out of the way, that there would be one less, in case we have to take a brush.”

“I have no objection if any good is to result from it,” said Rolfe, “they are now seven to two, and I don't think we have gained much; I can't say that I liked it.”

“But, Rolfe, tell me, did you not think the operation was performed very neatly?”

“Yes, I must give you credit for that, Earth, it was certainly a very cool murder.”

“Oh! no, no, don't call it a murder, Rolfe, I only killed an Indian; it was over so quick with him, I didn't hurt him; he only said ‘humph!’”

“What did you do with the bundle he was carrying?”

“I hid it, thinking we would examine it on our return.”

“You did well, for from it we may learn the name of the family murdered. Earth, ever since I caught a glimpse of that poor girl's face to night, I have thought of nothing else; she is so much like her I loved, that if I could divine a reason for her father's having emigrated, I should think her the same. But her father was rich and happy; and surely he would never have left a quiet and peaceful home, for the wild woods of the west.”

“God only knows who she may be,” said Earth, “I pity her from the bottom of my soul, for she has suffered a thousand deaths to-night. You know she is a stranger to me, Rolfe, but if there be any such thing as truth, I would, to restore her to her friends, willingly take her place.”

“Poor girl!” said Rolfe, “she will never see her home again; doomed, perhaps, to the torture, or else to fill the office of some Indian squaw.”

“It is hard, hard, Rolfe! yet such is their savage nature; no one escapes. But if they carry her to Tecumseh, and all things be true which they tell of him, she will not suffer. 'Cumseh and I have seen some hard times.”

“What do they say of him?” inquired Rolfe.

“Why, that he respects the treaty, is famed for his humanity, and has never refused to surrender a murderer; moreover, he is the only Ingen whom I have heard of as being perfectly disinterested. He is very different from his brother.”

“And do you know his brother?”

“I have never seen him, but know him to be cruel in the extreme. He is the man who has lately become a Prophet, and you know he has been burning his own people until he is tired of it. Now I think it more than probable that he is at the bottom of this murder.”

“Then God forbid,” said Rolfe, “that she should fall into his hands, her fate will be bad enough without.”

“You may say that,” said Earth.

“But from your statement with regard to Tecumseh, Earth, I should think he was a noble fellow, and if they carry her to him, he will restore her to her friends.”

“Yes, he is as noble as a red skin can be, and that's not much; I don't trust any of 'em. I suspect he is our worst enemy, and every thing that his name implies.”

“What is that?”

“Why, Tecumseh, in the Shawanee tongue, means ‘tiger crouching for his prey.’”

“Look, Earth,” said Rolfe, pointing to the fire, “what are those Indians at?—making baskets?”

“No,” said Earth, “they are twisting those twigs in order to make small hoops to dry their scalps upon. Do you not see between that fellow's legs something that looks like small hoe-cakes? Well, they are scalps stretched upon a hoop and placed there to dry.”

“Tell me, does the maiden see them?” inquired Rolfe.

“No, I think not,” said Earth, “see, she lies covered up, and, I hope, is asleep.”

Much desultory conversation occurred, which whiled away the time till day began to dawn. The hunters were now getting drowsy, and yet the Indians showed no disposition to move. But when the eastern sky began to grow red, and the sun rose up, the Indian camp was in motion, and soon after the red men with their captive were treading their way across a prairie, boundless in extent, and beautiful as the imagination can conceive.

For the hunters to follow on, was now a perilous undertaking. The country was so open, that they could not keep near enough to watch the movements of the Indians, without detection; and the only plan was, to allow them to get out of sight, and to follow on to their trail, hoping for some fortuitous occurrence.

To this plan Earthquake was opposed, and he urged the great risk that must be run without the probability of doing any good. But Rolfe had become so much interested in the fate of the captive, that he begged his companion to continue the pursuit, if only for that day; and if no opportunity should offer for assisting her, that he would then return.

“Were we in the forest,” said Earth, “I would willingly follow for a week, but in an open prairie there is risk and no benefit; however, since you so much desire it, follow on.”

“Earth, you talk of risk; you know war is not declared, and that the Indians still profess peace. Now suppose we show ourselves and demand the maiden, they will perhaps surrender her.”

“I thought of that,” said Earth;—“there is peace, 'tis true; but, Rolfe, you see what sort of a peace 'tis. Were we to show ourselves, instead of getting the maiden, we should have our scalps taken off. They have done this to pay for some murder committed on 'em, and it must lead to war, and sooner than we wish, if we are to remain long on this side of the river; but if they carry her to 'Cumseh's camp, we may venture, and if he be present, perhaps we may succeed.”

“Then,” said Rolfe, “let us follow for a time, and see where they are going.”

“Agreed,” said Earth.

Suffering the Indians to advance for some distance, the hunters crawled up to the fire which they had left, and there remained until the party dwindled down to a few dark spots on the surface of the prairie; when, rising up, they followed fearlessly on their trail.

“How beautiful are these plains,” said Rolfe. “Earth, do you blame the Indians for not surrendering them?”

“No, I cannot say that I do: nor do I blame the whites for endeavouring to take them away.”

“Why? are not the Indians the rightful owners, and have not their fathers owned them time out of mind?”

“Rolfe, it will not do to argue this matter: we have treated the Ingens so badly, that we cannot now live in peace, but are obliged to add insult to injury. You know I've a great many grudges agin 'em, and use them up on all occasions, for I well know they would have killed me long before this, if they had had a good chance.”

“And because you have treated them badly, you think you ought to kill them? Is that your argument?”

“No, I never argue about it; if one comes near me, and he gives me a cause, I'm very apt to kill him. Somehow or other it is bred in me, and I hate them; for you see they are always straggling along the frontiers, and committing murders.”

“Yes, and you see our frontiers are always extending, so that the Indians are compelled either to move or else to be continually at war.”

“The fact is,” said Earth, “I believe I think as most of the whites do, and that is, that these lands are too good for them; they should be cultivated instead of lying waste for them to prowl over.”

“From present appearances,” said Rolfe, “it will be a long time before they are cultivated; the Indians, I think, are preparing for a general war.”

“They are,” said Earth; “and it would still be a hard fight if they were all united; but their dissensions and our enmity, will root them out at last.”

“I have often thought of this,” said Rolfe, “and also of Pontiac, the Ottawa chieftain. He was a great man, and would have been great, even among the whites. Had he lived on the sea-board when this country was first discovered, a settlement would never have been formed by the whites in his day.”

Nothing occurred worthy of note during the progress of the hunters across the prairie. Not being able to mark particularly the movements of the Indians, they merely followed on at a distance. It was now evening, and a dark line was seen on the horizon in the direction the Indians were travelling, which, increasing as they journeyed along, proved to be a forest bounding the prairie.

“They must be near their journey's end,” said Earth. “See the smoke how it hangs over yon wood; it is there they are encamped.”

But before we introduce the predatory party, let us again return to the camp of Tecumseh. That chief having left some few hours before, all was quiet, and his warriors now lay lounging idly about. The sun was fast sinking in the west, the trees were casting their longest shadows, and birds were hurrying by to roost, when from the depths of the prairie came a scalp yell floating on the breeze.—All were silent, for none knew its exact import, and in an instant the camp was again in motion, and then again as still as if no living soul moved in it. Anxiety was visible in every countenance. With heads inclined to the prairie, and listening ears, they might have been mistaken for the finest specimens of sculpture; so breathless, so mute, so intent were they upon catching the wished for sound. Then arose another yell;—still breathless they stood. Then another, and another, until the eighth came passing by, drawn out much longer than the first; when from the camp arose one universal shout, each person having found a tongue; and then were seen bright faces, and happy hearts, and congratulations that eight pale faces had gone to their long homes, and then were bursts of joy, and many ran bounding forward to meet the returning party.

While this was acting, the Prophet sat alone in his tent, for he never mingled with the common herd, lest by so doing they should become too much familiarized with his person. The cause of the scalp yell which agitated the camp was also entirely unknown to him, but a smile played over his countenance when the glad sound first reached his ears, and he rubbed his hands and said, “mischief,—good!”—and after a few moments summoned one of his attendants that he might learn its cause. The messenger having retired, soon ascertained the particulars which we have detailed, and returning, told them to the Prophet, who was evidently pleased at the narration; but a moment's reflection told him, that the affair, if not already known, must be hushed up, and not a trace left which might lead to its discovery. “Eight gone,” said he again, rubbing his hands; “it would bring war quick.” He also recollected that his camp was generally believed by the whites to be a place of rendezvous for all the murderers in the country, and he also knew that it had often served them as a safe place of concealment from the most diligent search. The present affair had been one of greater magnitude than had occurred for a long time, and its publication would lead at once to hostilities, for which he was not yet ripe. To prevent this was the first object, knowing that, were the perpetrators of so great a crime found in his camp, it would call down the unmitigated vengeance of the whites, and involve in one common ruin the innocent with the guilty. Furthermore, it was requisite that he should censure their conduct, lest a further commission of such crimes should render it impossible longer to preserve a show of peace, and yet in doing so, policy required that he should cherish the hatred which they felt against the whites. This was a delicate part to play; but throwing a few skins around him, and assuming rather a more mysterious appearance than usual, he adjusted himself in a seat, and ordered before him the party who had just arrived from the Ohio. He was now nearly in the plenitude of his power, and his words were law and none dared to disobey them.

When Yanatah and his party were informed of the Prophet's commands, clouds of fear passed over them, for they knew that they had acted counter to his expressed orders, and committed an act which might involve their tribe in war, and lead to its total extirpation. Hurried away by revenge, these thoughts had not before suggested themselves; but now that they were about to stand in the dread presence of the Prophet, they all swept past, and they saw before them only the ruin into which their rashness had plunged them, and trembled, not with personal fear, but at that intangible something, which gave character to the Prophet, and rendered him the dreaded object of their hopes as well as fears. With downcast countenances, and in dogged silence, they moved forward to his tent, and making humble obeisance stood uncovered before him. He seemed not to regard their entrance, but remained for a time muttering with his lips, and rolling his eyes towards heaven, as if repeating some prayer, then turning on them a savage gaze, he looked as though he would have looked them through. When his scrutiny was over, he said, “why the scalp yell, Yanatah? Has the Great Spirit sent red war upon our lands, or does the Prophet, his agent, preach peace unto the tribes?”

Yanatah cast his eyes upon the ground, and was silent. “Speak,” said the Prophet, “whence these cries of murder in the air? Who dares lift the tomahawk? Shall battle rage, and I not know it; I, the chosen of the Great Spirit? Speak!”

Yanatah paused for an instant, then nerving himself for the effort, looked the Prophet in his mighty face, and spoke: “Chosen of the Great Spirit, listen! A brother, dear to my heart, was slain by the whites. I sought their wigwams, and demanded his murderer. They gave me promises. I went again; they laughed me to scorn. His blood cried for vengeance, and I sought it.” He was then silent, and the Prophet's visage assumed rather a gentler aspect, and he said: “Thou hast done wrong, Yanatah; the hatchet is buried; the Prophet of the Great Spirit will tell the red men when to strike;” then, pausing for a moment, he continued: “Did no pale face escape?”

“Not one,” answered Yanatah, “darkness was over the land; yet a captive lives, and is here, a slave for my mother, who weeps for her son.”

“It is well,” said the Prophet; then pausing again, and rolling his eyes toward heaven, and muttering with his lips that those before him might see he held converse with the Great Spirit, he continued with renewed energy, “Yanatah, take thy band and away, far, far from our camp. Blood red are thy steps, and the whites follow on, like hounds on the track. Be seen no more, till a runner from the Prophet calls thee to battle. Away!—”

At this speech, surprise sat upon the countenances of Yanatah and his band. The Prophet had told them that they were pursued; though merely a random assertion, the truth of which he feared, and uttered only to serve his own purpose. They believed it, and were unable to account for the manner in which he had received his information; in silence they gazed at each other for a moment, when Yanatah, desirous to know what was to become of the prisoner, pronounced the words “the captive?” in an inquiring tone, for he durst not directly ask the question. “Remains with me,” said the Prophet sternly. “Let her be brought before me. Away. An hour hence, Yanatah must be without our camp.”

There was no reply, and bowing humbly, they left his presence.

In the great excitement of the moment, the prisoner had been in a measure forgotten, and when she first arrested public attention, “Red Sky of the morning” was seen leaning over her, arranging her dress, and doing many little offices of kindness. So resigned was she, so worn with fatigue and suffering, that even the savages, upon beholding her, manifested some slight feelings of sympathy, and the desire which many cherished when she first entered the camp, of seeing her brought to the stake, passed away.

When the order was given that she should be brought before the Prophet to be disposed of by him, Miskwa, who felt assured that, as he had always inculcated peace, he would not adjudge her to death, started to his tent to entreat him to give her the prisoner for a slave. But upon approaching near enough to catch a glimpse of his dark and lowering countenance, she abandoned the idea, and returning, sought her mother and begged her to prefer the request.

No one in the camp possessed more power than Netnokwa, and no one in the camp in making a request, was more likely to succeed. Yet she saw at a glance the difficulty in which the Prophet was placed. He could not order the captive to death; it would not be in accordance with the doctrines he now preached. He could not send her to the settlements; she would tell her story, and excite the whites to immediate war; all trace of the massacre must be concealed, and she knew not that under these circumstances the Prophet would be willing to trust the prisoner out of his own immediate sight. With a knowledge of these things, she accompanied the maiden and stood with her alone in the presence of the Prophet. The captive now, weeping bitterly, neither looked up nor spoke; the world for her had no joys; her life was in the past. She sobbed as if her heart would burst; yet the Prophet regarded her not, but in his own tongue carried on a hurried dialogue with Netnokwa. Not knowing the object of her visit, aware of the influence she wielded, and also of her connexion with Tecumseh, he began to explain to her the difficulty in which he was situated, the necessity there was for concealment, and his fears that the captive would be searched for by the whites; founding them on the sudden disappearance of Begwa, a thing almost inexplicable on any other supposition than that the whites were now on their steps. Saying this, he paid a compliment to the wisdom and experience of Netnokwa, and asked her what was best to be done. She stated the wishes of her daughter, and added, that should the captive be given to her, they would set out with the first light of day, and in the distant regions to which they were journeying there would be no probability of her being discovered. At this piece of intelligence, a feeling of pleasure was manifest in the countenance of the Prophet, and again turning to Netnokwa, he hinted the ease with which the maiden, when far away, might meet with a secret death. Netnokwa seemed not to understand, and suppressed her feelings, whatever they were. The death of the captive the Prophet could have required of Yanatah, and his request would willingly have been complied with; but he feared that the act, if intrusted to him, would be viewed as a license for the commission of any other crime his passions might suggest.

Being foiled in the attempt he had made to make Netnokwa connive at the death of the prisoner, he yielded her up without annexing thereto any condition; for it saved him the trouble of devising some other mode to get rid of her, and he was also satisfied that, provided Netnokwa and her daughter set out sufficiently early, it was the best plan that could possibly be adopted.

Netnokwa having now succeeded in her request, took the hand of the weeping girl, and was leaving the Prophet, when, in an authoritative manner, he again urged her to set out early, and on no account to leave any clue by which the maiden might be traced. Bowing, she departed, and returned with the captive to her bower, and, though in common with most of the Indians, she felt a fear of the Prophet, yet her opinions of his character had been materially changed by the interview.

With the first gray light of morning, Netnokwa and Miskwa rose and began to prepare to set out upon their journey. Waking a warrior, Netnokwa ordered him to bring their horses, and she began to get ready her bundles, while Miskwa was sent to arouse the captive, to whom she had extended all the little comforts of which she was possessed, and whom she now found overpowered by fatigue, and sleeping away as sweetly as innocence could do. But the hour having arrived at which they were to set out, she bent close over her, and hesitated, as if fearing to break a slumber so soft and quiet; when after a moment, she said in her own beautiful language, “Great Spirit! can a pale face who looks as she does, delight in hunting us as dogs, taking away our lands, and driving us far from the graves of our fathers? it cannot be.” Then, recollecting how lonely and unprotected was her situation, she was still more softened in her manner, and laying her hands gently on the captive, she continued, “Sweet Flower, arise, arise, we must be moving.” Her mother, who saw how much her feelings were interested, stood apart in silence waiting for her; when the maiden awoke she gazed about her with a vacant stare, and rubbed her eyes and looked again, and when the recollection of her situation crossed her mind, she called upon her father and mother, and began to weep.

Miskwa was now all tenderness, and throwing her arms around the maiden, she spoke as though each word was understood, saying, “Sweet Flower, weep not, I will love thee, I will take care of thee, thou shalt dwell with me.” Even Netnokwa was affected by the scene, but she was anxious to be off, for the rosy light of morn was now just peering forth, and she ordered her horses to her tent. Miskwa expressed a wish that “Sweet Flower,” for so she continued to call the maiden, should ride with her; in accordance with it, both were mounted on one horse, while Netnokwa on another leading the way, plunged at once into the forest.

She had continued her journey for nearly an hour, when, counter to the expectations of the Prophet, and also to the intention with which she sat out, she resolved not to proceed directly to her place of destination, but first to visit some friends on the Wabash, whom she had not seen for many years; where her wish was to stay only a few weeks, and then proceed on her journey. In adopting this resolution, she saw the difficulty she would have in carrying along the captive, and that she would increase the probability of her being discovered. But then the point to which she was bound was far from the borders, and she trusted to her own wisdom for the power of concealing the captive. This incident, though seemingly trifling within itself, was a matter of much moment, since it was unknown to the Prophet, and his chief object in giving the captive to Netnokwa, was, that in her being carried at once to a distant region, she might the more effectually be concealed.