Bennett, Emerson, 1822-1905 [1848], The trapper's bride, or, Spirit of adventure (Stratton & Barnard, Cincinnati) [word count] [eaf009].
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CHAPTER I.
O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,
On these same hills rejoice a free-born race,
Whereon to gaze, the eye with joyance fills,
Meanwhile it wends through many a pleasant
place.
'Tis a great sity and full of strange sights.
It was in the autumn of 18— that I
isited the city of New York for the first
ime. I had long been desirous of seeing
hat great city, the grand commercial
and mercantile emporium of the western
world: the London of America. This
city is one of the oldest in the United
States, and by far the largest in the Republic,
and decidedly the most important
in a business point of view. Its mercantile
interests are greater and vastly
more extended, than are those of any
other city in the Union. Early in the
history of this country it was founded by
a colony of Dutch, a people then widely
known for the spirit and energy with
which they carried on mercantile pursuits,
and more especially for their commercial
operations. This spirit they
brought with them to their new home:
and, as the town grew in importance, and
increased in wealth, they pushed their
branches of business, which were found
profitable to them, besides being more to
their liking than any other pursuits in
life: and in this way they gained an advance
over the other settlements in the
country, which they have ever since continued
to hold. New York possesses by
its location all the natural advantages for
commercial pursuit. Its wide harbor,
which affords a safe anchorage for the
largest ships, looks out upon the boundless
ocean, which is traversed at this time
by its thousands of stout, staunch vessels.
Its intercourse with foreign nations
across the ocean is extremely easy from
this circumstance, and its active citizens
saw this advantage from the first; it was
the strong inducement which led them to
settle on that narrow neck of land upon
which the city is built, and as I have
said, early turned their attention to the
subject of navigation, and to embark in
the pursuits of commerce. As the country
grew, and the population increased,
foreign trade also became more profitable,
and this city was the port that received
the returning ships laden with the
treasures and luxuries of foreign climes,
and in turn sent them back freighted
with the surplus productions of our own
land, to be exchanged in distant countries.
At the date of my story, the city
had become large and wealthy. It had
already secured the largest share of trade
in foreign staples and commodities from
other parts of our country, and merchants
from other cities on the sea-board as well
as inland cities and towns came here to
purchase their stocks. Merchants from
all parts of the country flowed to New
York, as offering the best chance to do
business profitably, and advantageously;
and foreigners, also, who came to this
country, were pretty sure to make this
port on their arrival, and quite as sure to
remain and engage in business in this
enterprising and prosperous city. From
successful business, many of the city
merchants grew very wealthy, and
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retiring from active business, they built for
themselves elegant mansions in which
they resided in the bosom of their families,
enjoying all the comforts and pleasures,
both social and domestic, their
amassed wealth could purchase for
them; hence there grew up in this
city, and very naturally too, an aristocracy
of wealth, and with wealth an
aristocracy of fashion; indeed this city
soon became what in truth it has ever
since continued to be, the source and
fountain of the fashion. Here were to
be seen the latest styles of female costume;
here the fashionable bean got
the cue for the approved and last method
of the tie of his cravat, or the color and
size of his coat buttons, the length and
shape of his whiskers and moustaches.
In fact, in this respect, New York is to
America what Paris is to France; and
here you will ever find a crowd devoted
to the gay goddess whose temples are the
milliners, the mantua-makers, tailors and
barbers' shops.
On a clear, bright spring morning, in
the year 18—, in the month of April, a
young man dressed in his best suit of
homespun grey, might be seen traveling
on foot, his bundle containing his little,
but nevertheless his sole stock of worldly
gear and wealth. At the time we
speak of he had arrived to within a
couple of miles of New York, which was
his point of destination. He was about
eighteen years of age, to judge from his
appearance; a well built, hale, healthy
youth, possessing much manly beauty of
person, with a heart full of hope, swelling
with high resolves, and possessing
great courage, he had left his home in the
northern part of the State, and bidding
adieu to his family who lived contentedly
and pleasantly on a large and rich farm,
he had come to New York to seek his fortune.
Charles Stanley, for such was his
name, had full confidence in his ability
and power to win from dame fortune her
smiles by his seeking, and if she frowned
upon him at his first entrance into the
great and busy world, he was prepared
not to be cast down or driven from his
purpose. He had received an excellent
education at home, for the period and
part of the country where he had lived,
and was accounted a remarkable scholar
by the village pedagogue, that gave the
boys and gals their larning; and at home
under the careful teaching of a pious
father and mother he had learned lessons
of morality and religion which he cherished,
that if practiced would carry him
safely through all the vicissitudes of life,
and he had resolved to remember them
and make them a rule of conduct. Fortunately
for him, on the first day's entrance
into the city he was engaged by
one of the best firms in the city; two of
their clerks had suddenly left them, and
one of the partners by accident met
Charles as he was entering the house
where he took up his quarters in the
place. He was so much pleased with
the first impression Charles made upon
him, and so interested in the intelligence
and good sense of his conversation, that
he at once gave him the card of the firm,
“Leslie & Burke, importers of French
and English goods, No. 50 Wall street,”
and when he left him told him he should
expect to see him the next morning.
Charles was punctual to the appointment,
and was regularly installed in his
new vocation. That morning he attended
diligently to the duties that were
laid upon him, and devoted all his time
and talents to the acquisition of his new
calling. In a short time he had acquired
a tolerably good knowledge of business,
and was promoted by his employers, who
took much interest in him. The partners
in this house, were, both of them,
men of extensive information and learning.
As I have said, their business was
that of importers of foreign goods, and
often in the course of their business, they
were obliged to cross the ocean and visit
both France and England. These visits
were improved by them as a means of informing
themselves of the habits, customs
and history of those nations, and served
to stimulate and heighten the desire and
longing for learning and reading which
early education and a cultivated taste had
developed. It was in such a house, with
such men, that Charles received his business
education; and being a young man
of much promise, rigidly strict in his
habits, exceedingly attentive to business,
and feeling deeply interested in whatever
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oncerned the welfare of his employers,
vatching over their interests as if they
vere his own, he gained at once not only
heir warm approbation, but also their
earty esteem; and as time wore on they
ecame more and more attached to him,
nd took increasing pains and care to aford
him every advantage in their reach
or self-education and improvement.—
Books were furnished him with the adice
and counsel of his employers, with
egard to his course and manner of readng;
then again he was welcomed as a
visitor in both their families, where he
vas treated more like a son than a guest,
and a son he was indeed destined to become
to Mr. Leslie, the eldest partner.
As soon as he became of age he was
eceived into the firm, he acquired their
inlimited confidence as a clerk, they gave
a willing admiration to his truly great business
talents, they loved him for his high
and noble character, his generous and
frank disposition, his unbending integrity
and honesty.
The same year that saw him a partner
in the firm, witnessed his marriage with
Arabella, the eldest daughter of Mr. Leslie,
a charming and lovely girl about his
own age. Their mutual love for each
other had existed for a long period. On
their first acquaintance they were deeply
interested in each other, and Charles had
not been long a clerk for her father, and
had not made many visits to his house,
before this interest ripened into love, and
it was to this deep and fervent attachment
on the part of Charles to a gifted
and beautiful girl, a passion that was met
and warmly returned by her, that he
owed that strong and constant influence
that held him to a course of life marked
by uprightness and unblemished honor,
more than to any other cause. Man's
destiny, how often is it made or marred
forever by woman's moulding influence.
To be worthy of her love, to render himself
her peer and be able some day to
call her his own, and render her happy
and proud to be so called, was the ruling
desire that filled his heart. And this desire
gave birth to high resolves which
should govern his conduct, and these
were faithfully adhered to under the light
of her approving smile, the sympathy
of her loving heart. Great and constant
were the exertions he made for her whom
he loved with all the strength and fervor
of a manly heart, and who had given
herself to him in sweet trusting confidence;
and he was worthy of all her
fond affection, of all her confiding trust.
No young man in that great city was
more widely known, nor more highly
respected and beloved.
We here pass over an interval of several
years in the history of this family,
as nothing of special interest in connexion
with our story occurred to them;
suffice it to say that Mr. Stanley continued
for a long time in business, was
very successful, and at the time we now
resume our veracious and honest narrative
had retired from active business, although
there stood the old dingy sign of the old
firm over the same store door where it
stood in days of yore. He was living
in an elegant mansion in the upper part
of the city fronting upon Washington
park, his family had considerably increased,
and now consisted of four children,
his dear wife who was still living,
the light of her home, the sweet partner
of all his joys, and the equal sharer of
all his accumulated riches. They had
lived in uninterrupted harmony and love
with all that strong, ardent affection, ever
fresh in their hearts, that made their marriage
day the most blessed day of their
lives. Not an unkind word had ever
passed between them, not a moment of
distrust had ever disturbed their mutual
confidence in each other. As happy a pair
were they as ever existed since the days
of Adam and Eve. But it is of their
children, or one of them rather, that we
wish to speak. The oldest was a son,
an only son, now about eighteen years
of age. His sisters were all younger
than himself. The children were all
dutiful, affectionate, and intelligent, and
were a blessing to their fond parents.—
They had been educated with great care,
under the watchful eye of indulgent and
fond parents. The son had the christian
name of his father, Charles; he displayed
at an early age in life talents of no
common order, and had developed and
improved his mind by careful attention
to his reading, and close application to his
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studies. To him was assigned the first
rank in his class; to him belonged the
first prize awarded to the best scholar
at the close of his course of studies in
the seminary. In person as in mind, he
was equally distinguished, rather above
the medium height, with a well proportioned
form, full and well developed by
the manly exercises he accustomed himself
to; his head sat proudly on his
shoulders, supported by what, perhaps,
some would deem a too slender neck;
was rather large; the front part large,
with bold, open forehead, denoting a
large and active intellect; was covered
with a profusion of cutling hair of a dark
chestnut shade; his eye was black as jet,
full, round, sharp and expressive; his
complexion fair—almost too fair for a
man—and had it not been for the stern,
resolute expression of his mouth, you
would perhaps have thought the expression
of his face effeminate. It is strange
how totally the entire expression of a
face may be altered by a single feature.
To see Charles Stanley in the hours of
amusement, laughing and chatting gaily
with his young friends, and giving himself
up to pleasure, you would have supposed
him of a light and superficial
character, and one not at all fitted for
the stern realities and trying seasons
that few escape in the course of their
life time, when firmness and decision are
the only qualities that can save them.—
But you would assuredly have been mistaken
in him, for his was not a disposition
that delighted in the soft enervating
pleasures of society. Usually he was
thoughtful, sober, and I might almost add
sad in his appearance. When deeply
engaged in reflection, and absorbed in
thought, his whole expression changed,
and if you observed him at such times,
and saw his eyes kindling with the interest
he felt, and beaming with the light of
an awakened and active mind, his small
resolute mouth with compressed lips,
then you would have said that his was a
soul strong of purpose, that he possessed
a decision of character not easily to be
withstood—not often to be thwarted.—
At such seasons his beauty was highly
intellectual and manly; but never did his
remarkable beauty appear so striking as
when engaged in the courtesies of life,
with words of love on his lips, and kindness
displaying her attractive charms in
all his movements in his bearing, he
smiled—such a smile as would break
over his features how shall I describe it,
I never saw such an one before or since—
its effect was electrical and irresistible,
and would like light steal the gloom from
the brow of the most moody, the most
forlorn. It was bright, flashing bright,
yet winning. Like a sunbeam it played
over his face, illuminating it and clothing
it with a fascination that was truly irresistible.
Such in person was Charles Stanley,
the hero of my book. His sisters, as I
have already said, were younger than
himself; and in a city where the beauty
of its females is unsurpassed by any
city on the globe, were considered beautiful
girls. But it is of Charles I wish
to speak, and although the fair deserve
better treatment than to be thus suddenly
disposed of, necessity must rule. He
had been destined by his father for a
mercantile life, and had been engaged in
business for two or three years, but it
was a hard and trying thing for him to
tie himself down to a city life, although
he was in a good business, with an
abundance of funds to carry it on, and
although in society he was equally as
successful, for he had been welcomed
with open arms by the fashionable world.
His beauty, his wit and learning, had delighted
and amused a class where the
two latter commodities at least were not
often discovered, and many a fair daughter
of fashion had fluttered around him
clothed in witching smiles and radiant
beauty, like a gaily painted butterfly,
longing to capture his hand and heart too
if necessary to secure him. Many were
the costly dinner parties, the well planned
and delightful pic nic parties, the charming
sailing excursions that were provided
by fond and anxious mothers for his especial
benefit, that he might both see,
admire, and fall in love with their dear
sweet girls. But if the truth must be
told, for some reason or other, Charles
had never discovered what all these amusing
pleasures were designed especially
for, or if he had, had not entered into the
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spirit of the thing, and did what was
expected of him. His heart was yet
free. Cupid had never leveled his arrow
at him, or if he had, had made a bad
shot of it; for never as yet had the fountains
of his heart been made to flow in
streams of love such as follow when the
mischievous little god strikes his dart in
the fatal spot.
His tastes, his habits, his inclinations,
were all separate and distinct from most
of those around him, who composed what
is termed the fashionable circle, the bon
ton of the city. They had been formed
in a different school. He had paid but
little attention to the showy but superficial
accomplishments that make up the
sum of a fashionable beau's education
and stock of learning. During most of
his school days he had been in his father's
house, and beneath the watchful
guidance of his kind parents; but the
two last years he had spent at a seminary
in the upper part of the State,
kept by an old friend of his father's.
While there he was accustomed to spend
his holidays in hunting in the adjacent
woods, and fishing in the streams of the
neighborhood. These sports, which belong
to manhood and mature age, were
his favorites when a boy. They separated
him from the crowd and led him
away by himself to the wild free forests;
they relieved him from the fetters and restraints
which other amusements very
often are connected with, and left him at
liberty to indulge his wildest, boldest fancies,
or muse undisturbed upon the bright
and glowing schemes that are wont to
occupy the mind of youth ere the blights
of disappointed hopes and crushed expectations
have taught him the realities
of life.
It was at this period of his life that he
formed a desire for a forester's roving
life. He delighted to read and ponder
over the wild tales of the pioneers of the
West, and the extravagant tales of border
life were eagerly listened to, and carefully
remembered by him. Cooper's
tales of the Indians were his favorite
volumes; and often while alone in the
woods would he revolve in his mind the
character of the old scout in Cooper's
writings, and plan for himself a career
which should rival that in romance and
chivalry. As he grew up, however, and
again returned to his home in the city,
away from the enticing scenes that had
rendered his holidays so delightful, and
again mingled in fashionable society,
where he was so warmly welcomed,
and so flatteringly praised, he lost for
a time his wish to rove; but soon after
entering into business which closely confined
him to his store, and claimed his
sole attention and consumed all his time,
he grew tired of the restraints imposed
upon him, and in turn he became sick
of, and disgusted with, the frivolities and
hollow-heartedness that every where met
him in fashionable society. He saw
through the cloak of politeness and pretended
friendship that covered the most
utter selfishness, and contemptible meanness,
of the boasted leaders and chiefs in
this circle. He gained an insight into
the intrigues and artful designs of man
mammas and plotting papas,
and made up his mind, perhaps wrongfully—
then again perhaps he was not so
far from the truth—that here all was superficially
counterfeit, and a little base
withal. This was a suitable frame of
mind to revive the pleasures and plans
of the past, that had so charmed him.
His early schemes and fancies returned
with more than their former strength and
influence, until he resolved to put them
into execution; to quit his home, although
it was dear to him; but he desired to
turn his back upon what he believed to
be falsely called a happy lot, a cultivated
and refined state of society, and delve
into the forests far beyond the bounds of
civilization.
He determined to try the fortunes of a
pioneer, and join the hunters that range
the vast forests of the far West, after the
manner of the natives of the land—free
as the air of heaven, or as the streams
that plow the mountain's side and dance
along the smiling vales. And now that
he had fully made up his mind to this
course, he began to look about for the
means of pursuing it. The first and
greatest difficulty that presented itself to
his mind, was to gain the consent of his
parents; he knew they would be opposed
to it—strongly opposed. But
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although he was of age and could act alone
for himself, and by himself; and the doing
of which, many girls and boys think
a mark of manhood and independence,
and forget or neglect the duties and obligations
which they owe to their kind and
loving parents who have watched over
them with unceasing kindness and unremitting
care in their days of helplessness
and infancy—still he hesitated not a
moment as to whether he should ask
counsel and advice from his parents.—
He made their consent an indispensable
point; desire however strongly he might
to go, he would not, on any account,
without their obtained assent at least.
The conclusion he came to was a noble
one, worthy of the instructions and education
he had received. It was to state
to his parents fully and freely, and seek
their approval. As soon as he had fixed
upon this course, he took the first opportunity
a leisure evening offered to meet
his father in his library alone, when he
might without interruption acquaint him
with his resolutions, lay his plans before
him, and gain his consent to them. This
occasion soon presented itself, and Charles
pleaded his wishes and gave his reasons
for his course to his father, and requested
his consent to follow them.
Mr. Stanley, as might have been expected,
seemed very much surprised at
what his son said, but this did not prevent
him from listening attentively, or
cause him to interrupt him in what he
had to say to him. He waited until he
had finished, and paused for an answer.
He did not reply to him immediately,
but for a few moments remained silent,
during which time he regarded his son
closely, as if to be sure that he rightly
understood him, and that he was really
in earnest in what he said; then in a
friendly, kind tone, said he:—
“Do you know, my dear son, what a
laborious, what an uncertain life you are
choosing for yourself?”
Charles replied that he had thought
the matter over thoroughly, and he was
prepared to experience difficulties and
labor he had never yet encountered.—
But said his father, “Have you thought
of the sacrifices you will be compelled
to make—all the luxuries of life to which
you have been accustomed, and many
of its comforts, even, you will be deprived
of.”
Charles answered him by saying he
was ready to do so, and even anxious to
undergo them.
But said his father, “I fear should you
take this course, you will be sadly disappointed,
for I can tell you it is very different
from what you have been used
to. It is one thing to picture such a
life in your own fancy, full of stirring,
pleasant incidents and adventures—and
quite another, actually to suffer all the
trials and discomforts that are sure to
attend it. I know full well that young
men at your time of life are apt to indulge
in fanciful theories, and extravagant
schemes of the future; such is the
natural tendency of the youthful mind,
ere it has learned from actual experience
the realities of life: but, my son, I think
you are mistaken in this matter, and I
think if you will consider it carefully
you will see it in a different light.—
Whatever you now undertake should
be viewed with reference to the future.
You should look beyond the present and
estimate the bearing and influence it will
hereafter exert upon you. In youth prepare
for old age. This is a maxim no
less true than just. Your happiness and
success in life, as you know, is dear,
very dear to me: and if there is anything
within my power to secure for
you a happy life, you know how ready,
how rejoiced I shall be, to do it for you:
but I must say, my dear son, that the
plan which you have now detailed to me
does not seem calculated to promote your
happiness or welfare, but on the contrary,
as I view it, it is wild and unsettling, and
calculated to injure you, and moreover I
do not think you are fitted to endure the
fatigues and privations that are necessarily
attendant upon it. Reflect upon it,
my child; consider if there be not some
other career in the varied and different
pursuits of life, that you would rather follow:
something that will permit you to
remain with us at home, for I am pained
at the idea of your leaving us, my dear
son, and I know that it will grieve your
mother and sisters very much to part with
you; but anything that will contribute to
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your welfare we shall both be ready to
do. We will not now discuss this subject,
but I will speak with you again soon
upon it, after I have acquainted your
mother with your wishes.”
The father and son then conversed together
upon other topics in a familiar and
interesting manner. Mr. Stanley always
encouraged the confidence and freedom
of speech of his children, and listened to
them with attention and respect. He
treated them like men and women, and
this served to make them talk and act as
such.
After an hour pleasantly spent in conversation
with his father, Charles left the
library and betook himself to his own
room, to reflect upon his interview with
his father, and carefully consider the advice
he had received from him, and again
to review his own plans.
CHAPTER II.
As he turned his thoughts backwards
and reviewed the past, all the kindness
of his parents—their ever constant and
active love towards him, rose up before,
and seemed to rebuke his selfish inclinations,
and reproach him that he had
thought so little of their feelings and happiness
in the formation of his plans for
the future. He knew, he felt, how fondly—
how ardently—his parents and sisters
were attached to him, and in the past he
saw how readily they had met and answered
all his wishes, when it could be
done consistently with his welfare; he
felt the force of his father's reasoning
when he had said that it would pain him
to part from him his only son, and in
fancy he realized the grief and sorrow
such a separation would bring to the
heart of his dear mother, and much beloved
sisters; and while these thoughts
came, filling his mind with tender images
and melting reflections, his heart
grew softer, his feelings prevailed, and
he was almost inclined to abandon the
projects he had cherished. But as he
glanced back again to the life he was
leading at home, and thought of the wearisome
hours that dragged their slow length
so tardily along at the store, and as he
contemplated the idle, frivolous, and
heartless manners in which society delighted,
and of which he had become so
heartily tired, he turned once more to
his cherished scheme with a heart kindling
with fresher feelings, and beating
with stronger wishes.
Although the gratification of his love
for the wild sports of the huntsman, and
the novelty of the life he proposed for
himself had a prominent place in the
train of arguments, and was one of the
chief motives that influenced him, yet
there was another and a different reason
for his pursuing such a course; and this,
to his ardent and somewhat imaginative
mind, impulsive in whatever he undertook,
had great weight: it was the condition
and welfare of the Indians.
He had heard much of the wrongs
which had been inflicted upon them by
the whites; but he felt warmly for them,
and it was his purpose to devote much
of his time to them in his wanderings—
his desire to serve them and devise something
for their happiness.
After the conversation we have detailed
above, between father and son, Mr.
Stanley lost no time in communicating it
to his wife. It gave great uneasiness, as
well as occasioned her unaffected surprise.
She could not for a moment believe
that Charles was serious and determined
in this course; but they both
thought best to have a consultation with
their son, and endeavor now while this
project was in its infancy, to root it out
of his mind. Mr. Stanley would not
render his wife more anxious and uneasy
by stating his convictions that Charles
was fixed and strong in his resolution,
but left it to his son to inform her in his
own way, as being best.
Accordingly, the day after the conversation
referred to, his mother requested
him to remain at home with them, as
they wished to converse with him on a
subject important to him. Charles at
once surmised what that subject was,
and readily consented; and although he
had laid his head upon his pillow the
night past with his mind more strongly
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than ever bent on his purpose, yet, now,
as he looked upon his mother and saw
her dear face clouded with anxiety and
thought, he felt if she opposed his wishes
and objected to his leaving home, he
must relinquish them, and remain. She
was his mother—how dear the word to
his ear, what feelings awoke in his heart
at the sound—the thought of it. He
was devotedly attached to his mother,
and she loved him with all a mother's
love, a love stronger than death, that outlives
time, and that nothing can conquer.
He thought of her as the angel who
had watched over his helpless and feeble
infancy, and guided with never sleeping
vigilance his boyish life; into her sympathizing
and ever listening ear he had
poured forth his little troubles and disappointments
that vexed his boyish heart,
and she had comforted and soothed him.
She, too, had been the confidant of all
his youthful plans and schemes, and
throughout all his life her voice of love
and kindness had sounded in his ear.
In all the overflowing tenderness a mother
bears her only son, a mother who now
in his first budding manhood, clung to
him with, if possible, a still stronger
love; and who never parted with him,
even for a few days only, but with pain
and anxiety.
Charles, I said, thought should his
mother oppose his wishes, his heart
would fail him, and he should at once
resign the plan he had so warmly cherished
in his mind. But he had yet to
learn himself. He knew not the strength
of his own character; he would even be
surprised at the resolute, aye, obstinate
tenacity with which he clung to his own
opinions and resolves.
His mother was serious and thoughtful.
Charles thought she looked sad,
and he felt self reproached before she
had spoken a word, as if he had caused
her sadness; but when she spoke a thrill
of feelings ran through his frame. In a
voice tender and full of feeling she said
to him:
“Your father has told me you wished
to leave us, my son, to go away from
your home and friends; he has also detailed
to me your plans as you stated
them to him in your conversation yester
day; and now, Charles, I wish to ask
you if you are really serious in this?
And do you really wish to leave us and
go so far away from home? Are you
not happy with us here? Or is there
anything we can do to make you so?
Oh, my dear son, you do not know, you
cannot know what sorrow, what grief,
the bare idea of your absence from us
causes me! I shall not know a moment's
peace, or enjoy a moment's pleasure, if
you pursue this scheme. I cannot bear
the thought of your going so far away
alone, so far from home, so far from
all who love you and will feel disposed
to render you assistance of need. Why
do you wish to go, my son? You must
have some object in view; something
that you esteem of earnest importance to
yourself, I am persuaded, to induce you
to desire to leave us who love you so
much; and whom we know you in turn
dearly love. What, my dear son, do you
expect to gain by all these sacrifices that
you must make if you carry out your
plans? If we can see anything in them
that will be of benefit to you, and which
you may not better obtain at home, then
you know that however we could desire
you to remain with us, yet shall we
smother our wishes, and willingly assist
you. But from what your father has
told me, I cannot see that it is at all necessary
for you, or even that it will promote
your happiness in the slightest degree.
No, no, Charles, you are mistaken
in your views; and this time, you
have suffered your love of novelty and
curiosity to blind your reason; your imagination
has outstripped your reflection.
Come Charles, now tell me that you do
not wish any longer to leave me, and
that you will give up these plans. I
shall rejoice to hear you say that.”
As his mother ceased speaking, she
looked affectionately upon him, awaiting
his answer to her last appeal to him,
which should be an answer to all the
other questions she had put to him,
Charles, who was sitting by her side,
took her hand in his own, and turning
upon her a glance of affection, replied:
“I should be a most undutiful, most
ungrateful son, nay, more, I must be a
most heartless and unfeeling being, did
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I not love, dearly love you, my dear
mother and father—did I not feel the
strongest attachment to my affectionate
sisters, and fondly prize my happy home.
Such parents and relatives as God has
given me, I feel indeed, are the highest
boon that can be bestowed upon a mortal
creature; friendship—true, pure friendship
in its highest acceptation, is a priceless
gift; and my home—where can
such another be found in the wide world.
Here sympathy, consolation, pleasure,
joy, have always awaited me. I never
expect to find, wherever I may go, other
friends that shall fill your place in my
heart. I desire it not—I know it cannot
be—I never anticipate discovering a
spot, a dwelling in other lands, to which
my heart will cling with the strong feelings,
the delightful associations that bind
me to my own dear home—my father's
and my mother's house. Home, home,
sweet, sweet, home! There is a magic
in the sound of this dear name that bids
my heart to leap with joy, and swell with
fondest emotions. Such an home as
mine too! Here is all that I could ask;
my most extravagant wishes are all here
realized; here is indeed far more than I
can deserve. And that I love you, my
dear mother and father, that I ever have
most deeply loved you, I need not say,
for you well know it. There is nothing
that I would not do within my power of
doing, to gratify and please you; and
should you finally conclude you could
not spare me from home, then shall I relinquish
my project most freely. But if
you should give your assent to my plans,
and I leave you, be assured I shall not
depart without feeling that here I leave
all who are most dear to me on earth;
and ever will my thoughts on swift pinions,
fly back to home and you, until I
come again to dwell once more at home.
“But you ask me, my dear mother,
what motive, what inducement has influenced
me to this course. I do not know
how I can better answer your question,
and give you a correct view of my feelings
and reflections upon this subject,
than by first saying a few words regarding
myself. You well know, my dear
parents, that I have now attained the
age of manhood, that I have but re
cently been acknowledged by the laws
and customs of our land, as my own
master, an active member of the civil
state, a participator in its suffrages,
and also in the duties and burdens
belonging to each individual member
of our great republic. All my life
long, up to this period, has been passed
strictly and emphatically at home; with
only the single exception of that season
which I spent at school some four years
ago, while I was yet a boy. I feel now
as a man and a citizen I have new duties
to perform, new responsibilities and fresh
obligations as a member of this great republic
now devolve on me, which are neither
light nor small; and which, however
neglected and slighted by the many,
are yet deserving of the attention and
respect of all who enjoy them, and in
importance and magnitude are inferior to
no others in the various and diversified
duties of life. It is not the part of a good
and true citizen to lead merely a passive
life, to so conduct himself as not to infringe
its laws and customs. This, it is
true, he should do; but there is more
required of him also. He owes his
hearty and active co-operation to the
work of protecting, and building up the
institutions and regulations that exist in
the land; his relations to government
hold him to a steady and consistent course
of action. Now in order that I may
well discharge these duties and act wisely
my part, I must act understandingly.—
For this reason I am anxious to visit other
parts of the country, to see more of
this land than I otherwise could, or that
I have been enabled yet to do. I am
anxious to learn more of its great interests
and its vast resources; of the sectional
feelings and influences which characterize,
and as it were, separate from the
rest in some respects different parts of
the land. And especially do I wish to
see that portion of the territory held by
this government where live the native
owners, and possessors of the soil.—
When I think of the wrongs of the Indian
race; of the injustice they have received
from the hands of the whites;
when I read of them, that they are rapidly
melting away before the fast and
wide spreading beams of the light of
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civilization, and the increasing prosperity
and growth of the American people, that
the few who are left of the thousands
who once ranged in freedom through the
wide extent of the vast forests that cover
this continent, and know that they are
suffering the worst evils from their intercourse
with the whites, who call themselves
civilized and christian people, and
that the poor Indian is learning only vice
in its vilest forms from these same people;
that their noble native character is
despoiled of its nobleness, and stripped
of the high and manly qualities which
adorned it in the palmy days of their absolute
and perfect freedom, and now they
are sunk in degradation and sin. When
such a picture as this is presented before
my mind's eye, and thought comes busy
with its questions, its admonitions and
warnings, how deeply I feel that I, that
all the citizens of this republic, have duties,
urgent, stirring duties, and responsibilities,
than which none can be more
weighty, calling upon us to exert ourselves
for their welfare and for the
amelioration of their condition.
“We, as a nation, owe them something
better for this good land—the most of
which we have taken to ourselves, and
from which we have driven, and of which
we have despoiled them. It is my desire,
my dear parents, to visit these wild
natives of the woods at their own homes—
to see them with my own eyes, and to
know by actual observation their real
condition and circumstances—to study
into the causes that are working for
their destruction, and as one would think
from all that is happening to them, their
utter annihilation: and if aught can be
done or devised to stop the tide of ruin
and pollution that is flowing fast and
strong in upon them; if anything can be
done to stay the march of destruction
which keeps pace with the rapid strides
of civilization in this country—nay, I
should have said rather outruns its advance—
how joyfully would I devote myself
to their cause. I would strive with
all my might to awaken my own nation
from the long sleep, the cold apathy, that
encircles them, and buries them in darkest
ignorance with regard to the red
man's condition, while it shuts their
ears to his cries of suffering and misery.
While this glorious, prosperous,
and wealthy nation is sending to distant
parts of the earth its alms and
charities, and bearing to benighted lands
the light of truth that beams so brightly
with us, shall they remain cold in feeling,
totally indifferent to the Indian who
dwells within our own borders, even in
the very midst of us, in this the dark day
of his heavy sorrow and deep affliction?
Shall it be? Ought it to be, that they
alone are forgotten in the acts of mercy;
aye, even in the acts of justice which this
people owe them?
“They have claims, high, holy claims
upon us, as a nation, which we cannot,
which we dare not, dispute or disregard.
As the rightful and just owners of this
land, with its fertile soil, its delightful
climate, which by force we have wrested
from them, we owe them a debt that all
our wealth beside cannot ever pay them.
As a people within our boundaries, we
owe them friendship, and in the time of
their trouble, in the day of their ignorance
and degradation, we owe them assistance
and encouragement. And why
shall we not give it them? A few short
years, and if we continue to treat them
with the cruel contempt, the cold indifference
we are now practicing towards
them, they will have vanished away from
before our eyes, their doom will be forever
sealed, and they blotted out from
among the people and nations of the
earth: and should this come true, who
will answer for them? Upon our heads
will rest the wrong; upon us will fall
the blame, and the fault be charged to our
account. Think you that a just and allseeing
God will suffer us to go forward,
increasing in wealth, and crowned with
all the fruits of prosperity, if we permit,
nay, if we commit such wrong? No,
it cannot be: but his blighting curse will
fall upon us, and wither and destroy us;
his wrath will be poured out upon us
without mercy. As we have dealt with
them, shall we not even so be dealt with
ourselves? Measure for measure, is but
even handed justice, we can ask for no
other: the destroyer in his turn will perish.
A little longer and it will be too late;
fast are they sinking in the deep gulf that
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[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
has overtaken them, and is yet pouring
its fatal tide upon them. Faster than
fades the forest trees of their native
home before the busy axe of the forester,
are the red men falling before the axe of
this destroyer, civilization.”
Perhaps the reader may think it strange
that Charles should have spoken in such
a strain at this time to his parents—his
words so like a set speech—but this
wonder will be dispelled at once when
his impulsive, impassioned character is
remembered. It was his wont to speak
warmly upon every topic that interested
him. Charles had at this time spoken
with more than usual feeling and energy,
for his feelings were fully enlisted in his
plans; and while he was speaking to
them, his parents felt their objections
vanishing away, and could not but assent
to what he said. His views were clear
and distinct: they were moreover philanthropic
and christian. They showed
that he possessed a large and active heart,
while his opinions did credit to his intellect.
That he might grow up something
more, something better, than a mere intellectual
reasoner, was ever their fondest
desire. Too often is it the case that
the education of the heart and the moral
powers of men are neglected and disregarded,
for the cultivation of the simple
intellect and reflective powers. And
this arises, probably, from this reason,
that the man of a great brain, and no
heart—or a diminutive, dwarfish one—
is best calculated, and best succeeds, in
ruling and governing his fellow men.—
With him all is the result of careful deliberation
and calculation. He views all
his plans with a cool, clear mind; the
means are chosen, best adapted to secure
the objects he has in his mind's
eye; and he never suffers his feelings
to come between his measures and projected
purposes. The most winning,
soft, and fascinating tone of pleasure's
voice, meets no response in his heart;
her most seductive and enticing charms
in vain display themselves before his vision:
he sees them not. And so too, on
the other hand, the most impressive and
affecting exhibitions of suffering and misery
meet him and are passed by unheeded,
unmarked. He has no ear for sighs
and groans; and human woes that fall
with blighting power and crushing grief
upon other hearts, stir not a feeling in his
heart, or bring a tear to his eye. He
rides right on, over all opposition, and
tramples beneath his feet all obstruction
to the accomplishment of his purposes.
He lives and acts as if there were no
such thing as feeling in the world, as if
joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, happiness
and grief, were idle, empty terms.
And by means such as these, by a theory
purely selfish and egotistical, which he
carries into practice, he meets success.
He must gain his point: everything in
his path must either bend or break.
But how different the course of the
man whose swelling, active heart is the
ruling power of his mind. Although he
is often more beloved by his fellow men,
and becomes indeed a benefactor to his
race, nevertheless it often happens that
he is inefficient in action, unstable in purpose,
and fickle in his course. Let but
a joyful laugh break upon his ear, or a
sweet song rise upon the air, and it is
sure to find in his heart a ready sympathy,
an answering echo: or does his
wandering gaze meet a falling tear that
grief and sorrow has forced from affliction's
fount, how quick his heart to catch
the sadness, he weeps as if the grief were
all his own: or does his ear catch the
low sound that breathes in a heaved sigh
and rends the bosom of the sufferer with
ill suppressed pain; how quick his pity
flows forth towards the sufferer, and grief
standing ever close at the door of his
heart, knocks aloud for entrance.
In his pursuits he is delayed, and often
entirely defeated, by allowing his feelings
for other's woes, or his participation in
their joys and pleasures to step in between
him and his ends. Time is ever
on the wing; he waits not for him to
administer comfort to the afflicted, or
share and enliven the golden hours of
pleasure that rejoice the gay and merry,
and while he waits at the portal of pleasure,
or steps into the porch of affliction,
his opportunity glides silently and unmarked
forever away.
But there is another character, and one
which we think better describes that of
our young friend Charles. It is that
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[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
which embraces and combines in itself
both of the others we have just mentioned,
and harmonizes them in itself. Its possessor
has both a large and active heart,
and a ready, busy, well developed brain.
To such an one we freely bestow our
love, esteem, and respect; while we are
attracted and attached to him through his
generosity, benevolence and kindness of
disposition, which shine in all his ways,
and adorn with pleasing beauty all his
acts, we at the same time admire and
reverence him for the wisdom he displays
in all his counsels, the prudence
and foresight which distinguish his every
design. While his measures are chosen
with consummate wisdom for the purposes
he has in view, they are framed with
a tender and kind regard for the comfort
and welfare of those with whom he acts.
As yet the character of Charles was not
fully developed and fixed; but such
were the elements that showed themselves
in his composition. They were,
it is true, at present tinged, and in a certain
measure modified by the freshness
and buoyancy of youthful feelings, which
served to throw a shade of romance over
his mind, rendering it perhaps, more imaginative
than practical and commonplace
in its tendencies; faults, if I may
may so call them—though I think they
scarcely deserve that term—which time
and contact with the world are pretty
sure to mend.
He had on this occasion, while speaking
to his parents, said but very little
about the gratification he anticipated, and
expected to derive from the fruition and
enjoyment of longing desires for a forest
life. This was not, however, an intentional
omission on his part. But he
spoke out the feelings of his heart, and
these were the emotions that then occupied
his bosom. And in vindication of
the character of Charles, we must not
neglect to say what we believe we have
not yet any where written, that this purpose
of serving the welfare, and bettering
the condition of the Indian race, was
always, from the first, connected with
the plan he had formed for gratifying his
wish for a wild roving life; and although
it was not the first idea connected with
his scheme, but grew out of and flowed
from the other; yet since it had found a
lodging in his mind, it had ever been uppermost.
His parents were pleased to
find him so generous and charitable in
his feelings, so ready to enlist in the
cause of human happiness, and benevolent
labors.
But, notwithstanding all this, his plan
seemed to them hardly to offer any very
strong hopes of its success. It was a
wide, expansive scheme, and in the execution
of it, would demand great labor.—
Besides, Charles was very young, and
there were many and peculiar obstacles
in the way of a young man, who puts
himself at the head of any new or
great enterprise, or undertaking; or who
attempts to lead society into an unusual
and fresh career of action, or arouse
them to the performance of some neglected
duties; and especially is this the
case if such enterprise call upon them
for exertion or make a demand upon
their pockets.
Charles and his parents now consulted
at length upon the plans he had formed
as regards the course he was to pursue.
The states and cities he proposed to visit
on his route, were enumerated, the length
of time he should spend in each settled,
and last the period, the period fixed when
he should return from his wanderings.
In talking of all these particulars and details;
in asking questions, giving advice,
and counsel, and making various suggestions
upon each point, his parents, almost
without being aware of it, quite fell into
his plans; and when, at the close of
their conversation they separated, it was,
if not fully decided, at least tacitly understood,
that he had gained their consent to
his course—so different a view did his
parents now take of his project. Not as
a passing whim, and indefinite, wild expedition
full of danger to his life, and calculated
to unsettle his mind, did it now
appear to them, but, on the contrary, it
stood boldly out as a grand and noble
design, which was calculated in its results,
to promote the welfare and happiness
of a large, but degraded and much
injured portion of God's rational, accountable
creatures.
And such a labor they believed would
not only redound to the benefit and
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[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
advantage of their son, but would also
clothe him with honor and glory; while
it should also obtain for him the respect
and esteem of the good and the great in
our land. It would dispose his heart
more firmly to cherish those religious
principles, and expand and quicken those
charitable and benevolent feelings which
it had been their early, their constant desire
and endeavor to implant there.
With these convictions in their minds,
they were prepared to give their son their
consent. It was not, however, without
great reluctance on the part of both parents,
and especially on the part of his
mother, that such a conclusion was arrived
at. She felt that under any circumstances,
or for any purpose whatever, it
would be hard for her to part with her
darling son; and she felt almost sorry
that she had allowed herself to be persuaded
to do so. Not only his mother,
but his father too, would have been far
better pleased, had he been contented to
have remained at home. But they were
very indulgent to their children, and revolved
in this instance to yield to his
wishes. And now that it was finally
settled, they busied themselves in preparing
his outfit. All that was necessary,
and that they deemed could comfort
him, was arranged for him, and in the
course of a fortnight from this date, he
was on his way to the far West; having
bid a reluctant and painful farewell to his
fond and loving parents, and affectionate
sisters, and for the first time bid adieu to
the home of childhood and youth, and
the scenes of his happiest hours.
CHAPTER III.
It was a fine bright morning in the early
part of the month of August, when our
young friend Charles took his way
through the busy, thronged streets of the
city of his home, to the wharf where lay
the noble steamer Knickerbocker, just
ready to start for Albany; as soon as the
clock struck the hour, which was her appointed
time for leaving, and it lacked but
a few minutes of that time, away she
would bound on swift wings, borne on the
bosom of that grand and noble river, the
Hudson—the pride of the country; already
her broad decks were covered with
the motley restless crowd, who are ever
on the stir, going to and returning from the
big city. Charles, whose heart was always
alive to the grand and sublime exhibitions
of nature, and whose eye was
wont to seek and dwell upon the beautiful
and picturesque, could but admire
the charming scene that was spread out
before him as he gazed from the vessel's
deck on either side of him. There at
the east stretching farther than eye could
reach, or optic glance might range, lay the
vast, the trackless ocean. It slept in
hushed repose and quiet; the still air
hung in lightness over its surface, disturbing
not even by a ripple its smooth
glassy face; but it was only when some
fast speeding steamer came dashing along
in her track, that it seemed to move, or
that its still waters were agitated; or perhaps,
some light barge bearing a pleasure
seeking company might be seen afar off
in the distance, steering for the green clad
isles that rise in fresh beauty from the
midst of its blue waters; the dripping
water that fell in pearly drops from the
oars of rowers, as they, dipping them beneath
the surface, raised them again mid
sea and air, sparkled like gems in the sun-light,
and flashing back their reflective
light, gave life and animation to the otherwise
dead and motionless ocean.
As he stood looking out upon this prospect,
wrapped in the emotions and feelings
which filled his mind, as he thought
that it was the last time for many a day
to come, for months even, that he should
behold it, he was aroused from his
reverie by the merry shouts of laughter
that rose from the water, close by the
stern of the steamer he was in; and as
he looked in that direction, a graceful little
sail boat with its gaily striped sides
came shooting out from the shore, bearing
a company of young men bound on a
pleasure excursion. Their course was
for Hoboken, that famous spot, where
pleasure holds her constant revels, and
syrens, with soft voices and tempting
words, that well become their radiant
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[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
beauty and seem the natural sisters and
companions of the enticing smiles that
beam as bright on their lovely features,
await the coming of the gay and young, to
welcome them to the Elysian fields, or
wander by their side through darkling
groves and shady paths, that invite the
truant footsteps of the wanderers in
those fair domains. Charles looked after
them as their little boat danced over the
water, impelled by the youthful hands of
its gay company; its shining sides scarce
seems to touch the water's edge, so light
and buoyant does it ride the waves, just
burying its slender keel in the blue waters.
As they left the shore behind, and
moved farther and farther from the spot
where Charles stood, it diminished to but
a tiny speck, whose even onward motion
seemed like the motion of the sea bird
that swims the ocean waves, and there
finds itself free and joyous, when the waters
sleep in repose, or when the tempest
stirring winds are let loose, and wake
the boiling deep to fury, steady, beautifully
and calmly they ride on the tops of the
crested billows, and the mighty ocean
whose fury laughs at the strength of man,
and tosses the strong ships that dare its
power as if they were but feathers or floating
bubbles on its surface, and makes the
bold mariner's cheek to blanch with fear,
and his lip to quiver with fright, is alike the
pastime and the sport of the ocean bird;
but here Charles left gazing after them,
and turning his looks down the stream,
he saw, not more than a stone's throw
from the shore, off in the deep tide, the
large and beautiful ship which is the
pride and boast of the American navy,
the Ohio; she is a model ship, whose tall
tapering masts seem lost in the clouds,
while her strong staunch hulk, held by
iron cables, lay calm and motionless like a
huge whale asleep on the surface, in the
bright sunshine.
Close by the long line of wharves that
are built out into the sea, to afford opportunity
for ships to lay along by their side
and discharge their burdens or receive
their freights, were ranged in order hundreds
of stately ships, that either waited
only for favorable winds to waft them on
their course to foreign shores, laden with
the rich stores of the merchants' exports,
or else they were discharging from their
holds and decks, the burden of foreign
climes, freighted with which they had
just returned home. Here and there also
scattered along the docks, and pushed in
to the shore, were scattered along the
whole line of wharf, a countless number
of smaller crafts, such as were engaged
in the coasting trade, and plied their
course between different ports in our
wide extending country. And here too,
were the long narrow built canal boats,
that brought to the city in their capacious
holds, the rich and abundant harvest of
the fertile west. And here, above all
the din and confused noise that came from
the great city—from the rattling of carriages,
and the thundering of busy omnibuses,
that rolled in ceaseless noise over
the stone pavements, rose the doleful and
monotonous song of the sailor, that served
to lighten his toil, and beguile his laborious
task of its wearisomeness. At the
very foot of the city, pushing boldly out
into the ocean, whose running waves
broke at its base, and curved its walled
sides, stood the battery; the great promenade,
the show ground, the breathing
place of that great city.
The ornamental and gracefully formed
trees arranged in clusters along the shaded
walks, that conduct through every
part of its green extent, hung thick with
luxurious foliage, afforded a delightful
shelter from the hot sun's rays that stream
down upon it at noon day; but here and
enclosing the paths, are placed rustic seats
and benches, that invite the wearied pedestrian
to rest himself.
Here on each bright day may be seen
a motley and incongruous crowd. The
gay idlers and fashionable dandies here
seek to dissipate the heavy hours, that
hang like heaviest burthens on their
hands, while they display to the wondering
and curious lounger their rich and
gay dresses. Here too, come the citizens
that live in narrow streets, and out of the
way lanes, back alleys and pent up houses
to taste the healthful air, and catch the
pure breezes that come from off ocean's
bosom, laden with salubrious and invigorating
influences. Here too, may one
see the pleasure loving throng of fair
girls, attired in gaudy showy dresses,
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[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
who loiter on the walks, and seek to win
the gaze of the young and artless youth
that visit the battery, and lure them by
their wanton smiles and lascivious ways
to their abandoned homes.
Across the ferry just opposite, rise the
commanding heights of Brooklyn, and
on the summit of many a gentle eminence
in that pleasant city, rise tall spires
and shining domes that crown the temples
of the city. It was a fair scene to
look upon, and might well engage the attention
of the delighted eye that was so
fortunate as to behold it; and kindle the
exalted and ennobling emotions of grandeur,
beauty, and sublimity, in combined
and sweetly entrancing power in the
heart, like the spell of a fairy scene.
But the scene which thus lay spread
out before him in all its loveliness and
great beauty, awakened in the heart of
Charles mingled feelings of pleasure and
sorrow. The parting blessings of his
parents still sounded in his ears. The
tears of blended love and grief that wet
his mother's cheek, as she pressed him
to her bosom in a farewell embrace, and
imprinted a parting kiss upon his lips—
the tearful eyes and sad faces of his dearly
loved sisters, as they bid him an affectionate
adieu—were all present to his
mind's eye, and his thoughts flew back
to them, the loved ones, and the true-hearted
friends. The scenes of his childhood
and youth, passed so happily in
their company, came rapidly in review
before him, spreading themselves out before
his mind's eye with a vividness and
distinctness that made all else about and
around him, dim and pale. It was the
first time in his life that he had quitted
his home to go out alone into the wide
world, master of himself, and dependant
upon himself in all the emergencies that
might happen to him. And all who have
ever been in a similar position with him,
know, and can well appreciate, the sad,
chilling feelings of sadness, that crowd
upon the heart, and wrap in a mantle
of gloom all around us, when we take
the first flight from the home of our
childhood, and looking around us for the
kind faces of our cherished friends that
were wont to greet us with smiles of affection,
we miss them, and as we listen
for the well remembered voices that were
ever wont to meet us in sweet tones of
love, in tender solicitude for our welfare,
and kind counsels for our happiness.—
Instead of these, we meet the cold gaze
of strangers, and hear the unfeeling
words of selfish and heartless men.
It is but once in life that we are doomed
to feel such bitter disappointment—
such utter loneliness. We soon, very
soon, come to know the world as it actually
is. Its habits and customs become
familiar to us. The happy, trusting confidence
of our youthful days, the fanciful,
bright prospects that our young hearts
loved to entertain and cherish, at the moment
we part from our home, and early,
tried, true friends, receives a fatal wound
which they rarely long survive. Those
whom we fondly and surely believed in
our happy ignorance would be our helpers
and assistants in carrying our schemes
and early plans; we find, when we meet
them as men of the world, cold and indifferent
to us, and totally absorbed in
their own interests. Oftener are they
ready to hinder, and even drag us down,
than to befriend and aid us. The freshness
of youth, so charming, so full of
beauty, so glorious in hope, is gone—forever
gone; and naught can again revive it.
Alas! how sad the thought, as we
look upon joyous, laughing children,
and youth, with no cares to cloud their
heaven; no troubles to sadden their
hearts; no wearying, warning anxieties,
to make them tremble for the future.—
How sad, I repeat, the reflection, that
they too soon must pass the dread ordeal
which shall rob them forever of their unalloyed
joys, and initiate them into the
cold, cruel, heartless realities of the busy
world. The disappointment is like that
of the enchanted, when he awakens from
the spell that has shown him the brightest
glories of the fairy land.
Sad, indeed, were the thoughts that were
within the mind of our young friend at
this time. What if he should never return
again; what if he had spoken his
last word to his beloved family. The
suspicion, the thought that possibly it
might be so, made his blood run cold,
and his heart tremble!
While engaged in such reflections as
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these, the bell rung out its summons, a
few minutes, and its last toll sounded. It
ceased, and instantly the boat moved.—
Charles started up as if amazed, and
walking to the stern, he gave a long, a
parting look to his native city, where
dwelt all who were most dear to him
on earth. Swiftly the steamer glides
along, fainter and fainter grows the city
he is leaving behind him, till at last it
sinks, dies away from his view—it is
gone: he is now alone in the world.—
He was alone, but at the same time in the
midst of a crowd, who thronged the vessel's
deck. He had no wish, no thought
of mingling with the company and becoming
of them. He desired to indulge
the reflections that were awakened in his
mind, by himself. But whoever has
traveled in America, knows how difficult,
how almost impossible it is to preserve
silence, and as I may say, keep one to
one's self. If by chance you do not
happen to meet with an old acquaintance
or friend who is bent on recognizing
you and being sociable, no chance
can save you from the advances of a large
class who are determined to become acquaintances,
nolens volens; and to save
you the trouble of an introduction, they
first attack, with an account of their own
concerns, and then by a series of questions
in the nature of home thrusts, they
endeavor to discover who you are, and
where you are going; and seem to think
it hard, very hard, if you do not tell them.
The American people have indeed become
famous for their spirit of inquisitiveness.
The active habits, the stirring
life they constantly lead, adds to this, and
renders them restless and uneasy when
they would fain be at leisure and seek
quiet.
Charles was vexed and annoyed a
good deal by the prying curiosity of
his fellow passengers, as one after another
they attacked with their questions,
and stated their individual views and
feelings for his especial benefit. But as
he generally answered them in monosyllables,
they soon exhausted themselves
and left him for want of encouragement,
to try their powers on some more supple
and interesting subject. In this manner
the long day wore away, and at night
Charles landed safely at the city of Albany.
This city Charles had often visited
before, and was well acquainted with it,
and for this reason he chose not to remain
here a longer time than was necessary;
and, accordingly, early the next
morning he left the place for Buffalo.—
This place was new to him, and in accordance
with the plan he had formed before
leaving home, to acquire all the information
within his reach, with regard to the
country, cities and towns, that he visited,
he spent several days here, and in his
active search for information, and his interested
examination of the wonders of
the city, he forgot his sadness, and again
recovered his cheerfulness and buoyancy
of spirits.
From this city he went directly to Pittsburgh.
Here was a scene, novel and interesting
to our young traveler; a large
and most enterprising city, built up mostly
within a few years. The great proportion
of the citizens are engaged, in
some way or other, in either the iron or
coal business. This place is the great
source of supply: the fountain of these
two staple commodities. A dark cloud
of smoke, and dust, and vapor, by day
hangs over the city, through which the
sun shines as through the misty clouds of
a foggy morn at sea. The particles of
coal dust that are borne in the air with
the current of smoke and vapor, descend
again upon the stores and dwellings.—
They even penetrate the houses, covering
everything with a black coating of
pulverized coal. From this cause, the
buildings in youth grow old, and look
dingy and ancient. At night a thousand
furnaces that are kept constantly burning—
during the night as well as through the
day—with their lurid fires, illumine the
gloom, and throw their dull light far and
wide like beacon lights that gleam through
the thick fog. Here are to be found the
largest iron foundries in the country, as
well as the most varied and different iron
factories; though there are but few engaged
in the manufacture of the more
nice and exact manufactures. The ridge
of the Alleghany mountains, which runs
in a north-easterly and south-westerly
direction through the western part of the
state of Pennsylvania, near to where the
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city of Pittsburgh` is located, abounds in
rich and almost exhaustless beds of iron
ore; and beside these are to be found
great beds of coal, the veins of which, in
many places, approach the surface of the
earth, and even appear above the soil.
Nature, who is man's best friend and
ever ready to bless him, seems to have intended
this spot for a grand, vast work-shop;
she has laid here at man's feet all
the necessary materials and in unnumbered
measure, and she bids him take
them and fashion after his will and for
his own purpose and service; and the
blazing furnaces and smoking forges—
the clouds of smoke that ever float above
this enterprising city—the buzzing of
the mechanic's busy wheels, the sound
of his heavy hammer, tell you in a language
plainer than words, that man is
following her bidding.
The amoung of rough iron that is
yearly exported from this single city,
would, I think, astonish the most extravagant
calculators. Add to this the manufactured
articles of every description,
wrought from this metal, and sent all
over our own country, and even find
their way to foreign lands, and you have
a most amazing amount of iron that
Pittsburgh annually furnishes the world,
from iron-bound mountains. One would
think that such heavy drafts upon these
mines would soon exhaust them. Yet as
far as can be seen, there are but small
and comparatively trifling inroads made
upon their vast resources.
There are many branches of labor pursued
here, which Charles found of interest
to him. There is, however, but
one we will mention—it is that of working
the coal mines.
A small opening is made in the side of
the mountain where the coal shows itself,
protruding through the rocky ore; and
the miner in his operations follows the
course of the vein which he has opened;
often times this leads deep into the bowels
of the mountain. As he advances,
and the distance to the opening increases,
in order to facilitate and render more
easy the labor of transporting the coal
which he detaches from the mass, small
railways are constructed leading from the
opening to the place where he labors;
and burden cars being placed upon the
rails, he is enabled both rapidly and
with great ease, to bring his burden to
the mouth of the cave he has excavated
It is a singular and interesting spectacle
to see the miners, with their faces all begrimed
and blackened with the dust
of the jetty shining coal, mounted upon
these cars, come riding from their hiding
place beneath the ground with their
freight of coal, shooting into daylight they
quickly discharge their burden, and again
suddenly disappear, returning to the dark
regions from whence they issued, like beings
of another world.
It brings to the mind of the classical
scholar most vividly, the picture which
Virgil, in olden times, drew of Vulcan's
work-shop, and his labors performed in
the bowels of Mount Etna—where the
sooty god, obedient to great Jove's command,
forged for him his mighty thunder-bolts,
and formed for the warrior gods
their celestial armor. But our picture
has all the advantages of being a real living
scene; while that of the ancients existed
alone in their lively fancy. It has
been reserved for the Americans to realize
in fact, if not exactly after the imagination
of those fanciful nations, this
Herculean task:—the mountain is transformed
into one vast work-shop; old
Vulcan himself is outdone. But instead
of armor and thunder-bolts, which his
forges furnished for the gods, the color
or form of which poor mortals never
knew, we now receive from this great
factory all manner and kinds of useful
and serviceable articles: pitch forks and
polished breast pins, hoes and shining tea
urns, pots and delicate wrought pins, kettles
and ladies' scissors. The purposes
to which we moderns apply these labors,
if not so exalted and dignified as that of
the ancients, yet, must be confessed, certainly
much more useful.
Our friend Charles spent several days
in this city, much to his gratification and
enjoyment, visiting both the factories
and mines located here.
From this place his course was direct
to Cincinnati, the Queen City of the
West. And here again his love of novelty
and the wonderful found an open
source and a wide scope for gratification.
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Cincinnati is truly a remarkable city;
large, beautiful, and wealthy, it has
sprung up almost like the armed warrior
that leaped from the head of great Jove
at a blow. It is but a few years since
the spot where the city stands, was a
part and parcel of the wild, uncultivated,
uninhabited forest. Its growth has been
extremely rapid, surpassing that of any
other city in the Union, and appears almost
incredible to one who has not visited
it, and actually beheld with his own
eyes the proofs of the truth of the statements
with regard to it.
The distance from Pittsburgh to this
place is about five hundred miles.—
Steamboats are constantly plying between
the two cities of pork and iron, and the
general passage is not over three days.
The beautiful city of Cincinnati is located
at almost the extreme south-western
bounds of the State of Ohio, on the north
bank of the river which gave the state its
name. The site which it occupies, is a
low, and almost level stretch of ground
along the bank of the river, extending
back from the bank about one and a half
miles. With the exception of that side
which is bounded by the river, it is surrounded
by considerable hills, which
form a complete belt around it. From
the top of any one of these hills you
may obtain a fine view of the city, and
adjacent country. At your feet lies
spread out a great and growing city in
the midst of a comparative wilderness—
you see at one view, the long rows of
stores that rise on either side of the extended
line of streets, through that portion
of the city nearest the river, ascending
a slight roll of land—so slight that the
eye scarcely perceives it from where you
stand—you meet with well laid out streets,
on either side of which stand the comfortable,
handsome, and even elegant
houses of the citizens. These streets
are lined with ornamental shade trees,
which enliven the scene and impart beauty
to the view. Lifting your eyes from
this spectacle, you see the surrounding
hills clad in the rich, green mantle of nature,
with all her primeval beauty. The
tall trees that lift their heads on high,
look like the guardians of the forest,
standing at the out-posts of civilization,
to keep back the invading ranks of their
enemy and destroyer. Close by these
the smiling fields and luxuriant gardens,
blooming and blossoming with flowers
and fruits, under the careful protection
of the husbandman and gardener, afford
a delightful picture to the eye.
Turn now to the south, and within the
eye's range, just across the Ohio river,
which forms the boundary line between
the States of Ohio and Kentucky; are
situated the two cities of Newport and
Covington, separated from each other by
the Licking river, which flowing from the
interior of Kentucky, here empties itself
into the Ohio. These, though small and
but indifferent in regard to the buildings
and public places in them, still look very
beautiful when seen from this side of the
river; they are full of large and elegant
trees, and the appearance of these places
is as if they were embowered with trees
of living green and filled with enchanting
gardens.
Charles, who had landed here fresh
and lively in spirits, strong and robust in
health, the influence of the varying scenes
through which he had passed, and the
effect of traveling, having produced a beneficial
effect upon him, he took lodging
at the Broadway Hotel, which is the
house of the city, and is situated near the
lower end of Broadway. Charles remained
in this place several days, and
formed here many pleasant and agreeable
acquaintances, who were courteous and
attentive to him, and afforded their assistance
and the benefit of their acquaintance
with the city in his attempts to see the
wonders of the place.
One evening after supper, while sitting
on the side walk beneath the awning in
front of his hotel, he fell accidentally into
conversation with an aged grey haired
gentleman whom he had frequently noticed
at the table, and from him he learned
the following account of the settlement
of the city:
Said the old man, “It was early in the
fall of seventeen hundred eighty-eight,
near the beginning of the month of September,
that two travelers might have been
seen leisurely rowing a small boat down
the Ohio river. They were in the prime
of life, being nearly of the same age;
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[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
they were dressed in homespun suits of
a pepper color mixed cloth, broad brimmed
straw hats, stout cow-hide brogans. As
the day was warm, they had thrown off
their coats, and thus exposed to view,
checked cotton shirts, which covered
their brawny arms and strong shoulders.
At a glance you could see that both were
remarkably muscular in frame, and looked
as if they had been trained in the school
of manual labor, which most tended to
develop their physical system. Their
countenances wore an open, frank expression,
while at the same time, they showed
a boldness and resoluteness which would
quickly lead the stranger who observed
them, to judge that they would be fit persons
to undertake and achieve any daring
deeds, which fancy or interest might
prompt them to. From the interested
manner in which they carried on conver
sation, and the serious, anxious expression
their faces wore, it was very evident
that they had at this time some enterprise
of importance in hand, and which had
aroused and enlisted all their feelings.—
And from the close examination which
they made of either shore as they quietly
sailed along down the river, one would
readily have supposed that the object of
their journey concerned this portion of
the country; and if he could have caught
the expressions and exclamations which
from time to time fell from their lips, he
would, without hesitation, have pronounced
them real, downright Jerseymen of
the true blue.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon,
and they had now arrived at that
section of the State of Ohio (then a territory,
and with but few and scattered
settlements, and those small, just in their
infancy,) where now stands this great and
enterprising city, by right of magnitude
and importance, styled the Queen of the
West. As they steered their boat towards
the northern shore, you could see
that they made a closer examination of
the channel of the Ohio river than they
had done before; and from certain words
and gestures which passed between them,
it was evident that they had discovered
something which was of more than ordinary
interest to them.
The fact which thus excited their at
tention was simply this: they had found
here that the channel of the river grew
deeper and approached nearer the shore
on this side of the river than at any place
they had marked, up to this point, since
they embarked upon it.
“Well, John,” said the man at the
stern of the boat, “the channel certainly
looks more favorable here, and I think,
with little improvement, would make a
fine dock for large steamboats at some
future time, that perhaps we may live to
see; let's put into the shore and see if
the site on shore is equally as favorable
for our purposes as the river appears to
be, what say you?”
“I'm ready and agreed, Nat,” said he,
“and I am inclined to think we've hit
upon the right spot at last. Just look
around you on every side of this pretty
little bottom land by the river's bank; see
those beautiful hills just off there that
rise so gracefully and gently; where can
you go to find finer sites for dwellings in
all the country, than they afford? And
those sunny slopes, how richly will they
bloom and blossom under the farmer's
toiling hand; what great and fruitful orchards
and vineyards those rolling lands
will make; and right here, on this level,
low reach of ground, in future years, can
be built a large town or city, close by the
river's bank.”
From these few words you can easily
gather what the object was which these
two men had in view. It was the making
of a settlement, the founding of a
town. Alone, and furnished with but
scanty means, they had quitted their old
homes to seek a new one in the wilds of
the West, for at that period this section
of the country was one unbroken forest.
Here were then no steamboats, as now,
to transport the traveler so comfortably
and rapidly on his journey; no sumptuous
hotels, and inns, where his wants
could all be met, and the luxuries of life
be obtained, and where he might rest his
weary limbs in refreshing sleep, and inviting
ease on downy beds.
“I know,” said the old gentleman to
Charles, “that it will seem almost incredible
to you, as you look along the
levee at the foot of the street, and see
the hundreds of steamers that crowd
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
close upon each other by the water's
edge, and when you survey this elegant
and extensive hotel in front of
which we now sit, and see all around the
proofs and evidences of the wealth and
large resources of the city; but for all
this, it is none the less true, that at the
time of my story, all was a wild, dense
woods. The waters of the great Ohio
flowed smoothly along, unruffled by the
flying course of proud steamers, that you
now see plowing its broad stream, and
agitating its even flow. Naught then
save the light birch canoe of the Indian,
skimmed its surface, scarce making a ripple,
or leaving the slightest motion of the
waters it rode upon. And these two men
knew all this. They had not blindly and
ignorantly set out on a wild expedition:
but knowing it all, they had resolved to
dare the privations and dangers of the
pioneer, and here, in one of nature's
loveliest spots, plant themselves: rightly
judging, as events have since abundantly
shown, that the seed cast here would rapidly
spring up, and bear a great and wonderful
harvest. They would form the
nucleus around which should gather in
coming years the thousands and tens of
thousands of their own adventurous and
enterprising countrymen who would seek
the West. And here, too, would flock
the thousands of foreign wanderers, who
should seek to live beneath the blessed
influence of our beloved and free republic,
coming to our shores for a new home.
The pioneers soon brought their little
boat to the shore. It contained their sole
stock of furniture, all their implements
of labor, their weapons of defence; in
short, here was their whole stock of
property upon which they were to rely
for all circumstances that might transpire.
As the afternoon was now pretty
well spent, and the remaining hours of
daylight would not afford them sufficient
time to explore the land as thoroughly
as they desired to do, they concluded to
defer it until the next day; meanwhile
they built for their accommodation a light
camp. The spot chosen by them for
their camp-ground, was just at the foot
of this street: you can see it from where
we now are sitting. A few minutes'
search about sundown in the tangled
growth of woods on this bottom land
and a few well directed shots, supplied
them with a plentiful store of game.
Early the next morning they set out
on their exploring expedition, and spent
the whole day in this business; in many
respects the site pleased them. In some
of their expectations, however, they were
disappointed; much of the level portion
of land that lay between the hills and the
river was marshy, swampy land; and
large ponds of water stood in the hollows
and basins that had been formed by
the streams and rills which poured down
from the adjacent hills. They believed
however, that in time, by labor well bestowed
in draining and grading, it could
be made a beautiful and healthy place.
But the task looked like herculean labor,
with only these two laborers; but then
again, urged Nat, it is so well protected
from winds and driving storms on every
side by its circle of surrounding hills;
and those same eminences would afford
such charming spots for happy homes,
when cleared of the forests which now
cover them, and reduced to cultivation.
But his companion was not so well pleased,
or so ready to choose here to locate
himself. The most weighty argument
with him was the excellent landing and
deep channel of the river at this spot;
for he looked forward to the time when
an advantage of this nature should be of
incalculable importance to the city.
In this way at night when they had
returned to camp, they consulted and deliberated
long, balancing and weighing
the advantages and disadvantages, one by
one as they had viewed them. They
had set out from home for the purpose
of seeking a spot every way to their liking;
and being shrewd far-seeing men
who regarded in their plans the future
growth and prosperity of their settlement,
they considered every thing relating to it
with liberal judgment, and broad extended
views. And you will believe that
they were not likely to fix hastily upon
any spot, before well informing themselves
with regard to it, and careful deliberation.
The result of their evening's
deliberation was not decisive, as to whether
they should remain, or go farther to
seek for a better place. They resolved,
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
however, to spend another day in examination
of the site; this they did, and at
night again reviewed all the arguments
for and against a settlement here, with all
the new light their day's search and
exploration had given them. Yet they
remained undecided, doubtful; they did
not like to give it up entirely, neither
were they altogether satisfied with it.
At last, when they gave up all thoughts
of coming to a final conclusion by means
of any farther deliberation, said Nat,
“Let us leave it to fortune, John, whether
we shall stay here, or go farther down
the river, to find our home.”
“Agreed,” replied his companion, “for
I really can see no other way of settling
the question.”
Nat immediately pulled out of his
pocket, a black looking copper coin, one
of the old genuine cents, American coin,
and holding it for a moment in his hand,
while he looked closely at it, said:
“John, I will flip this up in the air; if
it turns up heads, we stay; if tails, we
go.”
With eagerness they sat down to determine
by the turning of that dingy copper
coin, the destiny and fate of this
great city. Nat poised it for an instant
on the end of his finger, while his companion
sat watching him, as if his fate
was the stake they played for. He threw
it up; and with breathless interest, both
looked after it as it came to the ground,
whirling and turning over and over in its
descent. The moment it struck, Nat
jumped to his feet, exclaiming:
“Heads, by thunder, John. We stay
any how, now. I kinder thought it would
turn out so when I tossed the tarnal thing
up.”
“So did I,” said John.
Without saying another word, they
quietly sat down again, pulled out their
pipes, lighted them, and began to smoke.
The matter was all settled, and they
neither of them were the kind of men
that whiffle and change every minute with
every gust that blows. They had left it
to chance, because they were pretty well
persuaded of its advantages, and strongly
inclined to remain here; so at the moment
that the old copper cent touched
the ground, the city of Cincinnati was
born; it being just half-past ten in the
evening of the fifteenth day of September,
in the year of our Lord 1788.”
Charles listened attentively to the story
which the old gentleman told of the
early settlement of the place; and although
he affirmed that his account was
the only true one, still he thought it
smacked somewhat of the fictitious, and
had the color of the fabulous on its outside.
Notwithstanding this, however,
he took the first opportunity that he had
of transferring it to his note book. And
it is from that we have obtained our account
of it.
Charles had now spent the time he
had allotted to a visit, in this place; and
the next day proposed to leave by steamboat
for St. Louis.
CHAPTER IV.
It was a bright glowing afternoon.—
The heated atmosphere which rose in
trembling currents from the hot roofs of
the city, and from the stone pavements
from which it was reflected, drove all
who were not impelled by absolute necessity,
to seek the shelter of their dwellings,
or the cool, shaded spots that were
protected from the sun's rays; and here
and there, around the portals of the different
hotels, might be seen groups of
men, mostly travelers, who were lounging
in idle leisure and ease, beneath the
spreading awnings that were stretched
over the sidewalks in front of the inns,
completely screening them from the sun's
rays.
It was just three o'clock on this afternoon,
and the sun had declined from the
zenith, till his rays fell more obliquely,
with less power upon the earth, and the
heat was beginning to lessen, when
Charles was called by the hackman,
whose carriage was waiting at the door,
to take him to the steamer Daniel Boone,
which was all ready to leave for St. Louis.
He had bespoken a passage on board of
her, and was therefore ready to leave.—
On reaching the boat he found (as
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
passengers but rarely find on western boats)
that her freight was all taken in, the passengers
all, with the exception of himself,
for whom they were waiting, already
on the decks; and soon as he was fairly
aboard of her, she blew off a puff of
steam and started. At the same time,
and simultaneously with her, a rival
boat, and one which had but just been
placed upon the route, for the purpose of
surpassing and running off the route the
elegantly finished, and indeed, swift but
unfortunate Daniel Boone, started by her
side. This movement was in accordance
with previous arrangements, made between
the different proprietors and separate
masters of the two boats, each feeling
the fullest confidence in the speed of
their boat, and bent upon a trial of their
powers on this trip, which was to be a
race between their boats. The Daniel
Boone was the acknowledged leader on
these waters, and had never yet met her
equal for speed. The Ben Franklin was
a new boat, built expressly for this route,
and also with a view to render her faster
than any other boat afloat on this river.
Her machinery was superior in size and
power to that of her rival. Her hull
was shaped after the most approved
style for sailing, was sharp and quite
long at the bow, with a smooth, clear run,
sitting lightly in the water, with a draught
not over four feet.
On the present occasion both of these
boats were but slightly burdened with
either freight or passengers—each prepared
and resolved to do their utmost.—
The Daniel Boone was a great favorite
with the public, and had attained a fame
not less for her swiftness and speed than
for her comfortable and inviting accommodations.
The captains of the rival
boats had made every preparation in
their power for a hard, tough race.—
Large quantities of the most combustible
fuel were laid in store, all was made
trim and close, everything placed in perfect
order, two new firemen added to
each crew, and whatever they had thought
of as calculated to assist them in driving
their boat to the utmost of her speed
was done. The passengers had, most
of them at least, been informed before
the boats left of the intention of the mas
ters to race, that they might have an opportunity
to leave, if they chose to do so
on this account. But the most of them
entered into the arrangements with youthful
and excited spirits.
As they ran along side by side, the
parties on board the rival boats, standing
by the rails on the sides of the boats that
were separated scarcely a single yard
from each other, interchanged bets with
each other on the result, and the loud
tones and exciting gestures of all parties,
showed that their feelings were wrought
up to a fearful degree of excitement,
which would both blind their judgment
and lead to the commission of rash acts,
in gratifying their desire to push their
respective boats to their tallest speed,
and even beyond their capacity, in order
to obtain the victory.
They made the passage to Louisville,
running along close together at a very
pretty rate, though they did not drive
their boats yet up to their greatest speed.
The test of their sailing was reserved
for the latter part of the journey. They
had overtaken and passed several fine
steamers on their passage to Louisville—
quickly leaving them behind in their rapid
flight; while the cloud of black
smoke that arose from their chimneys in
the air, was left instantly in their rear as
if caught by swift winged winds, and
borne along their track. The pent up
steam that escaped through the steampipes,
with each returning stroke of the
quick moving piston, gave forth a loud
hoarse sound, that reverberated along the
river's green banks, and re-echoed from
the distant hills, filling the air with its
wide spreading mutterings. Each passing
moment, every observed movement
on the part of either boat to accelerate its
speed, increased the excitement already
burning in the breasts of the two parties;
and when they left Louisville, all on
board, even the few who had heretofore
kept comparatively cool and calm, and
were more than half inclined to remonstrate
with the masters of the boats at
the outset, now joined the general shout
that went up from either boat.
“Put her to it now, Captain! Crack
on the steam! Show them what you
can do with your racer when her blood
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is up! That's the way to do it! now
she feels her old iron heart beat! Ah,
how prettily she leaps along, now!”—
Such were the exclamations and expressions
that came from the lips of the excited
company, as a few miles below the
city of Louisville the real struggle commenced.
The Daniel Boone had obtained a little
the advantage of her rival, which she
continued to hold, leading her about two
hundred yards. When about noon, the
word passed through her company from
one to another, that the Ben Franklin
was gaining upon them; all instantly
rushed for the deck, and running to the
stern of the boat, turned their eyes in the
direction of the Ben Franklin eagerly, to
watch her progress with the closest scrutiny.
It was a beautiful steamer that
bore the honored and patriotic name of
our great Franklin. And now as she flies
over the waters with a soft, graceful, gliding
motion, swifter than the wild swan
as he skims along the surface of the deep
blue, or than the quiet winged sea-gull
that darts like shooting beams of light
from billow to billow, or sweeps on extended
wings along the boiling deep—her
highly finished and brightly painted hulk
gleams and shines in the glowing rays of
the dazzling sun, like the splendors of a
floating palace or like a sparkling jewel of
the wave. With breathless interest did
the company of the Boone stand still and
motionless upon the promenade deck
on the after part of the boat, where they
had run at the first word; and watch
her flight as on she came right after their
own noble and fast-flying courser of the
deep. Her sharp bow cut the water
like a knife around her ornamented and
bright prow, the white foam leaped, and
whirled and seemed to fly past her, as
fly the fleecy clouds across the blue
plains of heaven, when chased by furious
winds: while on, right on she sped, and
left it dancing on the waves that tossed
and leaped in her broad wake. Ah! it
was indeed a grand spectacle to behold
such a gigantic and splendid structure
come bounding along her watery way
after you in all the pride and glory of her
matchless beauty. The houses, the
trees, the land on either side, seeming to
scud away behind her as she dashed on,
and tired not, nor slackened in her course.
On, on she came, with quicker and quicker
stroke.
For a few moments, the most perfect
quiet reigned on board the Daniel Boone,
as all on board stood gazing at her
with admiration. The captain of the
latter boat was standing on the upper
deck close by the wheel-house, from
whence he had watched the quickened
speed of his rival, with an anxious brow
and paling cheek, with his lips closely
compressed, as motionless as a statue,
there he remained, his eyes riveted in
fixed gaze upon the advancing bow of his
terrible rival. Close by his side stood a
group of three or four men, passengers
on his boat, watching with an interest
not less than what he felt, the sailing of
their opponent. Suddenly, while all on
board were yet absorbed in watching the
Franklin, and stirred not, the man nearest
to him touched him lightly on the
shoulder. Although his touch was very
slight, the captain started as though a
thunder-bolt had struck him, and turning
round face to face with the intruder, his
eyes glaring wildly as if he had been
looking upon some frightful scene, he
stared at him without saying a word.
“Captain,” said the Kentuckian to
him in a low but determined tone, “the
Ben Franklin is beating us: do you see
it? look how fast she nears us.” These
few words broke the charm that had held
the captain as it were spell bound and
paralyzed for the last few minutes.—
Springing away from them, he rushed
down the gangway, shouting as he went:
“No, never! she shan't do it, by—.”
Reaching the place where the firemen
were at work, tending the furnaces, he
cried to them—
“Fire up, fire up, boys! Pitch in the
tar, crowd it into her, boys, I tell you the
Ben Franklin is sailing like a runaway
devil, and is fast overhauling us: work
away with a hearty will, boys: cram,
cram her full to the very mouth!”
And away they work again to obey
his orders. Large lumps of tar, pots of
pitch, shoulders of bacon, kegs of lard,
which lay piled up on the lower deck,
and whatever else of the most
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
combustible fuel they can lay their hands upon,
are thrust into the blazing furnaces, that
glow and sparkle with a hotter flame.—
The sweat pours in streams down their
faces and necks; their shirts are dripping
with the streaming perspiration. And
now the hot breath from the mouth of
the furnaces, flows out and around them
with scorching power, and forces them
to quit its blazing front. They sink
down exhausted and overcome with the
heat and toil, to gather strength and cool
themselves, while they wipe away the
sweat that trickles down their cheeks.
And now see, again they spring forward;
again they feed the devouring elements;
and quickly the good steamer feels the
spur, and obedient to the call, she leaps
with renewed and fresh strength along
her smooth course. The loud roaring
of the escaping steam, the clank and
noise, and jarring of her machinery, break
upon the ear like pealing thunder, and
drown the voices of the excited crew,
who shout, and scream, and halloo like
mad men, as they feel the quickened impulse
of their boat, and know that she is
flying faster and faster on her way, while
at the same time they behold their rival
falling behind again, and the distance between
them stretching out, little by little,
becoming every passing minute greater.
She had already recovered what she
had lost for the few minutes previous,
and was still increasing the distance between
herself and the Ben Franklin,
when the captain of that boat, who was
a close observer of all that transpired on
board of his rival as well as his own boat,
perceived that he was falling behind
again, and his quick eye caught sight
of the dense, black, smoky, and hot
curling flames that rose above the pipes
of the Daniel Boone, which streamed out
as soon as the captain's orders to throw
in tar and other quick consuming and
more intensely heating fuel had been
obeyed by his men; and quick as thought
he repeated similar orders to his own
firemen, who stood ready with begrimed
and blackened faces, covered with smoke
and dust, and sweat, looking more like
dwellers in the dark abodes of Tartarus
than mortal men, to execute his bidding.
And now, too, his own strong and pow
erful boat feels the scorching flames that
burn within her sides, and, as if maddened
with the pains they bring, she
rushes with furious speed after her flying
adversary; and soon up she comes
again in all her pride and glory. “Hurra!
hurra! hurra!” shouted her exiting
crew; and on, still ever onward they
flew, roaring, and thundering, and foaming,
and spouting fire, like a bursting volcano
when the hot fires hidden within
sides are kindled to a flame. She now,
indeed, presented a magnificent spectacle,
as in hot haste pursuing her flying
enemy she scud away over the smooth
waters of the Ohio, dashing aside the
foam-flakes that curled around her head
and leaving them dancing on the wave
that marked her retreating course with a
broad wake far astern.
Again all the shouts and exultations of
those on board the Daniel Boone were
hushed; and, standing mute and motionless,
they looked after her, and as they
looked, their hearts beat stronger and
stronger, and deeper and deeper grew
the cloud of doubt and dismay that settled
down upon their anxious faces; for
to all it was plainly evident that the Ben
Franklin was nearing them again. The
Kentuckian who had before spoken to
the Captain when they seemed about to
be beaten, and had succeeded in arousing
him to action, again approached him.
“Captain,” cried he in a voice loud
and hoarse with excitement, “we cannot,
we will not let that boat pass us.
No, I tell you she shall not do it, by—”
(and he uttered a round oath in the captain's
ear,) “if fire and water can prevent
her. The name and honor of your
boat is the stake you run for, and if you
are a true man, and no craven, then you
will rather even sacrifice your life than
lose them both at a throw. Your own
fame and reputation goes with that of
your boat: lose that of the latter and the
former sinks with it. And one word
more: should you suffer that boat to
pass us, you are a ruined man—irretrierably
ruined. But come, up and show
them your mettle, your boat is hardly
warm yet; let her be hot, let her sweat
for it. She is the finest boat in the
West, and never has been beaten by
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
any boat that has run against her, and it
would be a pity, indeed, if this upstart
craft should dowse her colors without a
single blow for it.”
“Mr. Clay,” said the captain, who
was almost insane with excitement, and
driven to desperation by such unlooked
for and amazing speed on the part of the
Ben Franklin, and who was stung to the
quick by the words of Mr. Clay, “it is
no use to contend any longer, that boat
can beat us; the power of the machinery
is nearly a third greater than that of this
boat,, and she works it admirably. We
must give it up.”
“Give it up,” said Clay, in a tone of
derision and scorn, “and is it for this
you have induced us to come on board
your boat: for this you have influenced
us to stake our money on her sailing:
that the moment when you should be
most active, and exert yourself to the
utmost, you, like a coward, turn to us
and have the impudence to say, `we must
give it up: that it is no use to contend
longer.' Now my old fellow I shall say
but a word to you, and that quick too.—
You are in for it and cannot escape by
such trash and nonsense: we too are in
for this race, and the best this boat can
do, shall come out of her now. If you
are afraid and refuse to push her, we will
do it for you; but mind, if you compel
us to that, keep out of the way, don't
interfere, or I'll throw you overboard
quicker than you can wink.”
Charles, who had come to the spot
where this conversation took place, with
the other passengers, would have interfered
in behalf of the captain, but he saw
from the looks and gestures of the others
that it would be in vain. They were
bent on their reckless purpose. As the
captain listened to Mr. Clay it could be
seen that his feelings grew more and
more intense, and as he from time to
time turned his eyes from the speaker
to the rival boat which was fast coming
up to them, mingled feelings of pride in
his boat, and desperation at the chances
against him, were striving in his mind to
overcome his better judgment; they succeeded,
and he yielded to the excitement
around him. Suddenly his countenance
changed; the blood rushed to his face
and head; and shutting his teeth hard,
and grinding them together, he bit his
lips till the blood spouted from them
and ran down his chin; and all the
while nearer and still nearer thundered
the Ben Franklin, and thicker and thicker
rolled up the clouds of smoke from her
great iron chimneys, and still closer came
the sound of the hissing steam, as it
forced its way through the chinks in the
valves. And now the loud and boastful
cheers of the party on board that fast approaching
steamer came with dread distinctness
to the ears of the crew of their
rival, almost driving them to madness.
At this moment Clay again addressed
the captain in a calm, distinct tone, that
amazed him.
“That, captain,” said he, “that boat
(pointing with his upraised hand at the
same time to the Ben Franklin) is close
upon our heels; do you intend to act
like a man, as we requested you to do,
and save your own reputation, and that
of your boat too, while you gratify us, or
shall we act for you? quick! let us have
your answer, there is not a second to be
lost.”
“I will do as you say, gentlemen, if
you persist in it, but let me tell you there
is the greatest danger in endeavoring to
crowd on our boat a further press of
steam than she now has, and I will
not be answerable for the consequences
if we do so.”
“We will take the responsibility upon
ourselves,” shouted the gentlemen around
him; “only do your best to quicken her
speed, and beat that cursed boat. We
must now be close upon Trinity, where
you know we stop to wood up. Quick,
press her a little harder, and we shall be
sure to reach the landing first; and this
will be of great service to us; for it will
enable us to get the start anew of them,
and then let them catch us if they can.—
Come rouse yourself my good man, there
is not a second to be lost about it;” and
the Captain waited to hear no more.
The space between his boat and that
of his rival, had been gradually lessening
for the last half hour; and now at the
moment the Captain left the party on deck,
she was not more than a third of the distance
in advance of her that she had been
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
before. And although she was running
at a tremendous rate, still the Franklin
was slowly, but gradually and surely
overtaking her.
“Fan the flames, boys,” cried the Captain,
as he approached the firemen, “don't
spare the wood nor the pitch or tar; but
crowd it, cram it into her, we need it all
now, the very best you can do.”
“And I promise you an extra X apiece
if you will make us beat that infernal
boat,” said Mr. Clay, who had followed
the Captain and now stood at his side.
“This is truly hot work here Captain,”
said Clay, as he drew back a little from
the furnace, which licked up with its
forked tongue of flame, the fat repast
that was offered it. “But we must not
stop or tire, for that Ben, Franklin is a
most troublesome customer.”
“She is indeed,” replied the Captain,
“I would give all I am worth to be safe
out of this scrape; for I assure you Mr.
Clay, that I never saw her equal for speed
on these or any other waters; and I have
seen some fast boats in my time. I
think she could hardly do better if old
Franklin himself should put his real
lightening into her.”
“Just stand here,” said he, moving to
the outer edge of the boat and looking at
her. “Did you ever before since you
were born, see paddle wheels work like
that? I shall almost begin to believe I
never saw a boat go before. But we will
beat her yet, for all that. The Dan Boone
never yet has found her equal, or doffed
her colors to any thing that floats the
wave. And she shan't do it this time;
tough as the struggle is, she can hold out
as long as any other boat, be that other
whatsoever one you please;” and turning
to the firemen, he gave them a strict
charge to exert themselves to the utmost,
and keep every crevice of the furnace
filled up; then muttering an oath at his
rival's sailing, he went again on deck.
The firemen, who felt as if they had
the whole, sole responsibility of the boat
on their single and particular backs, and
were determined to discharge it in the
best manner, sprang anew to their hot
work. And now the flames crackled and
flared, and roared, with redoubled fury
under their increased exertions, and fas
ter and faster flew the piston rods at their
task, and swifter rolled the great iron shaft
around on its axis. Again the Ben Franklin
is gaining on her rival. The struggle
was fearful. The Boone trembled beneath
the mighty pressure of condensed
steam that was bound in her iron prison,
while the planks and timbers groaned
and cracked with the strain which they
endured. This could last but little longer;
it was too much for the steam chest vessel
to hold out long against such multiplied,
and enormous pressure. The safety
valves had already opened, and were
giving vent to the overcharged steam
pipes, while she was running at the top
of her speed. She could bear no more;
her utmost capacity was put to the stretch.
At this point of time, old Trinity hove in
sight, and like a swift arrow from the
hunter's bow, she sped onward to reach
that landing. Houses, trees, and farms
that lay along the river's banks, seemed
to fly past, and glimmered and trembled
before the eyes of the passengers, who
looked towards the shore, and who now
cheered and shouted as they found themselves
approaching the landing place
ahead of their rival. And here indeed
was the most favorable and beautiful
stretch in the whole length of the river
for a race; the waters of the Ohio, as
they approach the point where the river
forms a junction with the great Mississippi
grow deeper, and the bed of the river
widens, and in a broad deep sheet empties
itself into the great father of rivers.
They reached Trinity more than a hundred
rods in advance of the Ben Franklin,
and all was exultation and joy, and
excited hope on that fated steamer. The
Captain, standing on the upper deck,
shouted to the passengers on shore, to be
ready to jump aboard, as the boat came
up to the landing; and snatching hastily
a scanty supply of fuel, and refusing to
take freight, he hurried her departure.
The few passengers at this landing, bound
for St. Louis, had watched the Dan Boone
as she came up to the wharf, and witnessed
the tremendous speed with which
she flew over the waters; for she absolutely
seemed to fly, as fly the scudding
clouds, that speed their flight across the
sky, chased by the driving whirlwinds.
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[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
And they, more cool and reasonable than
the excited company on board of her
hesitated; they trembled to think of the
consequences they feared would result
from such a tremendous pressure of
steam upon her, and all but one refused
to embark on her. He was a Kentuckian,
and entered at once, as soon as she came
in sight, into the spirit of the occasion, and
shouted and hallooed with all his might,
as she came along side of the landing.
Two or three minutes only were lost in
effecting this landing. Whilst the boat
stood still, she trembled with the swelling
heat and imprisoned steam that was confined
within her pipes. The Captain
ordered the engineer to keep on all her
head of steam, and not for a minute even
blow off to ease her of the tremendous
pressure that made her shake and tremble.
The steam from the safety valves
hissed and screeched in vain warnings—
the heat rose from off the deck in heavy
trembling currents; the fire crackled and
blazed and burned with increasing fury;
and the dense clouds of black smoke continued
to roll up in the sky, from the tops
of her tall chimneys.
“Hurra, hurra, hurra,” shouted the
company of the boat, and the men on
shore repeated their cheers as the Captain
gave the word to leave, which he did
just as the Ben Franklin passed up by her
stern. The engineer loosed his reins, and
quick as thought, the piston rods leaped
to their work; the wheels made one or
two revolutions swift as lightning, then
suddenly a noise like the discharge of a
thousand cannon on the battle field, when
the covered battery of huge extent is unmasked,
and opens its thundering fire
upon the advancing enemy. The solid
ground shook and trembled at the shock,
as it broke in deafening thunders upon
the ear, and rent the air with its terrific
explosion; thick clouds of smoke and vapor,
and the hissing of suddenly quenched
fires, at the same time wrapped the Dan
Boone. It was an awful—a terrible moment!
for instantly succeeding this terrible
explosion, all sounds are hushed; the
stillness of death reigns on all around;
men scarce dare to draw their breath; a
feeling of despair—a shock of some sudden
and terrible calamity possessed them
and held them mute and motionless;
while all is thus still, a voice is heard
from the midst of the crowd on shore,
how fearfully distinct it sounds, where a
moment ago, it could not have been heard,
in the haste and wild confusion and din
that raged there; it was the voice of one
of the passengers who had refused to go
of board of that boat.
“God save us!” said he, “she has
burst her boiler.”
As he spoke, a shudder of awe and
pity—a mysterious feeling—an indescribable
emotion passed through the crowd.
Then arose upon the ear, the piercing
shrieks and agonizing cries of distress and
suffering, mingled with the dying groans
and wailings of wounded and dying men,
that had been hurried from the Daniel
Boone, as if thrown from the mouth of
a cannon, or from the burning top of a
volcano, all around the spot where she
blew up. Most of the party on board
the ill fated steamer, perished instantaneously
at the moment the boiler burst.
Some were thrown covered with scalding
steam into the waters of the Ohio, while
others were struck by the flying masses
of the broken boiler, losing an arm or a
leg, ere they fell multilated and bleeding
into the surging river, where they mingled
with the scalded, screeching and shrieking
with pain, the wounded shouting for
help and assistance, and all struggling to
keep themselves from being engulfed in
the waves, and sinking to a watery grave.
Oh! it was an awful spectacle, to witness
so many wretched and suffering beings,
struggling in the last agony of death,
writhing and quivering with mortal pain,
their groans falling upon the ear like a
death knell, to see them mutilated and
bleeding, and hear them in faint, dying
tones, imploring and beseeching to be
saved from a drowning death, as they are
sinking beneath the waves, ere assistance
can possibly reach them. But the men
who stood upon the shore, and the party
on board the Franklin, remained not idle
spectators of such a scene of suffering.
Tis true, they were so amazed and
shocked at first, from the awful explosion,
they remained as if rooted to the spot
where they were standing for some minutes;
but immediately upon recovering
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[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
from the paralysis, so great and so terrible
and sudden a calamity had thrown
them into, they hastened to shove off in
boats from the shore, and rescue the survivors
who maintained themselves by
swimming above the waves. They succeeded
in saving more than thirty of the
sufferers, who had all received more or
less injury from the accident,—the fatal
accident that had in the twinkling of an
eye, as it were, wrecked their proud vessel
and involved them in its ruin, covering
them with pain and anguish, and
overwhelming with despair and agony of
grief and suffering. Some in the extremity
of their sufferings, scalded and mutilated
by many and terrible wounds, cried
out to those around them, asking that
they would kill them at once, and thus
put an end to pains more dreadful than
death itself. A few who were standing
near the stern of the boat at the time her
boiler burst, escaped unharmed amidst
the general ruin and confusion, and flinging
themselves into the river, swam to
the shore, or else were picked up by the
boats that came out to their assistance.
Amongst this number was Charles: stunned
and losing himself for an instant, he
clung to the railings for support; his two
faithful hounds came close to his side, as
if knowing the danger that threatened
him, and resolved to save him. Quickly
recovering his presence of mind, he saw
at a glance the full extent of the overwhelming
ruin that had come upon them,
and without waiting a moment, he sprung
from the sinking wreck into the water,
and swimming directly to one of his suffering
and wounded companions, he saved
him from a watery grave, which yawned
to receive him, his two dogs following
closely after him. They reached the
shore with him; all that could be done to
recover and save the lives of the unfortunate
passengers, was done. The Ben
Franklin remained here all day, using
every effort in their power, for their unfortunate
companions, and assisted in
saving all that could be saved from destruction
out of the wreck. The boat
sunk immediately, filling with water instantly
upon the bursting of the boiler,
which had shattered and shivered her
hull almost to splinters; but as the river
was quite shallow at the spot where she
sunk, this circumstance enabled them
easily to fish up much of the freight that
was in her at the time. Charles recovered
his trunk and the most of his baggage,
though it was drenched through and
through with water. Placing his stock
on board the Ben Franklin, he left in her
the next morning for St. Louis.
CHAPTER V.
Charles arrived at St. Louis without
meeting with any other accidents or incidents
worthy of notice. This city has
come into existence within a few years
past. It is now only in its infancy in
years, but is already large and populous,
and embraces much wealth. It is occupying
a singularly interesting position at
present—standing as it does, at the extremest
western bound of civilization, as
it were on the dividing point or line
which divides the domains of the red
man, from those occupied by his white
brother.
On the east, stretching away for hundreds
and hundreds of miles to the great
Atlantic coast, and covered over with cities,
towns, and growing villages, that
have sprung up fresh and beautiful on
the ruins of the old forests, that have for
ages unknown, been slumbering in undisturbed
repose and solitude in this fair
land, lay the possessions of civilized and
enlightened man. Turn now to the opposite
direction:—there, extended in one
wild, unpeopled, uncultivated tract meets
you—the red man's home. In those
close and grand old woods, the Indian
loves, in wild native freedom, to pursue
the careless, easy habits of his roving
life, hunting and fishing for pastime and
subsistence, and warring with a spirit
and show of chivalry and daring, not unequal
to that of the knight of olden times,
for his mistress, fame and glory.
In these pathless, solemn woods, was
Charles to spend his time. Here lay
the theatre of his labors and pleasures;
here he was anxious to penetrate and
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mingle with the nomadic tribes that
were masters of this fair land, which
they held like princely lords for their
hunting grounds.
But obstacles which Charles had not
foreseen, which in his preparation were
entirely forgotten, now unexpectedly presented
themselves to him on the very
threshhold of the forest. He must of necessity
have a guide, to point out and
show him his way; for it would hardly
be possible for him to strike out alone,
by himself, into the woods even for a
single day, without being entangled in
its labyrinths, and losing his path, or direction
rather, for these woods are pathless
save only the ways that are marked
by the wild bison, as he traverses its
long extent in search of food, in herds of
thousands and tens of thousands; or else,
perhaps, the narrow path that the light
footed deer might have traced on the
grassy turf, as they bounded in exulting
leaps upon the prairies.
In this city Charles was to provide
himself with everything necessary for
his equipment during the campaign.—
As he revolved these thoughts in his
mind, he could not but perceive how
pleasant and welcome a companion for
his wanderings through the forest would
be, and he resolved to make every effort
in his power to provide himself with
such an one.
While making inquiries the day after
his arrival in the city in a furnishing
store, with regard to the articles it would
be necessary for him to take with him,
he observed a young man of very interesting
appearance, who seemed like a
stranger in the store, regarding him attentively,
and listening very closely to
what he was saying, as if he was deeply
interested in his personal welfare. Observing
this conduct on the part of the
young man, who was an entire stranger
to him, he was induced to turn his attention
more closely to him; and looking
attentively at him, he very soon made
up his mind as to the birthplace and
origin of the stranger. There was in
his looks, and in all his manners and appearance,
that peculiar physiognomy,
that deep, shrewd expression, that restless
prying curiosity which make it so
easy to detect the Yankee wherever you
may find him. He had met with Yankees
everywhere on his route, since
leaving home; they seemed to be omnipresent
almost, and were sure to be discovered
in some way or other. Charles
was pretty well versed in physiognomy,
and was quite proficient in reading characters,
and he had risked his reputation
for this skill often on his journey; and
whenever the subject upon which it was
exercised happened to be a genuine Yankee,
he had not failed in his suspicions.
There is such an air of energy, activity,
and intelligence about them, that
they cannot easily be mistaken or passed
by in neglect. They are great on interrogatories,
and famous for their skill
in extracting. Questions come from
their lips as naturally and readily as
sparks from a fire, or drops from a cloud.
The topic of discussion is not of the
slightest consequence—they are up to
everything. Charles finished his business
and left the store, but scarcely had
he left the door-step, ere he was accosted
by the stranger we have spoken of, who
followed close after him:
“Good day, sir,” said he, “a fine day,
sir—excellent weather this.”
Charles, though not altogether unprepared
for such a salutation from him,
was yet a little surprised by the ease
and familiarity of tone and manner in
which it was uttered. He however returned
his greeting in the usual manner,
with rather a cool tone, and was in the
act of proceeding on, when the stranger
again interrupted him, saying:
“I guess you are right from New
York, sir—you sorter look that way,
sir?”
Charles good naturedly heard him,
and slackened his pace. He was a good
deal amused at the pertinacity of the fellow,
and his curiosity was awakened to
know who he was, and what business he
had with him; for it was evident that he
was anxious to communicate something
to Charles, and was driving to the point
as he best knew how. Therefore,
Charles said to him in a more familiar
free tone than he had used before:
“You have guessed right, my friend,
I came from New York, and arrived here
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[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
only the day before yesterday.” He replied:
“Well, I really thought I could'nt be
much out of the way, anyhow. Do you
wanter know why I set you down, as
soon as I set my eyes on you, for a
Yorker, hey?”
Charles replied that he should indeed
be glad to know what there was so peculiar
about his appearance, as to have
caused his attention, and led him to suppose
that he came from New York.
“Well, sir, I can tell a Yorker as
quick as I can tell an Indian, anywhere;
I don't care where you put him. In
the first place, he don't look, nor he don't
dress like anybody else; and then the
moment he opens his mouth, and begins
to make a bargain, he shows himself
right out. He talks right up and
down, and don't banter and beat down,
as other people do; and he has the queerest
way of sayin' shillin', too, in the
whole world. He bites it clean off, before
he comes to the eend of it, as if he
was in such a hurry he could'nt spare
time for the whole on't. That are, sir,
is why I guessed you was one of 'em.—
But, sir, may I be so bold as to ask if
you are bound any further west? This
ere St. Louis is a terrible smart place,
but it are most a mighty hot place in
summer, and 'taint none of the dryest
neither, in winter time; and I tell you,
I guess you don't catch me staying here
much longer, any how you can fix it.—
But maybe, sir, we are goin' the same
way—where did you say you was goin',
eh?”
Charles could hardly restrain the
laugh which rose to his lips, as the Yankee
concluded. He was amused and
pleased with the shrewdness he possessed
and displayed, and his method for
discovering who he was, and where he
was going. All he said was so cool, so
perfectly easy and friendly that it seemed
ludicrous and comic in the extreme.--
Charles thanked him for the explanation
he had given him, and replied to him that
he doubted not but what his remarks upon
St. Louis were perfectly correct; as
to his last inquiry, he said that it would
require more time than he could spare, to
answer it fully, but said he would be
pleased to have an interview with him at
a suitable place, and when he had more
time on his hands. He concluded by inviting
him to dine with him that day, at
the Planter's Hotel; but said in a laughing
tone, “as to whether we may, or may
not be going the same route depends very
much on the direction you shall take, and
that is a profound mystery, unless I shall
or may possess your skill in guessing,
which I entirely disclaim; but come to
my hotel, and we, together, may perhaps
find out where we are travelling
to. Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, sir,” replied the
Yankee, “I will be sure and meet you,
sir.”
The Yankee slowly went his way,
appearing not hardly satisfied with what
he had done.
“Well, I declare now, that is a pretty
smart sort of a chap, to slip me in this
way before I'd half found out what I desired
to; but he is a real gentleman, I
saw that at once. But what on earth
has brought him, all alone, away out
here? Some love-scrape, I guess; for
there is not a particle of the rogue written
in his face. No matter; I'll find it
all out at dinner time. I think I shall
go with him—he's just such a one as
would suit me, I think. I can help myself,
and not injure him at the same time.
I really like his looks much.”
Such were the thoughts of the Yankee,
as he went on his way, after parting
with Charles. Charles, rashly perhaps,
certainly suddenly, resolved to persuade
this new acquaintance to accompany
him, on his wandering and roving expedition;
he thought his meeting with him,
just at the nick of time, when he was
wishing for a companion, exceedingly
fortunate, if not providential. As for the
Yankee, he was firmly resolved, on reflection,
to accompany him. He rather
guessed, from the questions he heard him
put to the storekeeper, that he was bound
off west, on a hunting trip; if so, it would
suit him very well—it would turn out all
right, he concluded, and he settled it
without further difficulty, in his own
mind, that they were to go together.
At the dinner hour, true to his word,
the Yankee presented himself at our
friend's table. They conversed during
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
the dinner hour upon a variety of topics;
avoiding, however, the plan which each
had laid respecting the other, and which
had brought them together. The Yankee,
as we have already said, was a
young man, not more than twenty-five
years of age; and was as stout, well
built, athletic looking a person as you
would wish to see. His features, though
not regular and handsome, were yet good
and manly; and there was about him, an
air of mingled intelligence and amiability
joined to a bold, free bearing, which
could not fail both to attract and please.
Honesty and integrity beamed in his
face and shone in his eye, inviting confidence,
and giving assurance of his good
faith. In manners he was polite and
kind, treating all about him with respect
and kindness. He conversed with great
ease and was remarkably social; rather
disposed to enter into discussion and debate.
He seemed to enjoy this much,
and was ready to enter the lists with any
one, upon any topic. His remarks were
full of good sense and practical reason;
and showed that he possessed a shrewd
and observing mind; and that, young as
he was, he had been a keen, close observer
of men and manners, and was
well versed in the knowledge of the busy
world. He discussed the affairs of the
nation like a sage old politician; and
while he pitied the ignorance of his opponents,
he was ready and willing at the
same time to instruct and enlighten them
if they would but listen to him. He was
a religious man, too, in his way; and
considered himself a pretty good expounder
of the truth. His habits, if not
graduated after the strictest code of morals,
were such as prevented in him a
breach of the laws of society, and entitled
him to the esteem and respect of good
citizens. Such, in brief, was the character
of the man Charles had fixed upon as
a companion, in his wanderings.
And a very good choice he made, too.
Where he would have done better once,
he would have done worse a hundred
times. The more Charles saw of him,
the better he liked him. He discovered
that he was not only a man of good sound
sense, but he also mingled in his conversation
much original wit and humor,
and proved himself a very amusing companion
for his leisure hours.
After they had finished their dinner,
they withdrew to a part of the room,
where they could converse without interruption;
and Charles gave his new friend
at once a detailed account of his plan,
and declared what his intentions were in
making the expedition; and then warmly
urged his companion to join him. It
would, at least, be a pleasant trip, and he
thought his Yankee friend, with his ready
wit, and quick invention, might make
it turn to his account. He concluded by
offering him whatever assistance he
needed, in preparing or procuring an
outfit.
Our Yankee friend heard him through;
not, however, without interrupting him
occasionally, and wedging in sundry
suggestions of his own, as Charles went
on speaking of his intentions. As soon
as he finished, the Yankee, with but few
remarks, agreed to accompany him, already
as we have said before, having
made up his mind to this end. Our
two young friends parted after their sociable
dinner mutually pleased; and
their plans, as we have seen, all pleasantly
settled.
CHAPTER VI.
But as yet we have not discovered
from anything which has been said or
done, the name, or even anything certain,
with regard to the Yankee. It is,
in fact, altogether a matter of guessing
that he is even a Yankee; and I cannot
positively say that this important item of
information was as yet in the possession
of Charles himself. One would suppose
that such a circumstance would, of itself,
naturally, and necessarily, prove rather
embarrassing, and stand somewhat in the
way of their close, familiar conference
and confidence; and we in pity for the
excited curiosity of the reader will endeavor
to enlighten him on this interesting
point, and declare the name which
our supposed Yankee friend bore, and
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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
some of the particulars of his happy existence
and famous birth.
His name was simply Jonathan Leslie,
a pretty good Yankee cognomen certainly,
and not very new in Yankee line.
He was born in a small town in the upper
part of the State of Vermont, and
was the son of respectable and christian
parents. The parson of the town had
laid his hand upon his infant head many
a year ago and christened him Jonathan;
and Jonathan he had been called ever
since, and probably, unless something
very singular should occur, will ever
continue to be called. His parents were
both living, and had a large family of
children growing up about them, who
were perfectly contented to remain on
the old farm where they were born and
schooled. But Jonathan, the oldest, took
a more extensive view of men and things,
and came to the conclusion that he, individually
and particularly, could do better,
and faster, somewhere else. The fact
was, he had become tired of sticking
close at home, and wished to see the
world; and, as he said when about quitting
home, “the old nest is overstocked,
and a little thinning out will make it more
comfortable on all sides.” But it was
not so easy a thing at last, as Mr. Jonathan
had affirmed it to be, to leave home,
parents and friends behind him, and go
out to carve for himself amongst strangers;
and besides, was'nt he accounted
by all who knew him, and that was all
the village at least, the cleverest fellow in
the town? and was he not, moreover, a
great favorite with the most blooming,
the most rosy cheeked, the plumpest,
liveliest, most fascinating young gal in
those parts; she the sole daughter and
heir to one of the most fore-handed farmers
in the place? And I can assure you
that beauty is not mean and niggard in
her gifts to her favorite sex in that land.
Their sparkling eyes outshine the stars
in brightness. The rose that blooms
upon their cheeks is fresher, fairer far
than aught that opes its shining leaves
to catch the sunbeams on Arabia's fair
gardens; and whiter, purer, warmer far,
than Parian marble that grows to human
likenesses and ideal forms most moving
to the eye, beneath the artist's genius
gifted hand, are the clear, snowy skins
of the fair girls of the North.
But all could not alter or change the
resolution which held the mind of Jonathan
firm to his avowed purpose: and
with his scanty stock of worldly gear
that he could call his own, packed snugly
away in a bundle, and hung over his back
on the stout walking stick which he carried,
that should serve by turns as staff,
or weapon, as the case might require,
he bid good bye to his parents and
friends, and early upon a fine June morning
he quitted his home. He had not
definitely fixed upon the place which
should be illumined by the light of his
sunshine. The course he was to take
was West; how far he would go, and
when he should stop, were matters that
he would attend to when he thought
proper; but he rather guessed he had
better go over to Ohio or Michigan first,
perhaps he would there find a good spot
to hold him, if he should meet first rate
employment. He was going to seek his
fortune in the world, and guessed he'd
follow his own judgment about this, as
well as about everything else; he had'nt
been to school for nothing.
As he left his father's house he took
a path which led him not far from the
dwelling of that sweet, blooming girl,
we mentioned a little while ago, not
that we pretend to say he had any expectation
of seeing her on this path at
that time in the morning, for it was very
early, and it was so late the evening before
when he left her, and he then bid
her farewell; but he had so often gone
that way before, and it was so natural for
him to take it, that he almost unconsciously
found himself treading its dewy
course; and if he wanted an excuse, was
there not a good one on hand, to wit: did
this not lead him straight on his desired
and chosen route. Be this as it may,
Jonathan took this path, and after looking
back for the last time upon the old home-stead
where he had been born, and where
all the happy days of his innocent, careless
youth had been spent, with a swelling
heart and saddened mind to keep him
company, for he loved his home for all
that he was leaving it, perhaps never to
return: but he did'nt believe that he
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[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
walked forward at a rapid pace, while
sad reflections and lonely visions kept
rising o'er his mind. He walked perhaps
a quarter of an hour in this manner,
absorbed in his own reflections, and
giving no heed to anything around him,
forgetting himself completely, when the
sound of a light footstep coming after
him, and the remembered tones of a
sweet voice meeting his ear, aroused
him from his revery.
“Jonathan,” said the dear voice, “are
you going so far away without ever bidding
me a last farewell.”
Turning quickly around in the direction
of the sound, the lovely Nancy, the
farmer's fair daughter, stood before him.
His heart beat quicker as he looked into
her face and saw the tear drops gathering
in her eye, and he scarcely knew how to
act on what to say, so confused was he
at her sudden appearance. But quickly
recovering himself he advanced towards
her and seizing her hand in his own—
“Nancy,” said he, “I am indeed glad,
very glad, that I can see you once again
before I go. This is very kind of you,
and I give you my warmest thanks for
thus meeting me.”
But Nancy, who from being acknowledged
the reigning belle of the place, had
acquired so much of the coquette as a
girl of her excellent disposition and careful
education could gain, had recovered
from the feelings which pained her and
led her in such sad tones to address our
friend as he passed by the grassy knoll
where she had been seated for more than
half an hour, waiting his approach, while
the time seemed slowly to pass, making
it to her the longest half hour of her life,
constantly grieving herself with fear and
doubts, lest she had come too late and he
had already passed, and she should not
again see him. She was sadly pained,
as I have said, when her lover passed by
without noticing her, and hurrying after
him she overtook and arrested his steps
in the manner which we have just related.
But not thinking that perhaps he would
guess the truth that she really had risen
and come out to that spot where they
were accustomed in past days to sit and
sport the time away, for no other reason
than again to see him, and feeling
ashamed that she had thus exposed her
feelings, she took an air of indifference
and pleasantry to deceive him; and in a
tone of studied raillery she replied:
“Do you really believe me capable of
doing so foolish an action as you have
affirmed you do, Mr. Leslie?”
Jonathan, whose feelings were kindled
into tenderness from the scene he had
just gone through in parting with his parents
and friends, and had replied to her
salutation in his kindest tones, the more
as he saw her reproachful and sorrowful
look as she spoke, was both surprised
and angry at the indifferent, cold manner,
which she used, and at the jesting,
frivolous question she put to him; all ill
suited his feelings at such a moment, and
as he loved, it grieved him to the heart
as the conviction seized him that she
loved him not, but came to sport with
his dearest feelings. He looked steadily
into her face for a moment with a searching
gaze, to see if he could read her real
feelings. There she stood, as beautiful
as a fresh blown rose, or as the first
beam of morning light; but in her face
he saw only an expression of levity, a
smile of pleasure breaking over her fair
features as if her merriment were hard
to conceal and sought expression. The
tears had fled from her eyes' sorrowful
look—you could not have supposed that
so short time it had clouded her careless
brow. As he saw at a glance what we
have written, he instantly resolved to
hasten away from her presence without
delay, or allowing her to perceive
how much her manner had wounded
him. To this end he called up all the
energy he possessed, and using the utmost
politeness he was master of, he
drew himself up to his full height, and
bowing to her at the same time said in
his blandest tone, in which was mingled
much of sarcasm,—
“I ask your pardon, Miss Haywood,
for supposing anything so foolish as what
I just uttered; I see that I was wrong —
that I made a great mistake. I spoke
hastily; my thoughts were engaged in
pondering upon the past, and I was
thinking of the kind and dear friends I
leave at my home, and from whom I am
now departing for a long, long time, not
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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
knowing that I shall ever return: you
must excuse me therefore if I said something
which appeared foolish to you, and
as I am in haste to prosecute my journey,
allow me to wish you a gay good
bye:” and bowing at the same time politely
to her, he was on the point of turning
from her, when Nancy seeing that
she had hurt his feelings, and that he
really was about to leave her in anger,
bursting into tears threw herself into his
arms, saying at the same time,—
“You'll break my heart, dear Jonathan,
if you part from me so,” and then
in a voice choked with sobs, she added,
“forgive me dearest Jonathan, I am sorry
that I duspleased you,—I meant only to
jest with you. Oh! you will not leave
me in anger, and despise me as a heartless
creature. Oh! if you only knew
how I suffered after you left me last
night, as I thought that this morning you
were going to leave us all, and I knew
not when I shold see you again, I could
not close my eyes to sleep, but could only
weep as I thought that it was all true,
that with the light of this morning you
would depart. I feared I might not
wake in time to see you once more. I
have long been waiting, expecting you,
and when at last you did come, and
passed by the spot where I was sitting,
awaiting you, and then you did not notice
me, I was ready to burst into tears, but
when I overtook you, and you spoke to
me so kindly, all my grief fled in an instant,
and I was tempted to punish you
for your neglect of me, by answering in
the manner I did, and uttering what I did
not feel, and now, dear Jonathan, that I
have told you all my heart, you surely
will forgive me, and before you leave me,
for I fear it will be a long, long time before
we see each other again.”
She spoke these last words in a sad
tone, her voice quivering with the deep
emotions which filled her heart, and
while she uttered them she raised her
head from his breast, where she had hid
it when she sprang forward to detain
him, and turned her beautiful blue eyes,
beaming tnederly with the soft light of
love, whilst yet the tear drops hung upon
the silken fringes that shaded like dew
drops on the rose her face. More beau
tiful did they seem to him who gazed
enraptured upon her from the tender
expression which her sorrow imparted
to them. And do you doubt for as
instant what Jonathan said or did; what
could he do? The loveliest girl he ever
beheld clinging to him and passionately
sighing forth her deep, deep grief at his
departure. The sudden feeling of anger
which a moment before had occupied his
mind, fled as flies the dark shadows of
night before the sun's bright rays, or as
the lighting's flash that darts from sky
to earth; and startled love, that stood at
the door of his heart, at a bound regained
its home and possessed his whole soul,
and folding his arms more closely around
her, he strained her to his bosom in a
warm embrace of devoted, ardent love,
and stooping over her tenderly, he kissed
away the tears that hung like pearl drops
from her long eye lashes.
“Oh! I am a wretch indeed, to grieve
you thus cruelly, dearest girl. I can
never forgive myself that I have caused
such pain, and made those soft eyes swim
in tears. Forgive you? 'Tis I who need
forgiveness at your hands; and can you,
will you pardon me, dearest Nancy. It
will lift a mighty load from my heart, and
I promise never to grieve you thus again.
Indeed, dear girl, I knew not what I said;
I was buried in sorrow at leaving home,
and all the friends of my youth, and
most did I sorrow that I must separate
from you, and it was in the fond hope
that I might meet you at our loved spot
along this path, if only to catch a glimpse
of you and say one parting word, that I
have come this way; but my heart, alive
to all that concerns its dearest treasure.
was pained at your reply. I though
you spoke coldly to me, and that you
were ready to sport with my feelings
and it was this that caused me to speak
as I did. I wished to hurry away from
you, that you might not see what grief
your words caused me, what a pang they
inflicted. But I implore your pardon, I
ought indeed to have known you better
dearest girl; and you do indeed grieve
at my departure? and will not forget me
when I am absent, my Nancy?”--
And again he kissed passionately those
rosy lips that now hung upon his words,
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
land again did he press her fondly to his
heart. It was a moment of inexpressiable
happiness, and sweet love to them.
Pure, deep, devoted affection, reigned in
their hearts; and if Jonathan forgot for
a time that he was leaving home and his
loved friends, while he yielded himself
up wholly to his fond love and gazed
tenderly upon the fair girl that still clung
to him as if she feared she might lose
him, should she loose her hold of him,
and as if she could not bear to part from
him; none can blame him, or say that he
erred. 'Tis true they had never exchanged
their mutual vows, or plighted
their formal troth: but long had they
loved each other; and nothwithstanding
the occasional flirtations of Nancy with
other young men of the village—often
entered into on her part, simply for a
love of mixchief, or to pique her lover:
or from the pleasure she received from
the fresh proofs they afforded her that
he was really attached to her; but from
all such tests, and by all her vexatious
trials, his love had lost nothing of its ardor
of depth.
It was from a high and honorable motive
which cannot often be found at this
day in any circle or grade in society, and
when found even then not appreciated by
the many, that he shrunk from uniting
with his uncertain fortune the fate of that
dear girl whom he loved above all else in
the wide wordl. He would not, he indeed
could not, suffer himself to persuade
her to leave her happy home, where she
was surrounded with every comfort, every
luxury, she could desire; where her doating
parents aticipated her every want,
and eagerly sought for her all that might
contribute to her happiness. No, said
he often to himself, when his love urged
him to secure this priceless treasure by
her vows, I will wait patiently if I can,
impatiently if I must, until I can offer
her a home where she shall miss none
of the comforts of her father's house.—
It would be indeed but a base requital of
all her priceless love, to take her from
such a home, simply to gratify myself,
while I have naught to offer her in exchange
but the love of a devoted heart,
and the prospects of a strong arm. No.
no; in a few years, by hard, constant,
honest toil, if I should be successful,
I shall gain a competece, and more
than a bare sufficiency, I shall accumulate
wealth, which will enable me to welcome
her to a home of my own, and how sweet
thus to share with her my treasures
sought for her, and see her not only
simply contented in her home, but happy,
more happy than ever before. Well
will it repay me, even for the great sacrifice
it demands.
Such was the motive, and such were
the feelings which ruled the conduct of
this young man. A plain, simple, unpretending
farmer's son, who had never
hardly ventured out of sight of his native
village. It was a noble, lofty, generous
principle, and no good man what will
admire the conduct of that young man, in
all the ardor and freshness of youth, with
feelings as warm as ever kindled in the
bosom of opening manhood; thus acting
from a noble sentiment, restraining and
subduing his most powerful passion.—
Often did this sentiment rise in his mind
and check the words that rose to his lips,
prompted by the deep feelings of his
heart. And when alone with the object
of his love he wandered along the sequestered
and shady walsk of their native
village, and opportunities than which none
better could be desired, almost innumerable,
and presented themselves to him
and tempted him to forget himself—
had the fair girl that hung upon his arm
felt his manly form tremble, and heard
his voice sink into low and tender tones,
falter, as the avowal of his love was ready
to burst from his lips; and she diving
with true woman's tact the causes that
changed him thus in his bearing, and
rendered him more tender and delicate
in his attentions, and catching from him
through the cords of sympathy that bound
them together, the same feelings which
filled his mind, she would often become
suddenly silent, while the color
came and went in her cheek like the
flickering shads of the sun when flying
clouds are chased across his path.
And often at such times did she listen
almost breathlessly, to catch from his lips
the words which should assure her of
that love which she knew he felt for her;
and as often was she disappointed, not
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knowing the motive that held him silent.
And then sad doubt and unhappy suspicions
would arise to perplex and disturb
her peace of mind. In vain she sought to
solve the mystery. She could not imagine
what there could be so powerful, so
constant, yet so mysterious and unsearchable,
that even at the very moment when
she knew he ws struggling to declare
his passion, held him mute and trembling
in its cruel grasp. As far as external
and apparent circumstances went, nothing
could be more propitious or encouraging
to his suit. Her parents, who
exercised a most watchful vigilance for
her happiness, scrutinized all who approached
her, with great exactness, regarded
him with more favor than any
other young man of their acquaintance;
and she believed they would gladly have
welcomed him into their family, by the
dearest of all ties. Then, too, his own
parents and the other members of his
father's family, she well knew would
have sanctioned and congratulated him
on such a choice. What then, is it, she
often asked herself, that keeps him silent
as it were, in spite of himself.
And now he was leaving her with this
mystery, all unexplained; a source of
pain and perplexity to her—a cankerworm
at her heart. And as often as these
doubts and fears oppressed her, with heavy
grief would she ask herself, did he
really love her, and had she not deceived
herself? But always the same answer
came back to her, assuring her of his
love; she did not—she could not doubt
it. He acts, his words, all showed she
was truly the chosen object of his affections.
Why then did he not secure her
happiness as well as his own, by confiding
in her?
He was now about leaving her for a
long period, and was going a long distance
from home. This had revived all her
doubts; and she feared lest abasence, the
bitterest bane of lovers, should weaken
his love, or even cause him to forget her.
She feared too, lest some other one more
fortunate than herself should gain his
heart, and steal away his affection for
her, and hear him breathe those vows
of eternal constancy and unchanging love,
which she would have given worlds, had
she possessed them, to have heard his
lips declare to her. How would such at
avowal comfort and support her during
his long absence, and render more sufferable
her long separation from him whe
alone possessed her heart? How would
it scatter and dispel those cruel doubts
and bitter suspicions, that had often caused
her when alone to weep? It was
with such thoughts as these in her mind,
that she, that morning met her lover; and
as we have seen, had given way to her
over-burdened heart, in such a manner as
Jonathan had never before witnessed in
her. It was such an exhibition of love
and tenderness on her part for him, that
his heart could not withstand, softened
as he already was by the scene he had
just passed through. He could check no
longer the burning words which sprung
to his lips; the deep strong feelings of
his soul were called foth in all their overwhelming
power, and his long cherished
passion, like the pent up fire of a volcano
that burns in the mountain's bosom,
found vent through his lips. And now
pressing her close to his heart, and folding
his arms around her loved form, he
poured forth in earnest, passionate tones
and burning words, the story of his love;
he said he knew how unworthy he was
of her love; she was the idol of his soul—the sweet realization of his ideal adored.
But, said he, if years of toil, if labors,
however great and difficult, could render
him worthy of her dear love, how gladly
would he accomplish them, and how inexpressibly
dear would her fond assurance
render him.
“Dearest girl,” said he, “life with you
is perfect bliss and unbounded happiness;
without you, at the thought is despair and
madness; all my future happiness—all
my hopes hang suspended upon your
answer: say, will you dearest, be mine?”
Trembling and pale she listened to
those dear words, that sealed her happiness;
so deep—so profound wa sthe joy
that filled her, she scarce heeded anything
save the sound of his loved voice; it
breathless silence she listened while he
spoke, as if entranced at the sound. And
when he ceased and looked into her face
for an answer to his hopes, he caught
one glance of her eye—a look into which
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his heat seemed thrown, as she raised
it to his, that told him far better and
more surely than words could have done,
that his love was returned—that her heart
was all his own, while at the same time,
he felt a thrill of joy run through his
frame, from the gentle pressure of the
soft hand he held within his own, and
which he had taken while breathing forth
his love for her, and bending over her till
his face touched her cheek, he strained
her to his heart, while their lips met in a
long sweet kiss of love. Oh, who can
tell the bliss, the ecstacy of such a kiss—
a first fond kiss of love? it seemed as if
their hearts had leaped to their lips, and
joining in that warm, that sweet embrace
would never more part. Oh, there is
something so deep, so touching, so indescribably
blissful and enrapturing in the
first kiss of devoted, true hearted lovers,
when the sweet assurance of returned
love breaks upon them, and the deep
passions which has struggled for this blessed
light, leaps rejoicing into the burning,
dazzling rays, that we feel as if heaven
itself could give no greater blessedness,
no dearer boon.
Such a blissful time our lovers now
enjoyed, absorbed, delighted, entranced
in their perfect felicity. Once, and once
only in life, can it be tasted, by mortals;
'tis too mighty, too overwhelming, too
repturous for us weak mortals, and in its
oft-repeated joyance, we should breathe
away our life. And will the reader deem
it strange when we say that Jonathan, stoic
as he was, and schooled as his feelings
had been by repeated severe trials, and
resisted almost resistless temptation, forgot
at this moment his stoicism—forgot
all else, save the perfect felicity and soul
absorbing joy of his happy avowed lover.
For a short time he held her closely
to his beating heart, while tenderest emotions,
and fondest feelings took possession
of his whole soul; and now gently
encircling her slender waist with his supporting
arm, he led her to the grassy
mound, where oft in days past, they had
sat and nursed by sweet discourse, the
love that had grown so large, and taken so
deep root in their hearts, and placing her
on this soft rustic seat, he drew close by
her side, fondly holding her in his arms,
while she confidingly rested her head upon
his breast.
We will not attempt to relate the conversation
which they carried on, and
which so absorbed them, that they took
no heed of the flight of long, tireless time.
Indeed we could not invest it with even
a shadow of the charm it possessed for
them; love's tête à tête's are eminently
private, and although of the most
interest to the parties themselves, are
yet often times, dull and unmeaning to all
others; they operate by feelings and
sympathy, and never carry double. Suffice
to say, they sat for more than an hour,
perfectly happy, and unconscious of all
without themselves. How short an hour
it seemed to them. During the time
Jonathan had told her of his struggle to
keep to himself the avowal that he had
just mad,e and his motive for keeping
silence, and how difficult it had been for
him to do so, and how often it had almost
escaped him, in spite of his best efforts
to the contrary; and although she did
chide him gently for thus smothering his
feelings and distressing her, yet how
sweet the pleasure that filled her heart, as
she listened to him; all the cruel doubts
and saddening fears that had so often, and
so bitterly oppressed her, were thus forever
dispelled. How eagerly she drank
in his words, and how fondly she smiled
upon him; she could have sat thus listening
to his dear voice forever.
But now they were awakened from
their extatic bliss and profound pleasure,
by the noise and voices of the busy
farmers, who came forth into the fresh,
green fields with the light of the rising
sun, to begin their daily task. Our fond
couple had again and again repeated their
vows of constancy and unchanging love,
and how they must part. What a chill
of sadness the thought brought to their
hearts. It now seemed as if it was the
first real grief they had ever known.—
And must she indeed lose him in this
first happy hour of confiding love! The
tears came again to her eyes, as drawing
her to his heart, he imprinted a kiss
upon her lips, and murmured his last
farewell. She could not speak or move;
grief was too busy at her heart; she sobbed
aloud, clining around him with her
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arms, and at the same time burying her
face in his bosom. All the dangers he
must encounter as he went forth, alone
into the world, came rapidly before her
mind; the sad, lonely hours that she
must pass alone while he was far away,
pressed upon her mind, and overwhelmed
her with mingled feelings of fear and
grief, tenderness and love. But she was
indeed a noble girl; and seeing at once
the necessity there was for her to summon
up all her resolution and courage,
she strove to master the feelings which
swelled within her; and making him
promise to write to her often—every day
if he could—and tell her everything that
happened to him; promising voluntarily
on her part, to answer all his correspondence;
she endeavored to impress upon
his mind the fact that this would be
her only pleasure, and she should so love
to read his letters and write to him—he
must not forget it. And now indeed you
must go, said she, we cannot longer remain
here unobserved. Oh, how it pains
me to part from you! and the tears started
afresh to her sorrowful eyes. She
pressed her lips to his once more; then
pressing her hand, he murmured, God
bless you, dearest girl: and with bursting
hearts they parted.
Such were some of the facts connected
with the biography of our hero's companion;
and now more than two years
had elapsed since he left his home and
parted from his Nancy. And had he
forgotten her? you perhaps ask. No,
we answer, never; not for an hour, for a
moment even, had his faithful heart
ceased to adore her. It was his greatest
delight, his dearest pleasure, to think of
her; and manfully, nobly had he struggled
on, to secure the means which
should enable him to return, and make
her his own happy wife. His promises
of writing to her, had they been kept?
Yes, we answer to his credit, they had
been more fully, more punctually, more
promptly remembered and fulfilled, than
are such promises, often, even by those
whose opportunities and facilities,
all attending circumstances should warrant
with the greatest certainty the accomplishment
of their engagements of
this nature: and much benefit had he de
rived from such a course. True to he
word, and in answer to the promptings
of her doating heart, she had answered
all his letters promptly, and often had
she done more; and thus had she kept
alive and vigorous her influence over him,
while at the same time it restrained and
checked his lower and debasing desires.
The last letter had been written but a few
days before the meeting which took
place between himself and our hero,
and in it he informed her that he was
just about leaving for St. Louis; and that
his design was to go from that city still
farther west, for the purpose of trading
with the Indians for furs.
How far his plans had been facilitated
by Charles, without his knowledge, however,
we have already seen. During his
absence from home, he had been engaged
in a variety of employments, and
had visited many places in the west.
He had, moreover, been remarkably
successful in accumulting property, and
was now able to do business in the manner
he proposed, from his own funds.—
We think we have now said sufficient
concerning him, to satisfy the curiosity
of the reader; but we have chiefly made
this digression for the reason, that hereafter,
his fortunes and interests were to
become so completely identified and
blended with those of our hero; and we
will now, most patient and weary peruser,
resume the thread of our discourse.
We left our young friends after their
conference, highly satisfied with each
other; and also fully agreed as to the
plan they would pursue. And now they
lost no time in entering upon their preparation
for their long campaign. They
expected not to return, for several months
at least; and all that was necessary for
their outfit in this long journey in the
wilderness, was to be procured here, as
there is no place beyond this on their
route, where they oculd so well accommodate
themselves, even if they should
be able to obtain what was necessary for
them, at all. Charles knew very little
what would be necessary for them to
take with them; and therefore yielded
very readily to the advice and suggestions
of Jonatah, who seemed to be perfectly
at home and familiar with the business.
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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
By his advice they laid in a plentiful
supply of powder and shot, bullets and
caps for their guns; they also provided
themselves with fishing tackle, intending to
follow this sport, of which they were both
very fond, whenever occasion offered.—
Then there was their blankets, and bedding,
their cooking utensils, &c., &c., all
of which Jonathan looked after, and acquitted
himself with great credit. Their
supply of clothing was a separate and
individual matter; though upon this point
Jonathan took the liberty to give his
opinion and counsel, which Charles willingly
followed, and had great reason
thereafter to be thankful for. Charles
was surprised at the skill and celerity
with which all these arrangements were
made and carreid into effect; without
bustle or delay, Jonathan went forward,
and in less than half the time he had
allotted to this duty, and which he really
and fully expected it would occupy him,
they were all accomplished, everything
packed, and ready to be sent on. Beside
all these, there was the stock of
fancy goods Jonathan had to supply for
himself, and which he was to exchange
with the Indians for their furs. With
equal dispatch and celerity these were
attended to, and in less than a week from
the data of their acquaintance, they were
ready to leave. During this time as a matter
of course, the young men had been
much together, and their mutual regard
for each other, had much increased.—
They had laid the basis for a strong and
lasting friendship. Jonathan was no
more amazed at the noble and elevated
sentiments which fell from our friend
Charles' lips in their conversation, and
by the learning he displayed, and the
strong arguments with which he supported
his opinions and principles of action,
as well as his belief upon all subjects
which were presented to him, than
he was attached and attracted towards
him for his generosity and kindness,
which he every day had occasion to notice.
And Chrales, on his part, could
but admire the ready address and skill
which his companion displayed on all
occaisons; the sound, pracical, common
sense which he used on all subjects, and
the bold, manly course he pursued. His
views, too, were expressed, when in
conversation with Charles, in a clear and
distinct form, and oftentimes with an elegance
of style and eloquence of manner,
that surprised as much as it delighted
him, and caused him to look upon him
as altogether a different person from what
he had supposed him to be at first. New
traits of character every day appeared to
the observing minds of these young men
in each other, which served to cement
closer and strengthen the ties of friendship
and intimacy which had so suddenly
arisen between them, and which now
bound them to each other. During the
time they had spent together, they had
each related some of the facts pertaining
to theri past lives, and given some account
of their families. In this way
they came to the discovery of a fact interesting
to both; but of this we will
speak in the following chapter.
CHAPTER VII.
The important and interesting discovery
which we referred to in the last
chapter, was one which came to light
from the account of their families. It
revealed to them the fact that they were
related to each other by dearer ties than
they had dreamed of. The reader will
recollect that we mentioned, in the early
part of our history, that the mother of
our hero was the daughter of Mr. Leslie,
of New York; and, also, that Jonathan's
family name was Leslie. The fact escaped
the notice of Charles when it was
first mentioned, but afterwards, when he
became better acquainted, he called the
attention of his companion to it. Jonathan
at once said to him,
“I guess you are my cousin, Charles;
for my father has a cousin in New York
that answers to your account of your
mother's father, whose name is Leslie,
and who is a man of great wealth, and
has been a merchant.”
After several farther inquiries on both
sides, and answers by each, they both
came to the conclusion that it was indeed
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
so, and that they were cousins. They
both found new cause to congratulate
each other on this discovery, and it
tended to strengthen and confirm the
friendship they already felt for each
other.
Their arrangements completed, without
delay, they hastened onward on their
journey. It was at an early hour in
the morning they left their hotel, and
embarked on board the boat which was
to take them up the Missouri river. It
was their purpose to continue up the
river as far as its western fork, where
they designed to leave the boat, and continue
along this fork of the river. They
made their journey on the boat pleasantly
and speedily, and, leaving her at
the designated spot, pushed their way
west, to a small place which had become
a famous rendezvous for trappers
and hunters. Here, in the fall of the
year, was their head quarters, and here
they found into parties, and here, too,
they purchased the little articles they
might want, and which they had forgotten
to take elsewhere. When they first
arrived, the most important business was
to find and secure a guide, who should
direct their route and remain with them
during their winter's campaign. These
were usually found among the half-breeds,
who were well fitted for the
office. Having acquired both the language
of the white mand and also the Indian,
they could serve as interpreters
between the two parties; but more especially
were they desirable on account of
their thorough and complete knowledge
of the pathless wilderness through which
our bold hunters roam in search of game.
When our two young friends arrived
here, their first object was, I say, to find
such a guide; and here Charles depended
much on the skill, and address, and
acuteness of his Yankee cousin, for success
in their choice and efforts. There
were but few at the haunt when they
arrived. it being yet rather early for
hunting parties to assemble; but, nevertheless,
Jonathan was not long before he
saw the man upon whom his choice fell,
and who would be the man if he could
be persuaded, induced, or hired to accompany
them. He was a half-breed—his
mother was a Delaware, and his father
Frenchman, who, abandoning his people
lived with the tribe, and adopted their
wild, roving habits of life. This half-breed,
who had attracted the attention of
Jonathan, was a noble specimen of man,
physically at least, and no one who saw
could but notice him. More than six
feet in height, he was straight as the
arrow that he formed to his woodland
bow; in proportions he was exceedingly
graceful and beautiful; his symmetrical
and well-formed limbs were well and
closely knit together, and indicative of
great strength. He plainly showed the
features and characteristics of both races,
which were harmoniously blended in
him. There were, however, two feature
of the red skin which no Indian
ever possessed more marked than did
this half-breed, namely, his eye and hair.
His eye had all that piercing keenness
and dazzling brightness for which the
North American Indian is remarkable;
when aroused, it seemed to glow like
liquid fire, and you could see the lightning
spearks in its flash, and sharp and
searching as the eagle's was the gaze
with which he scrutinized all who approached
him. The other peculiarly
Indian feature was his long, glossy black
hair, which hung in thick, luxuriant
locks, straight as a gun, down the sides
of his face, and fell over his neck and
shoulders. Both his hair and eyes were
black as the raven's wing, or like the
polished jet. But with all this, in moments
of social converse, or in his house
of quiet repose, no face could wear a
milder or more winning aspect than did
his. It at once challenged your confidence
and invited trust; you would
without hesitation, pronounce him a generous,
kind, true man; but, at the same
time, one not to be trifled with or provoked.
There was that lurking in his
eye which cautioned you to beware and
anger him not. In his habits and manners
he followed his free born savage
ancestors: usually he seemed thoughtful,
and appeared wrapt in his own reflections
and communings: sitting by
himself alone, he remained long motionless,
and regardless of all that passed
around him; and when mingling with
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
men, and engaged in exciting pursuits,
he ever preserved that stoicism and
calmness for which the Indian is so remarkable'
he manifested no surprise at
those events or spectacles which would
cause his white companions to burst
forth in some external show of feeling;
but seemed ever ready, ever prepared for
what might come, never taken unexpectedly
or by surprise.
Charles and Jonathan observed him
very closely the first day after their
arrival there, and had some conversation
with him. He appeared to be struck
with their appearance, and showed an
interest in them; and, on their part, they
were both much surprised and pleased
with the intelligence he manifested, the
knowledge which he showed himself
possessed of upon all the subjects they
spoke of, and the noble, generous sentiments
he uttered, in simple but attractive
language. He was a man in years, past
the prime of life; being, as he told
them; upwards of forty years of age;
yet did he display in his motions, in his
ways, and there appeared, also, in his
form, all the vigor and sprightliness of
active youth and strong manhood. At
night, when they retired alone to their
sleeping apartment, he formed the subject
of their consulation. They both
acknowledged themselves favorably impressed
in regard to him; and it was
their spontaneous, quick resolution, the
next morning, to endeavor to find out
what was possible to be known concerning
him from the owner of the hut
where they were, and, in every way
within their reach, to become informed
concerning him; and, if what they could
gather respecting him should be favorable,
to make their proposals to him at
once. Accordingly, the next morning,
they took the first opportunity, when he
was absent, to question their host about
him. In reply to their interrogatories,
he told them that he was the boldest and
most expert hunter in that region. “His
aim with that long rifle you see by his
side is deadly—sure as a thunderbolt,”
said he. “Old Le Beaux can hit the
eye of a squirrel at the distance of a
hundred yards, time after time, so long
as he will fire, and never miss nor very
from the spot he aims at. But,” said
he, “that is not the most remarkable
thing about him: he was wonderful
knowing, he said, and could tell the
wide forest as well as the white
man could the streets of his city; and
he could read the sky and the signs of
the weather, as the white man reads his
book; and besides,” said he, “old Le
Beaux is a christian after his fashion, and
a very good fashion it is too,” said he,
“and many of your talkative, clamorous
christians, that live in your christian land,
would be all the better for learning of
him how to do like a christain. I wish,
indeed, there were many more like him.
When the poor are suffering, and in
trouble, he comes to them with assistance;
supplies their wants, and only
stays with them until they can help themselves,
then leaves them. It matters not
to him whether they be white men, or
red skins, they all alike find a friend in
him; and all the hunters that dwell in
the trackless region that lies West of
here, know him, and love to have in
him a friend. Often has he saved the
lives of the roving parties that range the
woods, when attacked by the savages,
either by warning them before hand, and
preparing them by putting them on their
guard, or else by suddenly appearing in
the midst of them at the moment of peril
and guiding and protecting them. Ah!”
said he, “I could tell you some stories
about his deeds that would make your
eyes stare, and your mouth gape to hear,
and which you would believe impossible
for one man alone to accomplish. He is
both feared and loved by the red skins;
and among all the tribes that roam the
huning grounds, he was warm, fast
friends, that are ever ready to assist
him; and all those hands of hunters
who are known to be his friends are
respected by them. Dare any tribe
slight the claims those bands bave to
protection through his influence, and
presume to injure them, terrible is the
vengeance he takes for such an offence.
And often had the various tribes who
were smarting under the infliction of recent
punishment, endeavored to capture
and destory him, and as often had he baffled
their attempts, and mocked at their
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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
cunning; even when all things seemed
against him, and seemed as if all chance,
all hope of escape were gone, had he in
a wonderful, bold, and undaunted way
saved himself: extricting himself from
the very meshes of their cunning and
treachery.
“But,” said he, on hearing the object
for which they sought him, “I doubt if
you can induce him to go with you. He
is not one who hires himself out as a
guide. All that he does, he does voluntarily,
and will receive no reward for his
labors. He gives often, always, but
never receives, and besides, he is fond
of being alone by himself. All alone,
save only the company of that shaggy,
large dog, you see ever at his heels, or
by his side, he goes through the whole
range of forest that lies between the
white settlements and the Pacific ocean.
In the course of the winter he visits the
many hunters' camps that are pitched in
the midst of the thick, dense forests, or
by the side of the running brooks, or on
the margin of some crystal lake, and
gladdens all and each with the thoughts
and feelings of safety which his presence
near them and with them always brings.
Sometimes you hear of him hundreds of
miles at the cold, frozen North, where
the hardy hunter pursues his wild game;
and soon again he is seen away off at the
mouth of the Columbia river, or else
without notice or hint of his coming, he
walks into my cabin here. If there is
any trouble any where he is pretty sure
soon to be where it exists, and all is restored
to peace as soon as he appears.—
The Indian hold him in reverence and
awe, as the creature of a higher world;
and the hunters, bold as they are, tremble
with fear the thought of angering him.
I said he traveled alone. There is one
who often accompanies him, and only
one. He is a yougn Indian of a division
of the Pawnee tribe, who many years
ago separated from the main tribe and
lived apart by themselves: some say he
is Le Beaux's son, but I don't believe
that. But it is true he loves the youngster
as much as he could were he his own
flesh and blood; and always keeps his
eye upon him, and always is at his side
when the boy is in peril; but that is not
often, for the boy is much like old Le
Beaux, and lives after his fashion. And
he is, to be sure, the finest Indian I ever
saw, and already has he won a name
known far and wide, as a brave hunter
and warrior too. His name is Ottahontas.”
Here the host was interrupted in his
narrative, and being called out, left our
friends to form their plans, and determine
them as best they might with the information
which he had given them. Both
were pleased, even delighted, with the
character of Le Beaux, as painted by
their host; and their determination was
concluded, fixed without further delay, to
attach him to their party if possible. If
possible, I say, for it must be confessed
they were not now so sanguine as yesterday,
in their expectations of success
on this point. A few minutes after the
host had left the room, Charles, thinking
of his dogs which he had brought with
him, and which were left in front of the
door, went out to look after them. He
valued them very highly for their real
worth, as well as from the fact that they
were a gift to him from one of his most
esteemed and beloved friends. They
were indeed noble dogs, being real blood
hounds, large and strong, and well trained
in the chase. These animals, as it is
well known, are of rather savage nature
not sociable and playful like other breeds
of dogs: even in early youth they wear
long faces, and bear a haughty, stern aspect,
which keeps both man and beast at
a respectful distance. Their deep-set,
blood-shot eyes, have a cross, ferocious
look, that speaks a warning to the meddler
which he had certainly better
ceive. Nature seems to have fitted them
on purpose for the bloody work they
love so well to do. The obstinacy and
ardor with which they continue on the
chase, in truly wonderful and astonishing;
so long as they can run, or even
walk, will they follow their prey. But
Charles was very much surprised when
he came out of the hut to find his two
hounds standing at Le Beaux's side, receiving
his attentions very gladly, and
apparently on the most amicable terms
with him. His own dog, too, was with
them, and they appeared to have agreed
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
to keep the peace, although it was evidently
hard work for the half-breed favorite
to brook the presence of these
strangers, and witness his master stroking
their smooth coats with his hands,
and occasionally a low half-suppressed
growl would issue from him, and his
opening mouth would display a pair of
huge jaws, armed with white strong
teeth; but the hounds on seeing their
master, instantly quitted Le Beaux and
came up to Charles, wagging their tails
and testifying their joy at again seeing
him.
“Those are two noble dogs of yours,
sir,” said Le Beaux in a pleasant, lively
tone, appearing to admire them while he
spoke, and looking after them.
“They are very fine dogs, indeed,”
replied Charles, “and I value them very
much, but, sir,” said he “you are the
first person that has ever attemtped to
caress them succeeded. They are
not usually, I may say never, much disposed
to make friends with strangers, or
even to suffer any advances from them;
and I must confess that I was a good
deal surprised to see them at your side
when I came out here.”
“Oh,” replied Le Beaux, “that is not
very strange, sir, for I love a dog very
much, and I often think that they know
a good deal more than many men do, and
they certainly often are a good deal better
friends than rational animals. I never
saw a dog yet that would not answer my
kindness by affection, and unceasing devotion,
and I never found one that injured,
me. These dogs, if I am not much mistaken,
are full blooded hounds, and very
fine samples of their breed they are too,
if I can judge from their looks: may I
ask you where you obtained them?”
“Certainly, sir,” said Charles, “I
brought them from New York; they
were a gift to me from an old friend.
They are of a famours dam, and pure
breed, and I believe cannot be excelled
for their qualities as hunters.”
“They are truly powerful looking
dogs,” said Le Beaux, “with limbs as
muscular and strong as those of a panther,
and a buck would stand but a poor
chance with them at his heels.”
“Yes,” said Charles, “I can, without
fear of contradiction, assure you that
there are not a pair of better trained
hounds to be found in the country.—
They will follow the chase from sunrise
to sunrise, right sharply too, without
resting.”
“I like much to follow after such dogs
as those,” said Le Beaux, “their strength
is truly remarkable. I can readily see
that, from their deep full chests, and the
large strong muscles that hang about their
throats, and around their jaws; I think
they would be more than a match for a
bear, in a fair fight, or even a panther.”
Charles thought this a good opportunity
for opening his negotiations with him,
and Jonathan having joined him, they sat
down beside Le Beaux, and replied to
his remarks:
“I should indeed be glad to have you
hunt with my hounds; and perhaps we
may enjoy that pleasure together; I am
bound for the hunting groudns West, and
wait only to find a friend and companion
who is acquainted with these long forests,
to set off. I wish I might persuade
you to go with us, sir; it would be a very
great obligation you would confer upon
us yb so doing; but from what I have
learned of your occupation and manner
of spending your time, I hardly dare to
hope that I can induce you to accompany
us.”
The old hunter watched Charles very
closely while he was speaking, but not a
clear birght eye was fixed straight upon
him, and he lost not a word that was uttered.
When Charles stopped speaking,
Le Beaux asked him what his plan for
his hunt was, and how far he meant to
go, and how large a company he proposed
to take with him.
Charles, in reply, detailed to him his
plan as we have already described it.
When he came to speak of his motives
and wished in regard to it, and the interest
he felt for the red man, his feelings
kindled, his eye beamed with warmth,
and truth declard herself present with
him in the earnest, deep tones of his
voice. Le Beaux at this seemed much
moved—his countenance assumed a look
of deep interest; his eye sparkled with
responsive sentiments, and his whole
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
bearing changed to that of an absorbed,
deeply moved listener; and when Charles
ceased, his features were animated, and
glowing with excitement, for he was
aware that he experienced a strange,
thrilling feeling of enthusiasm, in the
presence of this man. Something misty,
indistinct, indescribable, it is true,
but yet powerful and commanding, impressed
him when in the presence of this
hunter, and seemed to shadow forth in
the future, that he was to be much influenced
and closely allied to him; he felt
as if he had met a being who was born
to exercise a powerful or spiritual interest
over him. As he was speaking, his
great personal beauty shone forth with
most impressive power, and excited the
admiration of both his listeners. The old
hunter gazed upon him with a stedfast
look, and undisguised pleasure and delight.
He had from the first moment he
saw him, felt an unusual and strange interest
in him, though he had not manifested
it; it had deepened, too, and in
spite of himself, Charles would occupy
his thoughts; he felt in fact, a secret,
spiritual influence upon him—a reciprocal
feeling, and knew from a conviction
that sprang up spontaneously in his mind
that he was to be deeply, intimately connected
with his future welfare.
“Yes,” said Le Beaux, when Charles
finished speaking, “I will willingly, gladly
go with you. I knew before you asked
me that you would apply to me; and I
have thought it all over, and have concluded
to be your guide and companion.”
He spoke this in a firm, decided tone,
like one whose mind is made up.
Charles and his cousin started, and exchanged
glances of surprise with each
other; there was something so singular
in his abrupt address—so unexpected
was his sudden acceptance of their offer;
so gladly and even delightedly did he
appear to grant their request, which they
had been led to believe, would be so difficult
for them to obtain from him. Besides,
his manner and the tone which he
used, was that of one who has deliberated,
and reflected, and decided carefully and
advisedly what he says. All these circumstances
surprised them, and struck
them with astonishment and wonder.—
Something very like fear not unmixed
with awe, took possession of the mind
of Charles, but he almost instantly recovered
from it. His cousin, who, as
we have seen, formed a high opinion of
Le Beaux at first sight, and had his opinion
strengthened by what he had both
heard and seen of him since then, and
who never feared anything, was only
glad that their proposition was so well
received; a little surprised perhaps, at
the manner in which it was done, but he
felt that they had secured an excellent
guide, and one entitled to their confidence
and esteem. Charles very warmly
thanked him for the readiness with which
he obliged them. His cousin joined his
thanks with them, and then promising to
see him again soon, they separated.
Soon after our young friends departed
from Le Beaux, and were alone by
themselves, their interview with him was
brought forward as the subject most interesting
to them:
“Well, my shrewd cousin, what do
you think of our new companion and
guide, now?” said Charles.
“I am even better pleased with him,
than before,” said Jonathan, “I don't
know when I've met with a stranger that
has interested me so much on a first acquaintance,—
always excepting yourself,
my excellent cousin.”
“But that was a strange way of accepting
our offer, you must confess; and did
you mark what he said at the same time.
I know that I did however, without waiting
your reply; for I recollect just as he
uttered it, I caught your eye turned to me;
how was it possible that he should have
known we were about to ask him to be
our guide? It really perplexes and puzzles
me, I must confess.”
“I did not remark anything very strange
about his manner,” replied Jonathan, “I
thought it a straight forward, honest answer,
and felt much obliged to him for
not keeping us in doubt and delay; I
saw you start a little when he said he
knew that we should ask him to accompany
us, but I really don't think there
was anything very remarkable in that; it
proved him, to be sure, to be a keen observer
of men, and a bold philosopher
in declaring his suspicions; I see
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
nothing more in it. Seeing us here so far from
the settlements, and observing I presume
the trappings we had with us, he very naturally
judged that we were bound on a
hunting expedition; and from our appearance,
I suppose he conjectured we
should want a guide, and he knew enough
of himself, to feel assured that he would
be the one we should choose, as sensible
men; but he is certainly a fine fellow,
and very intelligent; I feel perfectly satisfied
with our success in this respect, I
assure you, and hope that we may meet
with equal good fortune in other things.
But you are not afraid of him, Charles,
because he guessed right about us, are
you? There's nothing to fear about that
man, I'll answer for it; and besides, I do
really believe he has conceived a strong
liking for you.”
“No,” said Charles, “far from having
any fear of him, I am inclined to put the
greatest confidence in him; and I see by
the way in which he is treated here, that
he is considered no common personage.
I am equally pleased and well satisfied as
yourself on this point; although I may
not think about him in all respects as you
do, I anticipate with such a guide, we
shall have some rare sport this winter.
Certainly, if he is so well acquainted
with the forests as our host would have
us believe, we shall find hunting ground
at least, and the rest depends upon ourselves.
Are you a good shot, Jonathan?”
“Well done, Charles,” said Jonathan,
“that's what I call a plumper. If I say
yea, and hereafter miss my aim, then I
shall be laughed at as a vain boaster; and
serve me right, too; but if, on the other
hand, I answer nay, then do I belie my
very kind and much esteemed friends,
who were wont to assure me I was a
great marksman; and, moreover, I shall
lose my chance of showing my skill, or
betraying my lack of it. I trust we
shall soon have a chance of showing how
true an eye and steady a nerve we possess;
and if I am not much mistaken
we shall need all the sharpness we possess
to preserve the good opinion of our
guide as sportsmen. But I have a rifle,
Charles, I am not ashamed of, at any
time, or in any place; all I hope is, that
my rifle is as well pleased with me as I
am with it. A better piece I believe
never was made. It will carry five hundred
yards without dropping a hair's
breadth; with force sufficient, too, to
drive it through a two inch plank.”
“Well,” said Charles, we shall soon
have an opportunity to display our skill;
for we shall leave immediately, if our
good friend Le Beaux is prepared and
willing to do so. I am not much in the
habit of boasting, but I have a rifle that
I will put against any other you can
find. It throws its balls true as a die,
and will hit wherever it is aimed at.—
But this reminds me of one thing; you
have no shot-gun with you, my excellent
cousin; I have two double barreled,
and as we may meet with opportunities
for using them on our journey to the
camping ground, I shall insist upon
you taking one of them; I cannot possibly
want or use them both, and it
will be quite a relief to me if you will
take one. I will bring it out to-night before
we retire.”
Jonathan, though reluctant to accept of
this generous offer, thought, still, that he
would best please his cousin by doing
so; that his feelings would indeed be
hurt if he did not; and it was therefore
settled without any opposition on his
part, that he was to receive and carry off
the gun. He was the more reluctant to
do so, as he had seen the guns, and knew
them to be of the most expensive workmanship,
and most highly finished, richly
ornamented guns.
“And now,” said Jonathan, “these
things being settled, what do you say to
our starting off immediately? The
sooner the better, I think; you know
the old adage, `first come, first served.'—
If we are first on the ground, we stand
the best chance of a favorable choice.—
Suppose we mention this to old Le
Beaux, in the morning.”
“Very well,” said Charles, “I am as
anxious to leave as yourself, and there is
no reason I know of, why we should
remain here longer, now that we have obtained
a guide, and unless Le Beaux has
something to keep him, we will start at
once. I will follow your suggestion and
speak to him in the morning.”
This ended their conversation upon
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
this subject and the rest of the day they
devoted to their own individual affairs;
and in the afternoon they took a walk
together in the woods near the cabin,
conversing about their plans for the winter,
and picturing in their imagination the
scenes which a forest life would open
to them.
On returning in the evening they found
an addition to their party, of two Indian
warriors and hunters; they were on
their way from the lakes, where they had
been with a large party of their tribe on
their annual fishing and hunting and trading
expedition. The rest of the party
had gone on several days before, and
they were now endeavoring to overtake
them. They were dressed in loose deer
skin breeches, a cotton shirt, and a
slouched cap. They wore on their feet
deer skin moccasins, that were richly ornamented
with stained porcupine quills,
and beads wrought into them. They
carried in the girdle that they wore about
their loins, a long hunting knife and a
tomahawk, the true Indian weapon.—
Both were also armed with short rifles.
They took no notice whatever of our
young friends when entering the room;
although they both continued to watch
them closely, all the while supper was
preparing; and Jonathan made two or
three ineffectual attempts to enter into
conversation with them. The only reply
he received from them being a sound
coming from the lowest depths of their
throats, and sounding more like a low
grunt than anything else. When supper
was ready, all sat down together; the
new comers showed their free and easy
manners by helping very abundantly at
once, without word or sign, to whatever
they fancied, using their fingers in a way
that showed how much superior hands
and fingers are to knives and forks, for
such purposes. They ate a great deal
and ate very fast. As soon as they had
finished, a few satisfied grunts attested
that fact; then without further social discourse
they moved away from the table,
and drawing near the fire-place, stretched
upon the floor, and were soon lost in
sleep.
Our friends who had remained in the
room to watch their proceedings, and who
were much amused at their manner of
doing things, now lighting their cigars
repaired to the grass plot in front of the
cabin, where Le Beaux was sitting quietly
smoking his pipe, and taking their
seat beside him, entered into conversation
with him.
In reply to the questions they asked
concerning the Indians they left in the
cabin, he told them what we have already
said about them; and further added
“they belong to the Sioux nation, and
are very bad Indians; the lie is always
first on their tongue, and cunning in their
hearts; they are dogs, and bitter enemies
to the white man.”
Jonathan then asked him who Ottahontas
was, and what tribe he belonged
to? He said from what he had heard of
him, he felt much interested in him, and
desired to see him.
The question seemed to pain Le
Beaux, for he at once suffered his head
to sink down upon his chest. He made
no answer. He seemed at once to have
sunk into profound reflection, and to be
lost in the absorbing thoughts which
Jonathan's question excited. For some
minutes he preserved this attitude, during
which not a word was spoken; and
Jonathan began to fear he had said something
that had wounded his feelings; when
suddenly he raised his head, and regarding
them for a few moments with a sad
look, thus commenced speaking in a low,
earnest tone:
“It is now more than eighteen years
since I saw the boy of whom you spoke,
but it seems as fresh to my mind as if it
were but yesterday, when the sad scenes
of which I am about to speak, were before
my eyes. I was then but a youngster
myself. I was passing through the
thick and verdant forests that lay near
the sources of the great Columbia river,
after having paid a visit to the white settlers,
who had established a trading post
at the mouth of that river, when I entered
a part of the woods that was covered
with a dense undergrowth of stunted
hemlock and bushes, intermingled
with the wild vines, which in those places
grow most luxuriantly, forming with
their thick tangled masses, impenetrable
coverts for the wild beasts, where they
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
hide themselves when chased by the roving
hunters.
“As I cautiously approached this spot
I thought I heard a sudden rustling of
the leaves, and looking closely in the direction
of the sound, which appeared to
come from the thicket, I distinguished a
slight trembling of the branches—so
slight, however, that none but the most
watchful eye could possibly have detected
it. It ceased almost the instant I
looked that way; and from this circumstance
I was led to suspect that the voice
I had heard, and the moving of leaves I
had seen, proceeded from some more
cunning and crafty creature, than any of
the wild animals that roamed in those
wilds. It was indeed very like the
skulking, cowardly red skin, when dogging
the footsteps of an enemy, whose
blood he thirsts after, and whose scalp
he covets. Carrying my rifle to my
arm, I carefully examined the priming,
then tried the lock, and after rubbing my
thumb nail across the flint several times,
and satisfying myself that all was right, I
noislessly cocked it, and looking out
carefully from behind the tree, where I
had ensconced myself at the first sound
I heard, and which hid me from the
thicket, I watched in breathless silence
for some further sound or motion, which
should enable me to distinguish what
sort of an animal I had fallen upon, and
how I should act. I knew very well,
that if it was any wild animal, by keeping
perfectly still, it would soon recover
from the surprise and fright my approach
had caused it, and again be in
motion. But if, on the contrary, it was a
red skin as I suspected, and he had only
been startled by the noise of my footsteps
as I came up, and had not seen me,
he would at last come out from his
hiding place; though I would, in this
case, be obliged to keep my concealment
somewhat longer. But if I had been observed,
which I thought most probably
was the case, then it was a trial of cunning
and sharpness between us, and woe
to him who should expose himself in
any part. I must resort to some trick
to baffle his designs upon me, and cheat
him, if possible, of his desired victim.—
My wish was, if possible, to lure him
from his hiding place. While I revolved
in my mind the stratagems that were
suggested to me, or were before known
to me, and endeavored to fix upon some
device by which to accomplish my wish,
the thought came to me that if I were to
take my cap and put it upon the end of
a stick, and then slowly move it to one
side of the tree, where it would be seen
by my enemy, it would perhaps draw
his fire, and thus give me an advantage
over him. As I was about putting this
scheme into execution, still keeping my
eye fixed upon the spot where I had
heard the rustling of the leaves, and
holding my ear attentively to catch the
slightest sound that might fall, I saw
the branches slowly and gently parting,
and soon I beheld a head peeping through
this opening: still I did not fire; something
whispered to me to forbear. After
carefully looking around and listening,
my enemy seemed satisfied with his
search, nothing being in view; I having
withdrawn myself behind my tree in
such a manner that I could observe all
his motions without exposing myself.
“Slowly he emerged from his concealment.
First, after having got his arms
and shoulders through the tangled vines
and netted underbrush, he raised himself
up and took a long, a searching survey
of all around him. He then, as if fully
assured of his being alone, came boldly
out, and began at once picking and eating
the wild berries that grew near the
thicket. When he came fairly before
my view, I was much surprised and
pleasantly disappointed on discovering
that he was but a small child. He
could not have been much upwards of
four years old, yet had he practiced all
the art and cunning of an old red skin. I
still continued concealed from him, behind
the tree, having made the resolution
to catch him; for, on seeing his face, I
at once recognized him as the son of the
Valley chief, my much esteemed friend.
As I was reflecting, and doubting, and
perplexing my brain as to what could
have caused the youngster to be here, so
far from the camp ground of his father's
lodge, I recollected a report that had
reached me a few days before, that a
large party of warriors of the Blackfeet
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
nation had been seen lurking in the
neighborhood of the Valley chief's
lodge; and suddenly the truth flashed
upon me: the report which I had deemed
idle was true—their enemies had
fallen upon them. This explained the
conduct of the child, and the fact of his
presence where I found him, while it
excited my worst fears for my friend
and his people. Believing if I spoke to
the child, he would run away from me
at the sound of my voice, and take to his
hiding place, I rested my rifle against the
tree behind which I was standing, and
watching my opportunity, when he had
approached near to where I stood, and
his back was turned to me, while he was
stooping down to pluck some berries, I
crept softly up to him, and, ere he was
aware of my approach, put my arms
about him. He gave a wild, piercing
scream at first, and his little frame trembled
in my arms; but it was for a few
minutes only; for, turning his head
round, he glanced timidly at me: one
look was sufficient to reveal to him his
father's friend and frequent guest.
“He uttered an exclamation of joy
and delight, and turning round, threw
his arms about my neck, and clung to
me as if I had been his only friend, and
he feared he should lose me. I spoke
to him in my kindest manner, and asked
him how long he had been there, and if
he was not cold and hungry? The poor
little fellow looked up in my face, while
I spoke to him, and the tears came filling
his eyes and trickling down his cheeks,
then, in a voice so low and sad it made
my heart ache to hear it, he said he had
been here four dark nights, counting over
his fingers to me; that he had called
after his father and mother till he fell to
crying, and then, he said, he knew not
how it was, but he went to sleep, and
when he opened his eyes again, the sun
was bright, and night had gone. But
his father and mother, he could not find
them; they were gone, too; and he was
hungry, so he came out of the bushes,
where he had hid himself when his
mother told him to run and hide, because
they wanted to kill him, and he plucked
those wild berries, pointing to those that
grew around the spot where we were,
and ate them. He said he had found
nothing but those to eat since the warriors
drove him away, and carried off his
father and mother. He was afraid to go
away from the bushes, he said, lest those
fierce warriors should find him and kill
him; and when he ceased, he sobbed as
if his little heart were breaking. I
soothed him with kind words, and promised
I would take care of him and go
with him to find his parents. In this
way I comforted him. I then took from
my pouch some dried venison and maize
cakes, and gave them to him to eat.
After he had finished his meal, I questioned
him as to what happened when
he ran away. I gathered from him
enough to convince me that my fears,
which I have already spoken of, were
true; and as I afterwards heard the facts
of that fatal attack, I will here relate
them to you.
“Ten days before the time when I
found Ottahontas, his father's people
were sitting around their camp fires,
after having returned from a successful
hunt, and a general feast was preparing
for them, that all the village might join
in welcoming back the brave hunters,
and share in the bountiful repast their
labors had won for them. They were
completely off their guard, having
thrown aside their arms to enjoy the
feast; not the most distant suspicion of
danger disturbed their happy breasts;
they knew not that the deadliest, bitterest
foe of their tribe was lurking close at
hand, watching, like blood-thirsty devils,
for the most unguarded moment when
they could strike their unsuspecting victims.
The first warning that awoke
them from their dream of pleasure, was
the sudden barking and howling of the
dogs of the village; but it came too late;
the next instant the Blackfeet warriors
were upon them: their savage war cries
filled the air, and howling like so many
devils, more fierce and ferocious that
wild beasts, they fell upon their surprised
and defenceless victims. The fight was
a short one—overpowered by doubled
their own number, and all unprepared
they were mercilessly cut down when
they stood—men, women, and children
were most inhumanly, most cruelly
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
murdered. It was a wholesale butchery,
and one only, save little Ottahontas,
escaped destruction. He fled, with his
mother, at the first onset, and, running
with all his speed so long as he could
stand, he at last crept into an old hollow
log, and hid himself. His mother, to
baffle his pursuers, and save her boy,
sacrificed herself. She might have escaped;
but then her boy would have
been in danger; and, like a heroine, she
died for him. All night long the Black-feet
hung about the village, destroying
all that remained of this once happy
people. Towards morning, having burnt
the wigwams and plundered all the property
they found, they departed. Ottahontas
lay still, scarce daring to breathe,
in his hiding place: and not till some
hours after the murderers had left, did
he dare to crawl out: he then crept
cautiously back to the village. What
sorrow, what grief, what despair, child
though he was, seized him as he looked
around the wasted and ruined place, and
saw the smoking ruins of all that was
left of his father's and his tribe's happy
home! And here, on either side, scattered
around him, lay the dead bodies of
his friends mutilated and horribly disfigured—
all, all were dead. In silence and
motionless he beheld the spectacle for
some minutes, then, bursting into tears,
he called on his father and mother to
come to him—he besought them, with
sobs and crying, to hear him; but still
no answer: all was cold, still, motionless.
He covered his eyes with his little
hands, and wept as if he would weep
away his life, or bring the dead back
again: again he shouted his father's
name: he plead, in tones of grief that
might melt the very rocks, for his mother
to come once more to him; but there
was no answer—still, all still, and lifeless
was the solitude. The terrible quiet,
the deathlike stillness, that reigned there,
brought terror to him. He jumped to
his feet—one moment he looked again
upon the sad sight—all of anguish that
his heart could feel was crowded upon
him and depicted in that look—he gave
one loud, long, agonizing scream, and
then fled away like a wounded, affrighted
fawn; hour after hour he kept on, and
stopped not till the reached the spot
where I found him, and where he hid
himself.
“After I had finished questioning him,
I took him with me and went back to
his father's village, hoping, in spite of
what he had told me, in spite of my
own fears, that I might still find some
of his family or friends alive. But,
alas, my fears were all too true! I
found them all dead—no voice nor sound
broke the mournful silence that hung like
a funeral pall above the place. There
were the noble warriors whom I had
known, with whom I had often smoked
the pipe of peace and friendship, and
from whom, not many days gone by, I
had parted as if they were my brothers;
there they all lay, their bodies mutilated
and half consumed by the flames that
burnt their peaceful homes—at the very
side and opening of their wigwams had
they died. Oh! how my heart ached at
the sight! And even now, long gone as
those days are, I cannot think of the
scene, or speak of it, without tears,” and
he brushed away, with his large, rough
hand, the tears that filled his eyes.
“But soon another spirit came over
me—hot, burning hate for the murderers
dried my eyes, and I vowed vengeance
for the hellish wrong they had committed.
I swore that they should answer
me for the murder of my friends and
companions; then, digging a grave, I
buried them all in one great tomb, and,
with little Ottahontas by my side, I said
a prayer over them, and departed. The
child cried again to his mother, and his
grief poured forth afresh; but, taking
him in my arms, I soothed him, and
carried him from the place. He clung
to me as if all his hopes, his very life,
depended upon being with me. From
that time up to this, he has been my
companion, my son. I love him as if
he were my own boy indeed; and he
returns my love with all the ardor of
his noble nature. And he is indeed
worthy of all that I can do for him—of
all the love I bear him. He is brave as
a lion; at the same time full of generosity
and benevolence, ever ready, and
more than ready, to help and succor the
needy and distressed. In daring and
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address, he is a son worthy of his great
sire. In the chase, none so swift of
foot as he: fleet as the mountain deer
he follows the chase. In him his father's
and his people's murderers have
found a mighty and terrible avenger.
Often have I stood by his side, when
warring against the Blackfeet, and been
filled with wonder and astonishment at
his unrivaled prowess and supernatural
strength. But he is, with all these traits,
modest and unostentatious; his heart is
a Christian heart, and full of love and
pity towards his fellows; all who know
him respect and love him. Of his person
I need not speak, as you will soon
have an opportunity to judge for yourselves.”
With this Le Beaux ceased speaking,
and again, as suddenly as before, withdrew
into himself, at once yielding to the
reflections and sentiments which were
awakened afresh in his bosom. Charles
and his companion did not disturb him;
but, as the evening was quite spent, they
soon bade him good evening, and left
him.
CHAPTER VIII.
The next morning when they came
to the breakfast table they missed the
two guests of the previous evening; and
inquiring of their host after them, he
told them they had been gone many
hours, and ere this time were many miles
distant on their journey. After breakfast
Charles said to Le Beaux that he was
anxious, as soon as possible, to be on his
way, and asked him when he should be
ready to leave. Le Beaux replied that
a very short time would be sufficient for
him to prepare himself; that he only
wished to make some slight, trifling repairs
on his rifle, for damage which it
sustained on his last scout, and then, said
he, I am at your service. He could be
ready at noon, he further said, if it would
accommodate them. Charles thanked
him for his kindness, and after a little
further consideration about the baggage
they were to take, and the route they
were to pursue, they concluded to be all
ready, if possible, to leave the following
day.
By the advice of Le Beaux, our friends
supplied themselves with Indian leggins
and moccasins, which they purchased
from the owner of the cabin. Le Beaux
immediately set about repairing his rifle.
He loved it with a love strong and lasting
as that he bore his favorite dog; it was
indeed his most cherished friend, and he
always carried it with him wherever he
went. He allowed no one but himself
to handle it. It was a remarkable piece,
not from its beauty, though the barrel
was one of the finest I ever saw. It was
very long—more than six feet—and very
heavy. It carried a large ball, and in his
hands was a most dangerous weapon to
encounter. It may seem almost incredible,
but it is nevertheless true, that he
could hit within the size of a dollar at
five hundred yards distance, and thought
it no remarkable performance either.—
He had popped off many a red skin in
his day who had rashly exposed himself,
at more than that distance, deeming himself
safe and out of the reach of mortal
power.
His repairs were soon finished, and in
a neat, skillful style, too. The rifle polished
and cleansed, a labor which even a
nice sportsman would have deemed unnecessary,
for it looked as trim when he
began as if just from the hands of the
maker; but he suffered not even a spark
of dust or powder stain to remain upon
it: always saying when addressed with
regard to it, “one cannot do too much
for so old, so good a friend, if he has a
spark of gratitude about him.” After he
had finished his own matters, at the request
of our friends he inspected their
preparations. He found it necessary
for them to throw aside many superfluous
articles which they had stored away
with their baggage, and reduce their
package to the smallest possible size, embracing
all that was necessary and that
even would be desirable for them to carry
with them; saying that the less they
took with them the better, as often in
changing their hunting grounds and going
from one place to another, they would
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
be obliged to carry their own baggage
along with them; and perhaps for a considerable
distance. In addition to their
present list of articles, he procured for
each a leathern bag, or pouch, in which
they should carry their food and beverage;
such an one as it is usual for hunters
to take with them on similar expeditions.
All these things were attended to
during the day. The remaining baggage
they were not to take with them, was
carefully stowed into their trunks, and
by the advice of Le Beaux sent a short
distance down the river, to be kept by
one of his friends until they returned.—
There was a bale or two, however, which
contained Jonathan's stock and assortment
of goods for Indian traffic, a part
of which was at present to be left at the
cabin, the remainder was to be carried
upon pack horses along with our little
party, and Le Beaux promised to see that
the rest should be forwarded in season to
him, after they were established in good
quarters. These arrangements occupied
the whole day, and they were fairly
through and everything ready for a start.
Supper hour had come.
“Beef for half a dozen,” said the Yankee,
when he took his chair at the board,
“I feel as hungry as a half-starved bear.”
“I reckon we can satisfy your cravings,
young man. Just cut away at
that venison there,” pointing to a large
dish of steak that would have fed a regiment—
if there were not too many in it,
always understood of course.
Jonathan did his best, and then was
laughed at by his host as a man of a
weak stomach, and a mighty small eater.
“Why,” said he, after having devoured
about four times the amount Jonathan had
stowed away, “I don't kinder feel like
eatin' much of anything to-night. I have
been kinder out o' sorts for two or three
days.”
Jonathan said nothing, but opened his
eyes an inch or an inch and a half wider
than usual, and then adjourned. Charles
soon followed him; and, as on the preceding
evening, they took their seats in
front of the cabin, having first lighted
their cigars, and again entered into conversation
with Le Beaux. In answer to
some question put to him by Jonathan,
whose curiosity had been much excited
by the story of Ottahontas, and his interest
in him being alive, he wished to know
something more of his family. In answer
to his questions, I say then, Le
Beaux gave them the following narrative,
which is a brief sketch in the life of the
Valley Chief, the father of Ottahontas:
“In the rich lands which lay between
the Rapid and Platte rivers were located
the domains of this great chieftain, and
here was the home of his people. Frequent
wars with the surrounding fierce
and hostile tribes, who made repeated
predatory excursions into their peaceful
encampment (for they were more than
any other tribe of Indians disposed to
cultivate the earth, and imitate the whites
in their manners and mode of living) had
greatly reduced their numbers and much
impoverished them during the few years
that passed previous to the time when the
remnant of this unhappy tribe were so
unexpectedly, and so cruelly fallen upon
and destroyed, as we have related in the
story of Ottahontas. The ruling chief,
as I have said, was the father of Ottahontas,
and known among the wild tribes
of the region as the Valley Chief, having
derived his title from the lands he possessed.
In his lineal ancestors the tribe
had for many generations found their
leading and most distinguished chiefs.—
They had, from father to son, handed
down their family line those striking qualities
and marked traits of character in all
their shining lustre and brilliancy, which
at all times ensure the respect and draw
to their possessors the admiration of savage
nations: brave and foremost in war;
quick to avenge the wrongs of their tribe;
distinguished above the boldest and most
expert for their daring and skill in the
chase; in council, grave, calm, deliberate
and dignified in their bearing; wise and
prudent in their advice, they swayed the
councils of their tribe for many years,
with great honor to themselves, and received
the grateful approbation, and enjoyed
the deep, strong attachment of the
nation at large. But in the early life of
the Valley Chief a succession of disasters
and defeats happened to the tribe,
not at all owing to any want of ability,
or lack of efforts on the part of their
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
chief; but from causes as irresistible and
fatal in their results, as mysterious and
inscrutable in their origin; parts and
links in that great chain of circumstances
and events by which the mighty Ruler
of the world accomplishes his designs.—
For the fulfillment of some great purpose,
the red man is fast fading away from the
land of his fathers, and is destined ere
long to be swept from the face of the
earth.
The powerful tribes of Black-feet and
Sioux, (whose hunting grounds lay north
and north-west of this tribe, in the region
watered by the Loup Fork river, which
runs easterly and empties itself into the
Platte near the junction of the latter with
the Missouri) were jealous of the growing
prosperity and increasing wealth which
attended his tribe—or remnant of a tribe
rather—from a friendly and constant intercourse
with the whites, from which
they added to their wealth by traffic.—
Besides these foes, on the other side to
the south were the hunting grounds and
villages of the Pawnees, a fierce, warlike
and numerous tribe. All these tribes at
various times and on repeated occasions,
made war upon their less numerous and
more peaceably disposed neighbors for
the sake of plunder, and many were the
bloody encounters that took place between
them. In all these the Valley
Chief showed himself worthy of the line
of chieftains from whom he had sprung.
With coolness and intrepid bravery he
led his warriors in the forefront and thickest
of the battle. Loudest of all rung
his shrill and terrible cry, as he rushed
upon his foes in the deadly strife: and
last of all was he to retire when borne
back by the irresistible force of overpowering
numbers. His feats of personal
prowess were themes of his nation's
praise; the glory of his tribe; the
wonder and terror of his enemies: and
with pride the young men of the tribe
were pointed to their chief as their model
in the practice of war.
“Who,” said they “can follow the
war path with feet as swift and untiring
as our great chief? Whose eye like his
can trace the lightest foot-print, or bounding
steps that have been traced upon the
thick grass in the wild woods and path
less forest? Or who can meet his deadliest
foe with heart so great, so bold?”—
Could the labors of any single hand, or
the wisdom of any one great mind have
arrested the doom of his people, then
had the Valley Chief done it. But fate
had destined otherwise. Notwithstanding
the losses which his enemies suffered
when they encountered this brave chief:
notwithstanding the repulses they often
met with, from an enemy as far inferior
to them in numbers as they were superior
to them in bravery, skill, and all the
devices of savage warfare; yet did their
unconquerable and restless hate inspire
them again and again to attack their brave
foe; and these struggles were most disastrous
to both parties. They fought to
the death; hand to hand they grappled
with each other, and not until very many
had fallen, and the ranks became thinned,
or accident had brought an end to them,
did these obstinate, desperate fights cease.
By these means the tribe of the Valley
Chief was greatly weakened, and his
ranks much thinned. The warriors that
went on the war-path came back no
more to council; they heard no longer
the exulting, inspiring war-cry of their
great chief, and the voices of their desolate
squaws was changed into mourning
and lamentation.
At last by these oft repeated battles,
reduced to a little band, by the counsel of
their no less wise than brave chief, they
left their homes and sought new lands
nearer the friendly abode of the white
man, and at the time this last remnant
were cut off by the Black-feet, and Ottahontas
alone escaped, they were living in
their new home, whither after the lapse
of a few years their remorseless enemies
had followed them, to wreak their vengeance
upon them for the death of many
of their bravest warriors that had fallen
by the hands of this bold tribe, when
fighting for their homes and in defence
of their families: this, too, after they had
stripped them of their wealth, which first
awakened their savage envy, and after
they had moreover driven them by repeated
aggressions from their ancient
home. Though eternal hate had been
long declared between them; though the
most bitter hostility had ever since their
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
first hostile acts been cherished by them;
yet up to the time when the ruin of the
Valley Chief and his people was accomplished,
during a period of several years
immediately following their removal, they
had limited their operations to chance
encounters, and gratified their feelings of
bitter hate by falling upon and killing the
straggling members of either party whenever
opportunity offered. The destructive
and desolating battles among them
had ceased; partly because their enemies
saw no further hope of plunder, having
stolen all they possessed already, and
partly because they feared the pale faces,
who were the friends of their foes, and
they were living under their protection.
“It was in these chance encounters in
the wild forests,” said Le Beaux, “that
the great heart and wonderful powers of
the father of Ottahontas were shown, but
I will not tax your patience in relating
them; this only will I speak of, as one
of many which happened to him. It
was late in the fall of the year, and the
tribe were but poorly supplied with food,
when one morning the chief, with a chosen
band of his remaining hunters and
warriors, armed for war as well as prepared
for the chase, a custom which they
constantly followed, left their home to
seek for buffalo on a small prairie which
was distant some fifty miles from their
village to the south, in the valley of the
river Platte. This section of country is
extremely fertile, and here vast herds of
buffalo find abundant food. It is also
one of the most beautiful sections of land
in all the wide West. Through the fertile
and green-clad vales, flow murmuring
streams of crystal water, that wind in
varying and ever changing curves and
rounded turnings, as on they flow to the
sea. There is one larger than the rest,
that rules over all the rest and receives
their voluntary tribute to swell its tide.—
The breadth of this river is about two
hundred feet; its current swift at the head
of the valley where it enters these fair
fields of nature; its smooth flow is occasionally
broken by rapids; there, too,
on either side, rise the red precipices,
perpendicular, and in some parts projecting
and overhanging the bed of the river
like huge arches cut from the solid cliffs,
which tower on high sometimes two, and
even four hundred feet, crowned with
green summits, on which the lofty whispering
pines in scattered clumps are growing;
rearing their stately heads as it seems
to the eye of the beholder even to the
very clouds, that ever hang in white piles
above this spot. There, for hundreds of
years, like bands of faithful, untiring sentinels,
they have stood, as if to guard the
approach to this romantic and picturesque
spot. Amongst and around the clumps
of pine, grew the cherry with its bright,
shining leaf, and the currant with its dark
green coat; here and there were varied
and bright colored wild flowers, all uniting
in bestowing a pleasing variety to the
luxuriant foliage that covered the earth.
Viewed in the bright sunshine of a clear,
pleasant morning, the scenery was truly
of a most striking and romantic character,
full of beauty and loveliness: a beauty
derived in part from the picturesque disposition
of the objects, and the vivid contrasts
of colors here presented to the eye.
It was to this place the Valley Chief and
his band took their way to hunt the buffalo
which come to these green valleys to
feed. When he left his home, he calculated
the probability of meeting with some
one or more straggling parties of his enemies,
either at the prairie or on the route;
and, therefore, he proceeded with great
caution on his path. Carefully and
constantly did he look out for any marks
or signs which should indicate the presence
or vicinity of any foe; but no trails
nor fresh foot-prints did they discover on
their route—nothing which at all could
awaken their ready fears, or forbode
danger.
“The next day, at noon, they reached
the borders of the prairie where they
were to hunt. As they looked over the
wide slope of this vast, natural grass
field, they could see distinctly herd after
herd of buffalo, feeding quietly in various
parts of it; and they felt convinced,
from what they saw, that there were no
other hunters on the prairie besides
themselves. And joyfully they laid
their plans for a hunt early the next
morning. Now they would refresh
themselves with supper and sleep, and
give their horses a chance for a meal in
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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
the tall grass, after their long journey.
By the first streaks of light that hailed
the morn of the next day, they were
stirring, and prepared for the hunt.
Carefully and cautiously they approached
the herd, in such a manner that they
might not startle them by their catching
scent of them through the air. To
avoid this, they came upon them in the
face of the wind. On reaching them,
they easily secreted themselves near
them; and then carefully selecting the
fattest and finest of the herd that passed
by them, they shot them down. So
adroitly and dexterously did they accomplish
this, that the herd were not only
not frightened away, but did not notice
the havoc that was making in their
ranks, but kept on feeding in fancied security.
When they had killed sufficient
to satisfy their wishes, they came openly
forth from their covert lurking place; and
the buffalo, seeing them, took to flight
at once, rushing at full speed across the
open prairie, for the friendly forests that
loomed up in the distance, skirting the
sides of the prairie with a deep, dark
green fringe. As the whole herd followed
on, passing close upon each other,
they looked almost like one vast moving
mass, and the ground, for miles around,
shook beneath their heavy tramp, while
a low, but wide-spreading sound, like
the rumbling noise of an earthquake, or
the distant mutterings of stifled thunder,
filled the air.
“But now, the ground being cleared,
our party commenced the labor of dressing
those they had killed. This task
they executed with wonderful rapidity,
skill, and neatness. They bore the carcasses
to that point on the verge of the
prairie where their camp lay, having
first cut them into pieces suitable for
drying and packing. This occupied
them for the remainder of the day. At
night they made a luxuriant and bountiful
supper upon the dainty bits chosen
from their game. A sharp labor during
the day gave them sharp appetites, and
also brought them quiet, profound sleep.
“The next day the same process was
repeated, with equal success; and in
this manner they hunted for several successive
days, without disturbance from
any quarter, or without any event of importance
transpiring with them. But,
on the morning of the sixth day, the
chief came hastily into the camp, and in
a few, earnest words, told them he had
seen a party of Blackfeet some miles
above, and that they were evidently on
their way to this spot, with the intention
of hunting here.
“They consist,” said he, “of several
renowned braves and the most famous
warriors and hunters of the tribe; and,
as far as I could judge from the observations
I made, are more than double
our number. I am confident they did
not see me while I was watching them,
and I think, also, from the careless, unguarded
manner they journey, that they
are not aware that any other party is in
the neighborhood.” He then, in a short
speech, in which he recounted the
wrongs they had suffered from their
hands, and the bitter enmity that was
cherished by them against his own people,
revived afresh the spirit of hate
which slumbered in their breasts, and
closed by urging them to seize the advantage
his discovery had afforded them,
and avenge themselves upon them.
All hailed his proposition with eagerness
and excited hope. He concluded by
laying before them the plan for attacking
which he had hastily formed. He proposed
to meet them in a narrow pass at
the hills, a few miles above where they
were, and there lay in ambush for them.
“For,” said he, “they will pass through
this defile, which is directly on their
route, and then we can fall upon them
ere they know of our presence, and
destroy them.” His plan was received
with great readiness and unanimity, not
one dissenting; and under his direction,
in a few minutes every man, with his
rifle loaded and his tomahawk at his
belt, left the camp and followed, with
noiseless, stealthy steps, their brave chief
through the woods. Arriving at the pass
where he was to meet them, he divided
his party into two equal divisions, arranging
them on either side of the defile,
and after a few hasty directions, in which
he bade them be cautious, and each single
out the enemy in front of him with
sure aim, he advanced a little beyond
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
them, bidding them wait his signal for
the attack. They quickly concealed
themselves behind the trees, and, in silence
as complete as utter desolation,
commenced their watch. They had not
long thus to wait; for soon they both
heard and saw their enemies approaching,
in the careless manner their chief
had described, not dreaming that, in this
wild, silent spot, a foe was watching and
lying in wait for them, more bitter, more
dreadful than the most dreaded beast of
the woods. Just as they entered the
fatal pass, their chief rose slowly from
his hiding place, and carefully scanning
their ranks, waited until they had fairly
advanced to that part where his trusty
warriors were lying on both sides of
them, ready to spring forth at his word;
then he shouted his terrible war cry,
till the forests rang again. At the same
moment he raised his rifle to his shoulder,
and, taking unerring aim, he sent a
ball through the heart of a leader in the
ranks of his foes. He fell from his affrighted
steed, and rolled, in the last
struggles of death, on the grass. Quick
as echo answers to the call, did the responsive
shouts and war cries of his
warriors reply to his signal; and on
both sides of his surprised and startled
foes rose the fearful, the dreaded war
whoop of their bitterest, deadliest enemies,
and quick as thought the flash of
their fatal rifles gleamed in the dark
woods above and around them. True
to their chief's command, each had
chosen his victim, and marked him for
certain destruction; for every shot, an
enemy tumbled to the ground; and while
the entrapped Blackfeet were striving
with all their power to subdue their
frantic chargers, the Valley Chief had
dropped his rifle, and, tomahawk in
hand, sprung after them. His followers
sprung after him. Already had he struck
down one, and another of his hated foes,
panic-struck and confused for a few minutes.
So complete was the surprise,
they remained, as it were, stupified and
confounded; but, soon bringing in their
horses, they rallied, and closing in the
mortal struggle, they fought with desperation.
The Valley Chief had greatly
underrated their numbers—instead of
being double his own force, they were
more than three times all his warriors;
but such was the suddenness and power
of the attack—such was the force of
the Valley chief's arm—so quick and
deadly were his blows, that they were
utterly deceived, and imagined an over-powering
force was with him, and
fought only with desperation—without
hope, without order.
“With three strong warriors opposed
to his single arm in the midst of the carnage,
the Valley chief found himself at
length engaged; they were the sole survivors
of their party. Already exhausted
and faint from his mighty exertions,
he was compelled for a moment to fall
back, but rallying again as quickly, it
seemed as if more than a giant's strength
had been lent him. For flourishing his
tomahawk around him, he parried all
the blows aimed at him; in return he
dealt them such irresistible blows as
beat down their guard and crushed them
before him. All three, one after another
fell by his single hand. He, alone, had
slain in the encounter, eight of the accursed
Blackfeet, and well had his brave
warriors sustained him; nobly had they
acquitted themselves; and sweet was
the feast of vengeance they had tasted.
But of all that large party opposed to
them, not one had escaped. Of his own
party, four only were wounded, not one
killed.
“Having scalped their enemies, they
stripped their carcasses of everything,
and left them where they fell, to be the
prey of wild beasts and carrion birds, or
else to rot unburied and unhonored.—
Their horses, their rifles, their other
weapons, all of their effects, they took
as the spoils of war. This day's labors
brought their hunt to a close; they had
already taken sufficient buffalo to supply
all their wants and wishes. This
unexpected encounter, and the success
which followed it, by throwing a large
number of horses into their hands, afforded
them the means of carrying home
with them all the game they had taken,
and the largest part of which, they would
otherwise have been obliged to leave and
return again for, with pack horses.
“So long as this great chief lived,”
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[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
said Le Beaux, “he was the terror of all
his enemies. In single encounter he
never met his equal, and often did he
engage them at very great odds, and triumph
over them. He was from first to
last, the fast firm friend of the whites,
with whom he mingled much, and to
whom he rendered many important services.
But the manner in which he
finally met his death you have already
heard. I was often a guest at his lodge,
and learnt to love him for his noble,
generous nature—for his high souled
principles—for the great, constant fortitude
of spirit which ever supported him
in all his sore, heavy troubles, and in
the midst of those crushing, desolating
reverses of fortune and successive calamities
that fell upon his tribe. Nothing
could break his spirit or sink him, but
death, and not even that—it only took
him away from our eyes, where we cannot
behold his deeds. But death came
at last and claimed him as his own, and
now, of all his tribe Ottahontas alone remains.”
Such was the story Le Beaux told
of the Valley Chief. As he proceeded
his feelings seemed deeply moved, and
when he concluded, he folded his arms
upon his chest and remained silent, like
one in whom the grief and sorrows of
by-gone days have been awakened
afresh.
“As it was late in the evening,” said
Charles, (whose words we shall hereafter
use,) we soon left him, sitting there
motionless, absorbed in his own secret,
profound reflections. With the first
light of morning, Le Beaux called us,
telling us at the same time that our horses
had arrived, and also that breakfast
was waiting for us. As we both agreed
that it was too bad to keep so good a
friend waiting, we hastened immediately
to pay our respects to our steaming warm
friend. Having performed this duty to
our satisfaction, we next went out to inspect
the horses which Le Beaux had
procured for us, and which were to bear
us on our journey; for we had intrusted
to him this task, and he had sent to a
friend for them the day before, from
whom, he assured us, he could obtain
just what we wanted. They were the
genuine mustangs, or wild horses which
had been caught by the Indians on the
prairies, and afterwards broken to the
bridle. They were dark bay horses, and
looked enough alike to be brothers.—
They were considerably under the common
size, well made, with close small
limbs, rather short bodies, long shaggy
manes and tails. Their eyes were perhaps
the most striking feature about them.
They looked exceedingly wild and fiery;
the round and full pupil that glowed
like a tiger's eye, was very unlike the domestic
horse in this respect, whose eye
is ordinarily mild and quiet. Their
chests were broad and deep, indicating
great strength and power of endurance.
On the whole, I was very well pleased
with the appearance of my purchase.
We now set about preparing our packs
for a start; the hounds were plentifully
supplied with meat, and stood by the
door stowing it away as readily as the
two-legged dogs often do in a pinch.—
During this performance, my cousin began
and concluded his examination of
the horses; he was well acquainted with
horse flesh, and knew the marks and
points about a horse as well as a professed
jockey. I stood near Le Beaux,
who was looking on while Jonathan
went through with his scrutiny of the
beasts; he was apparently pleased with
the remarks of the Yankee, which escaped
him from time to time, sometimes
in the form of a soliloquy, sometimes to
one, sometimes to the other of us, as he
discovered the good points about the
horses and pointed them out. When he
had completed this task:
“Well,” said he, in a satisfied, positive
tone, “better built, more hardy,
tough, trim, sleek looking ponies I never
have seen; I am sure by the cut of the
critters and the flash of the eye, they are
regular grit, high mettled devils: just
look at their windows, Charles; did
you ever see a keener, sharper, more
fiery eye-ball in the head of man or
beast, in your life? I'll be bound we
shall have some fine scampers on the
backs of those fellows, this winter,
Charles. I should just like to see the
buffalo that would pretend to take a turn
with them; I'd take him off his legs
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pretty suddenly, I guess, and no mistake.
Just let's see you mount that little critter,
Charles; take care, you'll have to mind
your p's and q's, or he'll give you a
wist. I say, Le Beaux,” said he at
he same breath, turning to that individual.
“are these nags well broken?”
Le Beaux, smiling at his question, replied
that they were accounted two of
the best trained hunters in those regions,
“to be sure, they were in a sort, wild
nags and a man must have a care when
he mounted them, for they might be a
little frisky.”
“Well, I guess they might,” said
Jonathan, “but I never saw the horse
yet I was afraid to ride, and as one of
these is to be my companion and servant,
I'll mount him, if you please, and
try his qualifications for the office.”
Le Beaux said he knew the horse
well, and he would hold him by the bit
while he mounted; then unfastening the
bridle, he led him to a short distance
from the cabin into the open ground.—
Jonathan, without hesitation leaped upon
his back. No sooner did he touch him,
than he started; Le Beaux spoke to him,
and still kept hold of the bit, until Jonathan
was fairly seated, and had taken
possession of the bridle; then telling
him to be ready, let go his hold, and at
the same time stepped aside. At the
same instant, the horse gave a leap, and
off he went like a streak of light, jumping,
leaping, and performing a variety of
wild pranks, all with the view to throw
off the incumbrance. But it was no
use: Jonathan sat him like a true
knight. Nothing the agile and fiery animal
could do, could move him. He at
first gave him loose rein, and allowed
him to show off all his tricks and capers
then reining him with a strong hand,
he spoke kindly to him and patted his
neck with one hand; very soon he was
completely subdued and obediently acknowledged
his master. When he returned
to his companions he was eloquent
in the praise of his horse. His
gait, he said, was as easy as the motion
of a cradle, and from his start he knew,
and felt assured his speed was tremendous,
and on occasion, would defy the
pursuit of any foe, however well mounted.
Le Beaux and myself, who had
watched this first exhibition of his
horsemanship with great interest, expressed
our admiration at the skill with
which he managed him, and the grace
with which he sat him.
“Well,” said Jonathan, “he is just
the critter I guessed he was: he knows
when he finds his master. But, I tell
you, it is no boy's play to ride him,
that's a fact.” At the same time, dismounting
and holding him by the bridle,
he said to Charles, “It's your turn, now,
cousin; come, let's see what sort of a
beast you've got there.”
Charles at once mounted his horse,
and in better style, too, than his cousin,
resolving not to be outdone by him.
Catching the bridle, as he jumped upon
him, quick as thought away bounded the
horse, rearing, jumping, and plunging,
first to one side then to the other, like a
mad bull. Charles sat him as firmly as
though he were a part and parcel of him,
and quickly bringing him in, he turned
about, and, at an easy pace, rode him to
the starting place.
Le Beaux and Jonathan both could
not help expressing their surprise at the
readiness with which he had humbled
the proud spirited steed.
“You are both excellent riders,” said
the Guide. “Few men, unaccustomed
to them, could have kept the saddle the
first trial. I rarely ever saw horses
managed so well; but I am very glad
to find you such excellent horsemen;
for it is truly one of the most necessary
qualifications for those who travel these
western wilds.”
Our little party now made all possible
dispatch, fastening the luggage upon the
the pack horses which were to bear it,
and having accomplished this, they bade
adieu to their host, and mounted their
now tractable and quiet horses, and set
forth.
But, excuse us, kind friends, we are a
little too fast. We have forgotten, in
our interest for our two cousins, to say
a word as to the figure and equipments
of our worthy guide, an omission by no
means pardonable. Therefore, just curb
your impatience for a few minutes, as
we have done the fiery-footed steeds,
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while we tell you all about him. The
guide, as we have before said, had a
strong built, powerful, heavy frame; and
now as he stood by the side of his
horse, ready to mount, we will try to describe
him to you. He was dressed in
complete hunting costume; he wore
about the upper part of his body, and
around his shoulders and chest, a blue
checked cotton shirt; under this a close
vest of dressed deer-skin, which fitted
tight to his body; a pair of stout woolen
trowsers, of a gray color, covered his
nether limbs; over these were drawn
a pair of deer-skin leggins, of enormous
size, reaching from his ankles to his
thighs, where a broad, strong leathern
belt confined them in their place, and
served also as a girdle; from one side of
this belt hung a long sheathed hunting
knife; into the other side he had stuck
a huge hatchet, with a head like a tomahawk,
that would prove a very terrible
weapon in the hands of its muscular
possessor, in a close fight; his head was
covered with a close seal-skin cap, while
his feet were encased in thick deer-skin
moccasins. This completed his costume,
from head to foot. On one arm
rested that long, heavy rifle, which we
have elsewhere mentioned, and which
was his inseparable companion. His
horse seemed to have been selected with
admirable discernment and judgment for
the labor he was to perform, and the
burden he was to bear. Instead of
mustang, he was a large, powerful animal,
and looked like a thoroughbred
English hunter. His frame was large
and muscular, at the same time symmetrical
and elegantly proportioned, and
well built for speed. His head was
finely formed, and quite small; his neck
beautifully arched, and adorned with a
long, glossy, silken mane; his haunches
smoothly rounded; his legs firmly knit
and trimly jointed, showed him to be,
at all points, a perfect a beautiful horse,
and one of great value. He seemed
to be much attached to his master, and
manifested his affection by rubbing his
head against him gently, as he stood by
him, and seeking the caresses Le Beaux
was wont to bestow upon him. Our
guide, before mounting him, stroked his
head with his hand, and patted his shining
neck fondly, saying, at the same
time, in his ear, “We're off again, my
old Rover, on a long hunt, with brave
young followers: you must show them
what you're made of before we get
back again.” The horse proudly raised
his head, and, glancing around him
with flashing eye, seemed as if he understood
his words, and would in this
way answer him according to his wishes.
Le Beaux then mounted him. He remained
perfectly quiet until his master
was fairly seated upon his back, and did
not offer to move till his master, speaking
to him, raised the bridle from his
neck. Then, as if conscious that he
was the object of our friends' gaze, he
stepped slowly and proudly forth, shaking
his waving mane, and distending his
broad nostrils, and snuffing the air.
For a few minutes our guide allowed
him to show himself in this way, then
curbing him, he turned, rode back, and
gave a few last instructions to Le Pere
and Le Noir, the half-breeds who were
to take charge of the pack horses, pointing
out to them the route they were to
take; then, in a rapid pace, he joined
our friends, when all three proceeded
on their expedition.
The first day after leaving the rendezvous,
which was about one hundred
miles to the northwest of Council Bluff,
they traveled about forty miles in a
westerly direction, or rather southwesterly,
through a rich, fertile country, but
wild and uncultivated. They were now
at last launched upon the broad expanse
of forest that stretched away hundreds
of miles to the west, even to the shores
of the boundless Pacific. All this vast
tract is possessed by nomadic tribes of
natives, who hold these lands as their
hunting grounds, and over which they
roam in restless activity. During this
day's progress they came into the district
held by the Pawnees, which extends
for many miles along the course
of the Loup Fork and Platte rivers.
This tribe are exceedingly crafty and
treacherous, and by no means well disposed
towards the whites, with whom
they have mingled much and from such
intercourse learned only vice and evil.
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[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
They are scattered all over their wide
lands, in small parties, during the summer
and fall months, engaged in hunting
and fishing in those beautiful forests and
running streams, and often, too, in predatory
excursions, entered into both for
the sake of plunder and to gratify their
burning love of war. Indeed, they are
always at war with some one or another
of the neighboring tribes, and often is
the sleeping solitude of those mighty forests
startled by the wild shouts and terrible
war cries of those grim warriors of
the woods. Unlike civilized nations,
they do not conduct their wars by regular
pitched battles. Victory may destroy
and exterminate a tribe, but never
does it conquer or subdue them—they
are unconquerable. The spirit of the
native American is stronger than life—
it is stronger than death even. If the
red warrior falls in battle, the shout of
defiance lingers to the last breath upon
his lips. If he, by the fortune of war,
is made a prisoner, the most cruel and
agonizing torture of his captors cannot
make him swerve for an instant from his
firm purpose; no cruelties or tortures
can draw from him his secret, or force a
submission from him; the most rich and
seductive promises, the most tender and
moving entreaties, fall alike unheeded
upon his ears. The obstinate and unconquerable
tenacity with which the
American Indian holds his purpose, has
ever excited the wonder and astonishment
of the civilized nations of the
world. When tied to the stake, to be
burnt alive, (a mode of treating captured
enemies not unfrequent with them,) and
while the consuming flames that wrap
him in a mantle of fire are kindling
around him, he preserves, unflinchingly,
unmoved, the haughty scorn and lofty
disdain which he always professes for
his foes. Tears and entreaty he leaves
to women and pale faces. And should
any unlucky wight so far forget himself
as to show any, though it may be but
slight, exhibition of suffering in the
presence of his enemies, or so far yield
to the promptings of a craven heart as
to parley with his captors for ransom,
he is forever disgraced. His memory,
if he dies, is held in contempt; if he
escapes, he is treated like a squaw, forevermore
unfit for the noble and manly
arts of war. Sometimes he is even
destroyed by his own tribe: when they
spare his life, it is only that he may
become their slave and degraded servant.
His life is less tolerable than the pains
of death. Surprise and cunning are the
means they use most frequently to over-come
their enemies; and these qualifications
are esteemed by them not less
than true bravery. Hatred is ever cherished
among hostile tribes. They never
forget or forgive an injury; and whenever
and wherever they meet, the deadly
strife ensues. So long as a single member
of the desolated, inimical tribe remains,
the destroyers have in him a
mortal foe.
We have made this short digression
in our truthful tale, in this place, deeming
it highly proper and becoming, since
we have led our hero among a strange
and new people, to say thus much concerning
them.
CHAPTER IX.
But to resume the broken thread. Our
young gentlemen had many opportunities
offered them during their days' ride to
display their skill as marksmen, upon
which they were to depend for their
supply of food. During the forenoon
nothing of importance came across their
path. There were, it is true, squirrels
without number running along the ground
beside their way, or leaping from bough
to bough amongst the trees, but this was
not the game they had come so far to
hunt. Rabbits, too, frequently crossed
their track, and often was their speed
augmented, and their timid natures startled
into terror, by the watchful blood-hounds
that followed Charles, which
would sometimes spring after them, and
pursuing them, make the old woods echo
with the deep baying of their open
throats, until recalled by the hunter's
whistle. In this way they rode leisurely
along through the whole of the forenoon,
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Jonathan from time to time asking some
very natural and pertinent questions
touching the character of sundry strange
looking trees and bushes which grew
along the path. If any new thing in
the shape of tree, bush, bird, or beast
caught his eye, he was sure to point it
out to the guide, and inquire of him its
nature; and nothing he saw, nothing he
asked, but Le Beaux was acquainted with,
and ready to explain to him.
At noon, under the lead of the guide
they sought a green grove by the side of
a cooling stream, whose pure and sparkling
waters afforded them a refreshing
draught, and stretching themselves on the
soft green grass beneath the shady trees
they are the luncheon which they had
brought with them with infinite relish,
and keen appetites. Here they rested
for an hour or more, sheltered from the
mid-day sun, and gave their horses a
chance for a dinner off the rich grass that
covered the ground by the stream's green
banks. At the expiration of this time,
they were again in motion. High in
spirits, delighted with every thing about
them, they gave full flight to the bright
fancies of the future, which sported in
dazzling, alluring hue, before their mental
vision, and often would they picture
forth in glowing descriptions their future
fancied scenes. Towards the close of
the afternoon they came to a hill, around
which their path wound in its ascent. It
was covered with a thick, heavy growth
of beech and chestnut, and as they began
to climb its first gentle slope, the guide
suddenly checked his horse, and turning
his head in the direction of the hill above
him, placed his hand just back of his
ear, and leaning forward listened attentively
to some sound which he seemed
to hear in that quarter. Our young
friends instantly checked their nags, and
they too listened, but could hear nothing
save the soft murmur of the running
brooks that trickled down the hill side,
and the low rustling of the moving leaves
upon the tree tops. After remaining for
a few minutes perfectly still, Le Beaux
turned to them and said:
“There is a flock of turkies about
three hundred yards above us, and they
are on the ground; which of you will
bring us in a couple of them for our
supper to-night.”
Both were ready and anxious to try
their skill, but each from courtesy gave
way to the other. Le Beaux, however,
decided for them without delay, observing
that Jonathan had better go, as the dogs
would best remain quiet and obedient to
our hero, and if they went they would
certainly start the game, and they might
lose them. Jonathan jumped from his
horse, gave the rein to the guide, then
loaded his fowling piece with large shot,
and went cautiously in the direction
pointed out by the guide. He knew
the habits of the bird well, and was
aware that he must approach them noiselessly,
if he did so at all. He soon
came to a spot where he saw them at
a short distance off feeding on the ground
as the guide had said. There was a large
flock, and they were walking very near
each other, so that he thought by getting
a little nearer, and to the other side of
them, he might fire in such a range as to
kill several of them. This he accomplished
without alarming them, and raising
his piece to his shoulder, blazed away
at them; then pushing forward the instant
he had fired, he picked up three that lay
on the ground mortally wounded; and a
fourth with a broken wing and fractured
leg, was making the best time he could
for a thicket in the vicinity. This one
received the second barrel of Jonathan's
piece, which brought him to a sudden
halt, and terminating his mortal existence
added one more to the number of the
captures. He picked them up and hastened
back to his companions, well pleased
with this first test of his shooting.—
When they saw him laden with four, instead
of two, fat turkies, they expressed
a great deal of surprise at his success.—
Le Beaux took them from him and looking
at them said:
“You took them at just the right distance;
had you gone nearer you would
have missed two, perhaps three of them,
for the shot would not have had distance
enough to scatter; had you fired further
from them it would have scattered too
much, and very likely killed not a single
one. We are much indebted to you for
the good supper we are now sure of
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[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
to-night.” So saying, he tied their legs together
and flung them across his horse's
back, and Jonathan mounting his steed
they continued on. A short time after
this as the sun was going down and the
last flickering beams of daylight were
hovering on the western clouds ere the
reign of twilight should banish them from
sight, and just as they entered a closely
wooded valley, the dogs began to snuff
the air, pointing their noses to the upper
side of the path and pricking up their long
ears, then uttering low growls, off they
started in that direction. They had been
gone but a few minutes ere their quick,
short bark, so welcome a sound to the
eager hunter, gave notice that they had
started their game; and then followed
the chase, enlivened by the loud and
constant baying of the hounds, as on
they came, driving before them their flying
victim. From the sound, whatever
animal they had started, was evidently
approaching them. They cocked their
guns and all stood ready to give him a
warm greeting, should he come within
range. They had but brief time of expectation,
for soon a large buck having
made a circuit about them, came out into
the path about fifty yards ahead of them.
The guide gave them warning of his approach,
saying at the same time “fire
when he is in the air.” Scarcely had
he uttered these words, before both fired
at the same instant. So true was their
aim that he fell headlong, tumbling upon
the grass, and died without again rising.
Le Beaux, when they had come up to
him, drew his hunting knife and cut his
throat, saying the venison would be the
better for letting out the blood. Just as
he did this, the hounds came up; Charles
kept them back as they stood impatiently
licking their jaws.
As soon as the deer was dead, Le
Beaux went to work taking off his skin;
this done, he then cut him up after hunter's
fashion. This gave them all a load,
and an abundant supply for their camp,
which they pitched a short distance
ahead, at a spot selected by the guide.—
Here for a time all found employment.
The game was stored away with their
baggage, their horses unsaddled and
turned out to graze, a little camp was
built from the green boughs of the trees,
which should shelter them for the night
from wind and storm, their rifles and
the few equipments they carried were
brought into camp, boughs were cut and
spread upon the ground, over which their
blankets were spread, and all prepared
for spending their first night in camp, in
the woods. Next followed the preparation
for supper. The turkies were
dressed, and two of them roasted, the
guide having kindled a fire from the dry
brush, which sent up a column of black
smoke that rose curling above the branches
of the tall trees, while the flames
crackled and sparkled cheerfully as they
consumed the dry limbs, giving a lively
animated aspect to the little camp. The
turkies were suspended on a stick close
to the burning coals and blaze, and the
party sitting around recounted the adventures
of the day, indulging in frequent
sallies of wit and humor, which were followed
with free shouts of laughter and
unrestrained merriment, as Jonathan
gave them some laughter moving pictures
of wild life, which came from his
lips with lively touches, and glowing
conceptions. His spirits were always
buoyant and fresh; his wit delighted to
play and sport with ludicrous images and
fantastic creations, which provoked mirth
and put to flight all gloom from those
about him. It was irresistible and always
pleasing.
Nothing but success, uninterrupted
success, had attended their day's ride,
and all were in a fit mood to enjoy and
contribute to the social glee which Jonathan
felt, and led them to indulge in.
We will here again take the liberty,
to make a digression in our narrative—a
brief one only, so do not be alarmed—in
order to introduce the contents, or part of
the contents of a manuscript now in the
possession of our hero, and written by
him after the scenes and the events which
it describes, had passed, and were concluded.
Thus it runs:
“It might have been perhaps an hour
after we stopped to camp for the night,
the sun was just sinking behind the western
hills, that lay far off in the distance,
seeming like ridges of blue haze, or
piles of heavy atmosphere, as it went
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down, throwing a flood of golden light
over the wide forests, that bathed in beauty
the hill-tops and the green valleys,
while here and there it came stealing
through the dense foliage of the spreading
trees, and glancing along the glassy bosom
of the narrow lake, where all the
rich and gorgeous drapery of clouds,
and varied hues of light that hung the
heavens above, were reflected back again
to view, and there the struggling beams
fall on the waters of the swift running
streams, giving a brighter sparkle to the
tiny waves that play over its ever changing
face, or in sportive eddies and fretful
currents went circling round the jutting
rocks that reared their time-worn and
rugged heads above the surface. While
far off in the western sky floated the limitless,
unmeasured fields of glorious
clouds, in all of perfect nature's loveliest
forms, there they rise, pile upon pile,
like heaps of mountains thrown one
above another, and yonder their graceful
lines and slender bands seem like proud
streamers that float upon the breeze from
the lofty masts of some tall ship; here
again you behold a flock of curling, wavy
clouds that hang upon the sky like
the shining ringlets and waving locks
that erst floated around the polished neck
and snowy bosom of the celestial Venus;
from all these various forms and beauteous
shapes, are reflected back the resplendent
glories of the retiring god of
day, in hues so bright and varying in
tints, so soft, so entrancing, that all man's
art, and toil, and striving pains, can but
feebly imitate; as doth the transient,
flickering glow of a candle resemble and
compare with the dazzling splendor of a
mid-day sun.”
The three wanderers who stood alone,
far from the haunts of civilized man,
in those vast, wild solitudes, at this quiet
hour, when all seemed as if preparing for
repose after the joys of another glad day
of life, as if moved by the same impulse,
secret and unspoken, but deep in their
hearts, sought a gentle eminence that
rose from the bosom of the wide extended
valley, near to the place where the fires
of their little camp were cheerfully blazing,
and stretched forth far and wide, on
every side its green, native fields, and
standing there in pleasant silence, gazed
with enchanted rapture upon the lovely
scene. Their eyes eagerly drank in the
glorious prospect that lay above and
around them, and their bosoms swelled
with lively, delighted emotions, as they
beheld and felt the power, the wondrous,
perfect beauty of nature's own painting,
that now met their delighted vision and
bound them in silent adoration before
its glory. For some time it continued unchanged,
undimmed in all its brightness,
its beaming effulgence; then gradually a
change came over the earth; the twilight
shades of evening gray rose slowly,
creeping over the sky from the far off
chambers of the east, first indeed but
slightly veiling and dimming the beauteous
hues and glories of one of earth's
fairest scenes. Little by little the shadows
thicken, and spread out farther and
farther; now they speed their flight
across the blue fields of heaven; the hills
are wrapped in evening's mantle, they
grow misty and indistinct before the eye;
the valleys, too, are covered as with a
broad veil. Suddenly a flashing beam
lights up the scene again; it darts swift
as thought across the arched dome of
earth; it is but for an instant: like the
last expiring struggle of a departing spirit,
and so the vanquished god of day has
departed; and already shadowy night invests
the earth in noiseless haste, with her
darkening hosts. Now the scene is
changed once more. Now from the quiet
sky the thousand thousands of ever
burning stars come forth from their hiding
places in heaven's deep vault; in
joyous throngs and peaceful bands they
come, singing, as they burn, in celestial
strains, the praises of their great Maker,
God. They come from east, they come
from west, where burning climes below
them lay; the frozen north, too, sends
forth her sparkling bands that join the
innumerable and countless throng, and
swell the hallelujah chorus of the sky.
Far down beyond the ice-bound shore the
obedient south hears and answers to the
call, and with quick haste leads forth
her multitudes in myriad ranks, and never
varying order, that nought be lacking
in this glad evening song. Unheard by
mortals, they breathe their heavenly
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melodies in concert joined, while listening
angels delighted, bow in wonder and adoration
before the Maker of all worlds.
Softly the silvery beams of light break
on the eastern bounds of heaven's wide
plains, the first swift messengers who
proclaim the rising of the queen of night.
To her is granted the rule of earth's quiet
hours. Before her coming the thousand
sentinel bands of watchful stars are at
their appointed posts; more modest
than the proud, dazzling god of day, she
mounts her heavenly way with softer
sight and now all nature is clad in
shining silvery hues, the tall trees catch
the chastened beams upon their elevated
tops, the far-off hills are magnified beneath
her spreading beams of softest hue,
will they seem to rise and mingle with
the clouds.
Wrapped in her loving smile, the valleys
sleep in sweet repose; the struggling
seams that pierce the thick over-hanging
leaves dance with flying feet upon the
clear bosom of the rippling stream, or
sparkle like shooting stars in all the breaking
waves. Thus passes night; in hushed
deep the earth is locked, while the sleepless
ever-vigilant Queen rides through all
her celestial course, watching over her
wide-spread domain. But now night is
last waning—her hours of rule are almost
sped—fainter and fainter glow her
silver tints in the high firmament above.
Again the shadowy hosts come forth from
the eastern bounds of the bending sky;
again they fly over the celestial fields as
of chasing the retreating footsteps of the
paling Queen; faster and farther they
wing their flight: 'tis finished. The fair
moon has sunk beneath those same cloud-capped
hills, where at yester evening's
birth the bright sun fled. Now gray-eyed
morn holds her brief sway o'er a
sleeping world: flitting shadows, fantastic
spirits, and ghostly forms, that love these
veiled shades, and rest uneasy and un-blest
in their cold homes, still silently
gliding about through the sick man's
chamber, and filling him with gloomy
ears and anxious doubts; or startling
guilty wretches that seek in vain to hide
their crimes beneath the covering of
night, or still the disturbed spirit that
haunts with prophecy of coming woe:
all these attend her reign, and disturb
with restlessness the half-vexed, half-satisfied
subjects of old Morpheus.—
Another change: the rosy daughter of the
morn, gay Aurora, blushing springs from
her violet-tinted couch, sending her red
beams of light to streak the eastern horizon,
and warn all nature of the approach
of the King of light. Swift her gray-eyed
sister flies her coming, while beam
after beam of rosy light runs flashing
along the morning sky, louder and clearer
its voice grows, as it calls all nature from
repose, to usher in the glad, returning god
of day, who comes in fresh, dazzling
splendor, before which the eye quails,
that fain would scan with steadfast gaze
his brightness. In splendor he rises o'er
the mountain's peak, and swiftly the dimness
of night's shadows fly away. The
morning songs of all the feathered tribes
that warble forth in rich, sweet notes of
praise; the hum of thousands of various
insects that love the light, and delight to
sport in its beams; the innumerable
and distinct classes of animals that seek
their pleasures and follow their unchanging
course beneath the light of day, all
hail each in their heaven ordained way,
the rising of the dazzling King, and fill
his listening ear with grateful worship
and sweet notes of praise.”
Thus runs the description, which, as
we stated at its introduction, was taken
from our hero's MSS. But to return to
our tale. We left the little party very hungry,
after a long day's ride, without any
supper, although we had pretty nearly
prepared a bountiful meal for them.
When our friends returned from the
ramble they took after having prepared
the camp and made arrangements for
supper, they found their turkies well
roasted and fit for eating. The venison
was just right to be placed upon the table:
a large stone near the front of their
camp served their purpose, and upon it
they laid out their repast. The gathering
shades of evening had closed about
them, and they were now dependent upon
the blaze of their fire for light to furnish
forth the feast. Just as they had taken
their seats around the stone and were on
the point of commencing the attack, they
were arrested and startled from their purpose
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pose by a sudden commotion on the part
of the hounds; getting up from the warm
turf where they had stretched their weary
limbs, they threw up their heads and began
to snuff the air, and their pricked up
ears gave notice too that they were listening
to some sound that was near the
camp; soon going a few steps in front of
their master, in the direction by which
they had at first approached the camp,
they uttered a low muttering growl, as
if preparing to defend him from some unseen
danger. As we have said, the party
were stopped in their repast by the
hounds, and turned to watch them, looking
in the direction they pointed out, and
listening in silence; but they could neither
see nor hear anything in that quarter.
The two young men then turned to
Le Beaux, to ask his opinion as to the
course to be pursued by them: as they
did so, he rose up from his seat and went
to his rifle, examined the priming, then
said to his companions,
“Something, man or beast, I know not
which, for I cannot see or hear any signs
of them, is either approaching, or skulking
near us; our trusty sentinels tell no
lies, and this they speak as plainly as
they can to us. You had better get
your rifles and be ready.”
Just as they had obeyed his suggestion
and had returned to his side, they
heard a noise in the direction indicated
by the hounds, and at the same instant
they started forward and gave several
loud, fierce barks, then uttered again the
low savage growl which they are wont
to use when about to spring upon their
prey. At that moment the noise came
nearer and grew more distinct.
“I hear them,” said the guide, “it is
the half-breeds with the pack-horses;
they will be here immediately.”
Hardly were the words out of his
mouth, before they came in sight, and
proved his suspicions true. Charles
immediately called in his hounds, that
stood at their post, as the advanced
guard, and bade them lay down, at the
same time bestowing praise on them and
patting them kindly for their watchfulness.
Le Pere and Le Noir were soon
dismounted, their horses unpacked, and
they at the table. Supper was now en
joyed without further interruption. Le
Beaux said their alarm had served a good
purpose, as it showed them the value and
confidence they could put in the hounds,
and hereafter they would rely upon them
as their night sentries. They sat long at
the feast, and ate hearty, and with excellent
relish, their rich repast. After supper
they lighted their pipes, and sitting
around the fire, conversed about the route
they were to pursue on the next day.
Le Beaux suggested several rules that
they should observe, now that they had
fairly entered upon Indian ground, to
provide against surprise, or attack from
any wandering party that might chance
to meet them. The little party were
hereafter to travel all in one band. The
evening wore away while planning for
the future, and the half-breeds having secured
the horses by picketing them, the
party sought the luxury of sleep, for
which their fatigue had well prepared
them. The night passed quietly, all the
party slept soundly on their bed of leaves
and green branches. The next morning
the sun rose in a clear, bright sky, and
with his first light the forest gave signs
of awakening life. The birds shaking the
dew drops from their shining wings, and
stretching their slender necks as they
stood upon their perch, soon began to
flutter among the branches of the trees,
calling each other from their roost. As
the sun came up above the hills and threw
his beams along the sky, and over the
earth, they commenced their morning
songs, and perched upon the tree tops, on
every side they poured forth their sweet
melodies. At the same time as if attracted
by the songs, the sprightly squirrel
left his burrow, and chirping ran in full
glee, jumping over and amid the rustling
leaves that strewed the ground, or springing
with graceful motion, climbed the
steep side of the giant oak, and sat dancing
upon its waving boughs. All nature
was astir again—the tide of life was
again flowing onward with increasing
waves. These sounds soon reached the
sleeping friends, and half-waking they
remained some moments, listening in
delicious dreamy fancy to the delightful
sounds that filled the air with varied warblings;
then rousing themselves and
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recollecting where they were, they hastily
arose, and donning their hunter's
dress, they came out from the camp. A
single look around assured them that
every thing was safe, and that the guide
and the half-breeds were already astir.
Taking the path to the stream that
flowed near by, they performed their
morning ablutions in its clear, cool waters.
Returning to the camp, they found
the guide leading the horses to a green
plat a little distance below, that they
might feed before starting again. The
half-breeds had kindled the fire afresh,
and were busy in preparing breakfast.
The camp kettle was placed on the coals,
and they drew forth from the sack a
supply of coffee, which was put into it;
then out came the gridiron, and soon the
venison steak that was smoking on it,
sent up its grateful odor; breakfast was
then spread upon their rustic table, and
all gathered around it, to taste the luxuries
of their bountiful repast.
They were anxious to be on their
way early, and intended to rest in the
middle of the day, both to avoid the
heat and also to rest and refresh their
horses. Le Beaux repeated some of
the instructions he had given the evening
before, concerning the route. Their direction,
he told them, would be along
the course of the Loup Fork; that they
would pass through a prairie country
during the day, and very probably they
would fall in with some roving bands of
Indians, in which case he warned them
all to keep close together, and preserve
a sharp watch over their baggage, as
those Indians were great thieves, and as
skillful, light-fingered covies as any land
could produce, and would be sure to
carry off any thing they could lay their
hands upon. Every thing being ready,
they mounted their horses and left the
camp behind them, pushing forward on
their route.
The surface of the country over which
they passed, was undulating, rolling land,
and occasionally they ascended considerable
hills that lay in their direction. In
the course of the forenoon the hounds
drove a fox or two across their track,
which fell the victims of their own cunning,
in following a circuitous course,
and thus exposing themselves to the skill
of our marksmen. Charles fired at them,
and hit them so handsomely as to draw
forth the loud praises of the whole party,
and fully establish his reputation as a
bold, sharp shot.
At noon they encamped a couple of
hours at a spot which offered good grazing
for their hungry horses, and a pleasant
retreat for their party. The turkies
stood another attack at this time, and
again hot venison steaks satisfied their
keen appetites, and was eaten with a
hearty relish. After refreshing themselves
they again set forth on their route.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, as
they were crossing the open prairie, they
heard the report of a rifle, apparently
some distance ahead of them; at the
same time the hounds, snuffing the
breeze which came blowing gently from
that quarter, sprung away in the same
direction.
“Some hunter is close at hand,” said
the guide, “and is now in close pursuit
of his game. Let us ride forward cautiously,
and I will discover who it may
be, whether red skin or white man.”
The baying of the hounds, which
they kept up since leaving, still sounded
in their ears, and was now approaching
them. Following the sound with
their eyes, they were soon enabled to
see them far off, in full chase, driving
before them a large buffalo, which
seemed nearly exhausted and quite tired
out. Beyond him they could see four
or five Indian hunters, mounted upon
horses, who stood still, looking on in
perfect amazement, pointing after the
hounds. They had evidently never
seen such animals before; and it was
from the strange, loud baying with
which they followed the buffalo, that
they had halted in the pursuit.
“Wait until he comes up,” said Le
Beaux, bringing his rifle to his shoulder,
“and take your rifles, instead of your
fowling pieces.”
Our two young hunters were all excitement,
gazing with an all-absorbing
interest at the chase, which was now
continued in full view before them, and
longed to enter upon it. It was the first
time either had seen the wild buffalo
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hunted, and here, in an open prairie and
almost level field, came a huge bull, at a
heavy, sweeping gallop, making right
for the spot where they were standing.
Le Beaux directed the half-breeds to
move one side a short distance, that they
might be out of reach of the buffalo, in
case he should become furious by being
wounded, and be disposed to attack his
pursuers, and then motioned to Charles
and his cousin to follow him. The
next minute the horses, which were all
impatience since the buffalo came in
sight, and eager to enter upon the chase,
manifesting their eagerness for it by
pawing the ground fiercely with their
feet, throwing up their heads, and expanding
their nostrils as they snuffed
the air, were in full run for the hunted
bison. As they approached him, Le
Beaux, who had the lead, suddenly
wheeling on one side, darted across his
track, and passing in front of him, a few
yards distant, sent a ball from his rifle,
which, striking him on the shoulder,
brought him down upon his knees.
The enraged animal uttered a loud, angry
roar, and lashing himself with his
tail, sprung up quickly, and darted after
his enemy; but it was an unequal trial:
the noble charger of the guide flew over
the plain like the wind, leaving his furious
and wounded foe far behind him.
Charles and Jonathan, both hot for the
chase, followed hard after him, and riding
up abreast of the tired animal, from
whom the blood was fast flowing through
several open wounds, at the same instant
leveled their rifles at him, and so true
and fatal was their aim, that the balls
entered his vitals. This was too much
for the brave animal: he made a stout
fight for his life, and had already led his
foes a long flight; and though bullet
after bullet, shot from the cruel rifle, had
entered his body, he had not fallen or
yielded, but bravely held on his flight;
but these last, unexpected shots, from a
new and fresh enemy, had given him a
death-wound. They had struck within
an inch of each other, passing, as I have
already said, through his vitals. Springing,
with a last mighty struggle, into the
air, he fell headlong to the ground, the
blood spouting in streams from his mouth
and nose. Quick the hounds came up,
and springing upon him, fixed their sharp
teeth into his strong sides. He gave instinctively
a few feeble, faint struggles,
and then lay stretched out dead before
them.
CHAPTER X.
By this time the Indians, who had
come to a sudden halt when the strange
sound and furious attack of the hounds
so unexpectedly and fiercely commenced,
had recovered from their surprise and
fear, and were slowly and cautiously advancing
towards our little party, whose
skillful horsemanship and the fleetness
of whose steeds had not escaped their
observation; but most especially their
presence so close to the strange animals,
and their evident familiarity with them,
had emboldened them.
Charles quickly called the dogs off,
while Le Beaux, riding up, jumped from
his horse, and taking his hunting knife,
passed it across the buffalo's throat;
then, re-loading his rifle, and telling his
companions to do the same, he called all
of his party up to him, and then made a
sign for the Indians to come forward.
This they seemed at first reluctant to do,
and did not at once act upon it. When
our little party first espied them, there
were but two visible—one, probably the
best mounted, was close upon the flying
buffalo; the other followed in his track,
a short distance behind him; then, on a
sudden, the hounds appeared, and rushed
upon their prey with loud baying, that
resounded far and wide over the sweeping
plain, and checked, as we have seen
already, the pursuit of the red men.
Perhaps a minute or two elapsed,
when Le Beaux, having found a piece
of white cotton cloth, converted it into a
flag, the sign of peace and good will,
beckoned with it for them to approach.
Meantime their number had received
quite an addition, from the coming up of
those who had fallen behind in the
chase. Seeing the friendly invitation,
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[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
however, they consulted together for a
few minutes. The result was that they
immediately came forward and joined
our party.
They now numbered some fourteen,
all well mounted on wild horses, and
dressed in the usual Indian style: a
buckskin shirt, leggins and moccasins
of the same material, and armed with
rifles and long knives. Their long, glossy
black hair, gathered and confined by
a band to the back of the head, floating in
a thick long tress in the wind, tended to
heighten the wild aspect they presented,
as bounding along the level prairie on
their fleet little nags, it streamed out in
the breeze, above their neck and shoulders.
Their faces were marked in various
places with blotches and lines,
painted according to their savage notion
of ornament and beauty.
Charles watched them with eager curiosity
and strong interest. It was the
first time he had enjoyed the opportunity
of seeing the Indian in his native
home, and in his own wild costume.—
Their horses, though they had evidently
had a smart chase, and their sides were
covered with foam and streaming sweat,
were yet full of life and mettle, and
moved with a proudly light step, as they
now advanced in a body.
As I have said, all were excellent riders,
and directed the movement of their
horses with infinite skill and ease.—
When they were sufficiently near to be
distinguished, Le Beaux, who was regarding
them attentively, suddenly uttered a
sound indicative of surprise; and his
features which had worn a sharp, anxious
look, relapsed into their usual calm
repose. He saluted the leader, who,
from some little extra ornaments that
were appended to his dress, was distinguished
as their chief, with an expression
of sudden satisfaction; he returned
the salutation, recognizing at once, the
guide as an old acquaintance; and then
turning round to his followers, addressed
a few words to them in their
own tongue, the purport of which Charles
did not understand; but he saw that
they had the effect at once to put them
more at ease; though they still cast suspicious
glances upon the animals that
had broken up their sport so singularly,
and which were now quietly standing
by their master's side.
Le Beaux made a sign for them to
dismount and be seated. They obeyed
this by jumping from their horses, which
they left without fastening where they
stood together; and then forming a circle,
they seated themselves, and awaited the
talk of Le Beaux, which they were led
to expect. Looking deliberately over
the circle, and at last fixing his eyes upon
their leader, he said in a firm but
friendly voice:
“My brother Otter has hunted the
buffalo since the first light of the dawn—
has he found many fat cows on his hunting
path? and is his lodge well stored
with meat? This is a noble animal,”
said he, pointing to the buffalo before
them, “that he has brought to the feet
of the pale face hunter.”
Otter listened, with his keen, black
eyes bent closely upon the speaker, as if
he could read in his face the thoughts
passing in his mind, and discover his intentions.
When he had ceased speaking,
in a dignified, calm manner, he replied:
“My dear brother is right; he reads
the red man with much wisdom; his
eyes are sharper than the eagle's and
quicker than the lynx', to detect the
hearts and ways of those around him.—
Otter and his people followed the hunting
path when the dew was falling from
the dusky sky; they found many buffalo
in their path. They willingly give to
the white chief the bison which his strong
dogs took from their path, and which my
brother's fatal rifle killed.”
“Otter is a great chief, and a brave
warrior,” replied Le Beaux, “and his
hand is open to his friends; but his enemies
tremble at the sound of his name,
and the fierce wild buffale falls like a
timid rabbit before his quick, bold hand.
Many strong warriors follow his war-path
when he digs up the hatchet, and
many scalps hang at his lodge. The
white chief is his friend, and will accept
his gift, for the pale face claims not the
game; he saw that he was already wounded,
and was almost in the hand of Otter
and his hunters, and he only shot him
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[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
for them. Is my brother's lodge near
by?”
The Indian, who continued to watch
him closely all the time, hesitated a few
minutes, and then replied:
“My brother speaks true, and there
are no lies on his tongue. The Pawnees
are warriors; the feet of their braves
are swift to follow the war-path when
his wrongs cry out for vengeance. Their
tomahawks have drank the blood of their
enemies, the Osage, who are dogs, and
speak false words; they have cowardly
hearts—the Pawnees despise them.—
But Otter and his tribe are friends to the
white man; the great chief of the pale
faces is very rich, his tribe is very strong,
and many warriors are in his towns: he
has many guns, and his stores of cloth
are like leaves on the trees: he is good
to the poor Indian, and will give him
guns and powder, that he may hunt, and
fight the enemies of his white brother.”
After thus craftily wording his answer,
and begging of his new acquaintances,
he added, “Otter's lodge is by the
stream, close at the edge of the prairie;
my brother is welcome to his lodge.”
Le Beaux immediately answered:
“The pale face is journeying to hunting
grounds far off, by the great mountains.
He has no guns to give his Indian
brother, but he is a friend to the Pawnees,
and will feast with them. Let Otter
tell his hunters to carry the bison to
the village, his white brother and his
party will go with him.”
Otter turned and spoke a few words
to his followers, upon which they immediately
pulled out their hunting knives,
and commenced the labor of dressing
and cutting up the bison; this done,
they divided it amongst themselves, and
all prepared to depart. Le Beaux, turning
to his little party, told them in their
own language that they were going to
dine with their Indian acquaintance; he
earnestly advised them all to be watchful.
He cautioned Charles to keep his hounds
by him, as they would serve to keep the
Indians at a respectful distance and prevent
their attempting to plunder, “For,”
said he, “notwithstanding their smooth
tongues, they are a thievish, lying pack,
and will carry off whatever they can lay
hold of.” He further told them that the
leader of this party, Otter, was well
known to him, that he was a great chief
among them, and exercised a powerful
control over them; and after they had
smoked the pipe of friendship, which it
was customary to present to their friends,
they would then be safe—not from
thievish attacks, he added, but from bodily
harm.
When he had finished, all moved on
together over the prairie at a moderate
pace, to accommodate the horses of such
as carried burdens. Passing some distance
in the direction of the woods that
skirted the side of the prairie, they came
soon to a small opening where were
about an hundred lodges situated near by
a stream, whose cool waters supplied all
their wishes for their rude culinary purposes,
and its grassy, green banks, which
stretched out on either side a considerable
distance, furnished the freshest and most
desirable grazing for their horses.
The presence of the party was announced
by the barking of a score or
more of lean, hungry looking dogs, that
hung about the camp, and now came
forth howling and growling in wild confusion.
The squaws, and old men and
children, filled the doors of the lodges,
and although they seemed surprised to
see the party that accompanied their
great chief, they said not a word. The
hunters in Otter's party, who had charge
of the game, each stopped at his own
lodge, and deposited the burden, while
Otter led his white friends through the
village, until they came to the great
council lodge, which stood some distance
from the others, by itself. The chief
then addressed a few words to Le
Beaux, in the Pawnee tongue, which the
guide understood, and which he told his
party was an invitation to alight. Charles
and Jonathan, with Le Beaux, dismounted
immediately, and giving their horses
in charge of the half-breeds, they cautioned
them not to leave them for an instant,
and to call them in case of any
accident. They then entered the lodge,
where they found the principal men of
the village already assembled, and awaiting
them.
Otter introduced them as his friends,
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[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
recounting the incidents which related to
his meeting with them, and recommending
them to the kindness of the tribe.
One, who was, from appearances, the
oldest among them, then addressed them
through Le Beaux, who acted as interpreter,
and bade them welcome.
Charles replied to him, thanking him
and his people for their hospitality, and
declaring his desire to feast with them.
When he finished, the pipe was
lighted, and first being placed in the
hands of the chief who had addressed
them, and he having puffed a few clouds
of smoke, then passed it to Charles, and
so it went round the circle, from one to
another, till all had received it. This
concluded the assembly, and they each
sought their own lodge.
Otter acted as host to our little party,
and conducted them to his own lodge.
He invited them to rest there until the
feast was prepared. They found their
new quarters very comfortable, and the
odge more tidy than usual among Indians.
The ground was strown with leaves,
over which buffalo robes were stretched,
making an easy and soft bed. Their
horses were unsaddled, and their baggage
brought into the tent by the half-breeds.
Otter then called to some young Indians,
who led off the horses to the pasture
ground.
Le Beaux explained to his young
friends, when they were left alone, some
of the customs and ceremonies which
were observed by the tribe on occasions
like the present, and earnestly requested
Jonathan, who was disposed to be rather
too independent, and even regardless of
his tawny entertainer's ways, to use
great care in these matters, and not displease
them.
“After we have feasted with them,”
aid he, “we will, without further delay,
proceed on our route: by so doing, we
hall escape being at all molested by
them; for they will not at once over-come
the fear with which I see your
sounds have inspired them.”
An hour and a half might have elapsed
since their arrival at the village, when
the feast was announced; and Otter, as
their particular friend and host, led them
on due form to the scene of operations.
Here they found the chiefs, and braves,
and some of the distinguished warriors
of the tribe, already assembled. They
were sitting cross-legged on the ground,
in grave silence, and only by a silent
token acknowledged the entrance of the
pale face guests. You might, and would
have supposed that any thing but a feast
was the object that brought them together:
the most serious business could not have
been graced with more serious expression,
or more dignified deportment. An
unoccupied space on the right hand of
the principal chief was reserved for
them: buffalo robes were spread upon
the ground for their use, to supply the
want of chairs, and they were invited by
Otter to occupy these places. They immediately
seated themselves, after the
fashion of their savage entertainers. As
soon as this took place, the feast began.
In a moment the grave, dignified manner
of the Indians was thrown off, like a
useless robe, and they rushed upon the
steaming piles of meat like half-famished
wolves. Large rounds of buffalo, and
venison, and elk, with a variety of wild
fowl, furnished forth the festive board.
Each one helped himself as best he
could, as fast as he might. Charles and
his cousin performed feats, in the way
of demolishing the substantials before
them, which would have amazed the
gourmands of the east, when in their
prime; but they found themselves no
match for their new companions: long
after they ceased eating, having completely
gorged themselves, the red men
kept on, with unabated spirit and energy:
they ate as though they had not
tasted food for days, and did not expect
to have another opportunity for days to
come; and so, like the camel on the
desert and parched plains, who drinks
water sufficient for days at one draught,
they seemed bent to ward off hunger for
a long time, by taking, at this meal,
enough for a week at least.
Charles and his cousin looked on in
perfect amazement: they did not deem
it possible for any thing human, or in
the shape of man, to devour so much.
They were prepared, from what they
had read and knew of the habits of the
Indian, to find them great trenchermen;
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[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
but this exhibition threw all their expectations
into the shade, and reminded
them of the story of a famous glutton
of old, who, sitting down to a table
spread for ten men, ate what was prepared
for all; and, on being questioned
why he did it, replied, it was a duty
binding upon him; he ate it that it might
not be lost, or prepared in vain.
Jonathan said to his cousin, that he had
heretofore been sceptical with regard to
the stories which were told of the immense
herds of bison that roam the western
prairies, but he should never doubt
again; for he believed they were all
necessary for food. He hoped that no
band of these robbers would ever get
into his native village; for a famine
would be certain.
They ate voraciously and long, each
one minding only himself; and when
they ceased, it was because they could
eat no more. They were literally filled
with fatness; and now, giving lingering,
parting looks to the remaining heaps,
they went to their lodges, and soon the
curling wreaths of smoke, that were
seen ascending from the openings in their
camps, gave assurance that they were in
the enjoyment of the only luxury indulged
in, to any extent, by the Indian—
his pipe; and to this he is wedded most
strongly.
Charles having asked Otter whether
he would be allowed to visit the lodges
in the village, and receiving from him
assurance that he would be welcome
whenever he might wish to go, with his
cousin set off on a stroll through the village.
As he passed along, he frequently
stopped to observe the sports with which
the young sanaps, or male Indians, diverted
themselves, and passed their time.
They were sporting upon the grass plats
adjoining the various lodges, with bows
and arrows, in the use of which they
displayed much skill and address. Their
arrows were shot with all the precision
and correctness of a rifle ball, at the distance
of twenty, and even thirty, yards.
They are early trained to this exercise;
and they saw little fellows, eight and ten
years of age, there, handling their bows,
that were longer than they were tall.
Young as they were, they showed, in
this exercise, much of the gravity and
stoicism of their fathers. A hit of better
aim and closer point than others,
would sometimes draw forth a single exclamation
of triumph and satisfaction,
from the lucky shooter; but it was for
an instant only that he indulged himself:
the gratified expression flitted across his
face like a flying sunbeam, and almost
instantly his countenance regained its
habitual gravity.
In some of the lodges they visited,
they found companies of young squaws,
sitting together, and busily engaged in
making and ornamenting the various articles
of dress which were to be worn
by the chiefs and braves of the band.
Perhaps it was a token of their love that
they were preparing, to be bestowed
upon their lover, when he should return
victorious from his first war-path, which
he followed to distinguish himself in the
eyes of these dusky maidens; and then
again perhaps it was not.
In these little circles of females, Charles
observed there was not that restraint, that
studied reserve, which prevailed among
the men. The tongue of woman is that
unruly member which may not be curbed.
It matters not whether you go into the
midst of civilized, refined society, or
whether, as in this instance, you visit
the dusky daughters of the wild forest,
the chattering of busy tongues leads the
way to the female apartments. They
spoke in soft, low voices, with the liquid
flow of euphonious sounds that characterize
the language of the North American
savage; and from time to time their
merriment found utterance in the soft,
silvery laugh, that rung in clearest tones,
like sweet music wafted on the delighted
air. The laugh of the Indian squaw is
the mellowest, sweetest laugh, I ever
heard. It is always low and soft; not
bursting broadly, suddenly out, and then
as suddenly and abruptly subsiding, but
swelling gradually forth in low tones at
first, it gently dies away, leaving you entranced
at its sweet undulations.
For an hour the two young men wandered
in delighted interest through the
lodges; and many a smile from the youthful
forest maids would greet our handsome
young gentleman, as standing by
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them he watched them while quietly
employed about their various domestic
tasks: and often would he meet their
dark, lustrous eyes, with mild, kindly expression
bent upon him.
The expression which the dark, piercing
eye of the Indian wears, is keen,
nay almost fierce; but in woman its burning,
scorching fire, is softened: shaded,
as it were, and beams with a subdued,
winning light, that attracts and pleases.
In one of the lodges where our hero entered,
he found an Indian girl sitting
alone. She was so intently employed
in ornamenting a pair of fine buckskin
moccasins, that she did not observe his
approach; and he was there allowed to
stand undisturbed for some minutes, admiring
her beautiful features, and the unstudied
but charming grace of her attitude
and motions. Suddenly she turned
her head, and looking up met his gaze
fixed upon her. She uttered a low exclamation
of surprise and astonishment,
at the same time involuntarily starting
back, but as if by a glance reading the
friendly disposition of her visitor, other
feelings seemed to take possession of her;
the warm blood mounted to her face and
gave a richer glow to her clear olive skin,
while in maiden modesty she hung down
her pretty head. The long, black, silken
eyelashes that fringed their delicate lids,
were dropped till they rested on her fair
cheek. Charles had learned the words
of greeting that were used in her tribe,
and immediately gave this salutation.—
She raised her eyes again to his, and replied
to him, at the same time motioning
him with her hand to be seated.
Oh how he longed for the knowledge
to speak to this fair creature in her own
tongue! What a pleasure it deprived
him of; but it was vain to regret it. She
was fair, very fair, and her features delicate
and beautiful. Her form, beautifully
rounded, was perfect in its proportion,
and full of grace and beauty; she looked
like a fair daughter of the hunting god's,
that in days of yore dwelt in the dark
glades of happy, proud Greece.
He soon, however, found himself able
to interchange his wishes, and convey
his thoughts to her through signs. He
told her by these means how happy he
was to see her land—he loved her people,
and would be their friend. Then
drawing a string of beads from his pocket,
presented them to her. Her bright eyes
sparkled with pleasure as she took from
his hand the esteemed treasure, and as
best she could she thanked him for it;
then, after turning them over in her little
hand in silent admiration, she rose from
her seat and going to the corner of the
lodge, drew forth a pair of tastily worked
moccasins and presented them to him
with a naive expression and gracefulness
of action that quite captivated him.
Charles gallantly advanced to receive
them, and retaining her hand in his own,
while he bade her farewell, as a last token
(for you know he could only address in
this way) drew her to him and implanted
a warm kiss upon her lips, and then departed,
bearing his gift with him. On
arriving at the lodge, he found the little
party awaiting him, ready to leave: bidding
his host, and the other chiefs good-bye,
and waving his hand to the fair girl
who stood at the door of her lodge, looking
after him, they departed.
They now traveled for several days.
Sometimes their path led them across
broad prairies, that looked to the eye like
a vast ocean of water. The waving of the
tall grass, as it bowed its head to the gentle
breezes that swept in light gusts over
its bosom, resembled the swell of the ocean
waves, that break the smooth, glassy surface,
when the storm has passed over it.
The bright and gay flowers that here
raised their heads, above the surrounding
luxuriant growth of prairie grass, as if to
claim the admiration of the passer by, were
of the richest colors; and often you would
see them of great size and thick with their
bright clusters. In addition to these, there
were thousands of more modest natures,
that delighted to spread their beautiful
leaves, beneath the shade of the more aspiring
grass; a variety of hues and tints
were displayed on their unpretending but
lovely flowers; while all over these wide
plains the various herds of wild animals
that rove in innumerable droves, and find
abundant food in their natural pastures,
would be seen feeding undisturbed in their
freedom. The droves of wild horses, or
mustangs, as they are called, which
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supply the Indian knights with swift footed
steeds, would be seen sometimes at their
gambols. It was a pleasant sight to see
those beautifully formed animals displaying
before each other, as if in rivalry, their
graceful carriage; and, then, dashing with
the speed of light across the open plain,
and again wheeling quickly about, prance
proudly back, and join the silent, admiring
herd. This we repeatedly witnessed,
and were highly delighted with the spectacle.
When frightened by the approach
of an enemy, we could then see them
close up in ranks; the fleet and brave leaders
taking the lead, often going out in
the direction from whence they expected
the danger, throwing their beautiful heads
aloft in the air, expanding wide their
pliant nostrils and sniffing up the wind,
when catching, as they seemed to do, the
evidence of their enemy's presence: they
would snort almost like a trumpet of
warning, and tossing aside the long hair
that flowed about their heads and obstructed
their sight, their flashing, fiery eyes
would search the wide plain in pursuit of
the object that startled them. Then, as
if satisfied, they joined their band with
proud, prancing steps, and, like generals,
would lead off the band, keeping in advance
of the ranks, their heads raised up,
their long silky manes streaming in the
wind, their tails sweeping the ground, and
in the order of a troop of cavalry they
would bound along with great speed, till
they were lost to the eye of the spectator in
the distance. Droves of deer and antelope,
with their wide branching antlers, would
sometimes sweep by in majesty, raising
their antlered heads, and leaping with easy
bounds, in graceful curves, they seemed
to scorn pursuit and bid defiance to their
sluggard foes; their springy, elastic limbs
lend them a swiftness, that in fair field
would soon outrun the fleetest pursuer.
They are, indeed, beautifully formed
animals; their long and slender legs;
their light, slim bodies; their velvet coats
of fawn color; their large, round, mild
eyes; their strong and branching antlers—
all serve to render their beauty more
striking, more apparent. They visit the
prairies in large herds at certain seasons
of the year, when they are sought and
hunted by the red man, and by the roving
bands of trappers. If once put fairly to
flight, they escape; and it is only by surprise
they are ever taken.
Our little party had also, in the midst
of these scenes, an opportunity of witnessing
one of those mighty herds of buffaloes,
which are, by way of pre-eminence,
the tenants—the masters of the
western prairies. They were passing
over a green covered prairie, where the
grass was long and thick, and offered the
strongest inducements to the hungry animals,
when the guide pointed out to them,
away off in the distance, a sight which,
to their eyes, seemed like small black
dots among the grass.
“There is a large herd of buffaloes,”
said he, pointing in the direction. “Let
us ride to that little eminence, in the direction,
and you can from there see them
plainly.”
Riding on to the spot designated, a
sight presented itself such as they never
forgot. Standing upon this eminence of
the prairie, with neither tree nor bush
to obstruct the vision in any direction,
they saw animals grazing upon the plain,
and literally darkening it on all sides.
Far as the eye could reach they crowded
upon each other, in numbers like the
leaves of the forest. A low, indistinct
sound that marked their movements came
far across their great natural pasture, to
the ears of our party, and filled them
with eager excitement for the hunt, and
amazement at the grandeur of the scene.
Under the direction of the guide, they
loaded their guns with balls—their rifles
were also loaded, and their pistols. The
pack horses were left in charge of the
half-breeds; and putting spurs to their
horses, they galloped over the plain, and
reaching the herd, rode in amongst them,
selecting their victims as deliberately as
the excited state of their feelings would
permit. They fired their guns at them;
a commotion was raised in the herd; the
wounded ones madly plunged through
the drove, raising their tails aloft, and
dashing off in full flight, followed by those
around them. A sound like the roaring
of the ocean proclaimed that the whole
vast herd was in motion. Our little party
were now completely hemmed in, and
surrounded on all sides by the frightened
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and infuriated animals. But so wild was
the excitement, that they gave not a
thought to the very great risk they incurred
of being run over and trampled down
by the herd. Separated from each other
in their ardor, they saw at intervals, the
smoke of each others' guns, succeeded
instantaneously by the report, and then
followed a general and confused scattering.
Jonathan selected a bull for once,
as the largest and fattest looking of the
herd, and gave him battle. The quick,
sharp crack of his rifle told upon him;
he reeled under it; his tail swung in circles,
lashed the air with fury, he then tumbled
headlong to the earth. Here our
hero wounded a fine cow with a pistolshot,—
maddened and furious by the pain,
she rushed fiercely and blindly after him.
Here it was his well-trained horse stood
him in good stead. Waiting until she
came up, he quickly darted aside, and
avoided the plunge she aimed at him, and
as quickly wheeling alongside of the flying
animal, he stood unflinchingly for his
master's fire. Charles, taking better aim,
discharged a second pistol, which brought
her to the earth in a dying struggle. For
a long time they kept up the sport, the
guide coolly looking on most of the time,
watching the young men, and occasionally
selecting carefully a fat cow, he sent
the ball with unerring aim through the
heart.
When they, tired and exhausted, were
ready to leave, the guide skillfully extricated
them from the flying mass; and
gaining the eminence once more, they
turned to look upon the herd, now in full
flight. They galloped heavily over the
prairie, pressing close after each other,
and extending for miles in line and depth.
The ground shook beneath their heavy
tramp, and a noise like thunder came
booming over the plain. On they went,
and slackened not their speed. Our little
party watched till they were out of sight.
They had killed eight buffaloes. They
took along with them only a small portion
of the huge animal, the robes, and
the nice bits,—being a load for their
horses, and supplying them with food for
several days, until they should reach the
spot chosen for their fixed hunting-ground.
This place was near the sources
of the Missouri and Platte rivers, and
near to the Sweet Water river, which
flows through a green and fertile-looking
country. The highest peak of the Rocky
Mountains is also visible from this point.
The character of the scenery in this section
is various and of the most marked
nature. Along the bottoms of the rivers
and upon the gentle declivities, there is
a luxuriant growth of grass in open plats,
with here and there a line or cluster of
willows; and all over the ground various
and rich flowers springing up, and growing
in wild profusion. Along the sides
of the hills, brilliant flowering plants
abounded, seeking the shelter of the
steep rocks, that sheltered them from the
cold north winds, and afforded the warm,
sunny spots they love so well. The floral
beauty of these luxurious and green
spots, that lay embosomed in the valleys
and along the more gentle slopes, is
truly magnificent. Its beauty is much
heightened, too, by the scenery which
surrounds it, and meets the eye, as you
extend your vision to the everlasting
mountains that rise in the distance, whose
tops seem to mingle with the sky; their
snow-capped summits shining like polished
silver in the bright sun's rays, and
towering in solitary grandeur through
summer's heat and winter's cold alike,
glistening with their snow-white robes.
The grandeur and sublimity of the scenery
in these regions cannot be surpassed.
Here, large and gigantic masses of rock
meet the eye on either side; bold bluffs,
and craggy steeps; precipices, sharp and
steep, look upon peaceful and silvery
lakes, that reflect from their smooth and
glassy surface, as a mirror, the gorgeous
display of the heavens, kindling under a
bright sun, or softly beaming beneath pale
Cynthia's more modest light. So high
these perpendicular cliffs are raised that
the eye, upon looking down the dizzy
height, loses its steadiness, and wanders
in confusion. The giddy brain whirls
round and round with very diziness, and
the rash adventurer clings for support to
the strong branches that on its top o'erhang
the bold steep. Ridge after ridge
rise one above the other, their sides jutting
forth in broken masses of rock, exhibiting
wild and fantastic shapes and
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forms, seen at a distance. Nature here
seems to have undergone some great and
terrible convulsion, overturning, crushing,
and piling up the great bed of
rocks that was once, doubtless, hid beneath
her smooth and even bosom. Columns
and spires and tall minarets rise
from the top of each ridge along the
mountain's rugged top. Deep chasms
and fissures, that seem to have been rent
with her gigantic throes, yawn with deep
and wide openings along its sides. Foaming
torrents come leaping and whirling
on their way from the heights to the quiet
valley, plunging with mad haste over
the large rocks which rise in vain in their
path; and as they follow on, they make
a music well fitted to the wild and grand
scenery around, roaring like the thundertones,
with a deafening sound. Save this,
no sound breaks upon the ear to disturb
the perfect solitude that reigns in this
wild region.
Near this spot old Le Beaux fixed his
quarters for the winter. To such a mind
as Charles possessed—so highly imaginative,
so highly cultivated, and always
eager to discover the grand and beautiful
manifestations of nature, this spot afforded
the greatest delight. He could never
tire of roaming among the flowery dells
that lay in the bosom of the sweet valleys,
filling the air with their delicious
perfume, and lading the breeze with the
sweetest odors; or, winding his way
along the banks of the gently murmuring
streams, that were carpeted with soft
green grass, and variegated with wild
flowers. These were scenes to bless
his repose and sweeten his reflections.
For other moments of excitement and
restlessness, the grand but terrible display
of nature's power and might—the awfully
sublime—the lofty mountains, with all
their wild scenery and undisturbed solitude,
offered him a refuge—a place that
would suit the wildest tumult of the soul,
and awaken a feeling sense of the power
and wisdom and might of their and his
Creator.
Our little party immediately on arriving
here, set about preparing a camp
for their accommodation. Without difficulty
they discovered a spot on the banks
of the Sweet Water, near to which bub
bled up from the earth a clear and cool
spring; a little cluster of green trees afforded
them at once a shady retreat from
the summer's sun, and a defence against
the chilling blasts of winter. In a short
space of time every thing was ready, and
they felt themselves extremely comfortably
settled in their own dwelling. It
was large enough to accommodate a dozen
well; the skins of the buffalo and
deer our hunters had taken, formed soft
and warm beds, when stretched upon the
ground, which had been strewed thick with
leaves, for them to rest upon; each member
of the party also spread out above
them, and to cover their fairy couch,
other skins; by this means, they were
made entirely secure from the dampness
and moisture which might possibly leak
through their rustic roof; the baggage
had a corner devoted to it, which was
carefully prepared and protected from the
slightest effects of exposure. Adjoining
this tent, the half-breeds built a second,
for the purpose of housing the horses in
storms and bad nights. An opening connected
the two together. The opening
was the post occupied by the hounds,
who acted as watchmen for both and over
all the camp. When every thing was
ready, our two young gents went out
with the guide to explore the neighborhood.
They visited several small lakes
that lay between steep hills; they also
traced the course of several winding
streams, that found their way through
thick groves and luxuriant bottoms. In
all of these, as Le Beaux had anticipated,
they found traces of abundance of beaver;
dams were built across the streams, fresh
stripped bark showed that the sagacious
little workmen had recently been busy at
their labors. The silence that reigned unbroken
was an evidence to Le Beaux that
they were the sole adventurers in this
remote spot. As they passed along he
carefully noted every object that was at
all singular, or at all likely to attract attention.
These he pointed out to his
young companions, and told them the necessity
of their being careful in this respect;
for it was from such observations
they would have to depend in finding
their way through the forests, and from
the camp to the traps. He gave them in
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a few sentences a great deal of good counsel,
which would serve them, in case they
happened to lose their path and get benighted
in the woods. A day was spent
in this way, and at night they returned to
their camp, where they found a blazing
fire and a warm reception from the half
breeds, who had gotten a smoking hot
supper all ready for them. Their horses
were unsaddled and unbridled as soon as
they reached here, and turned out to graze
upon the rich grass that spread over the
bottom around the camp. Being hungry
they set down to their meal: buffalo
tougues, and venison steaks are sufficiently
tempting without the addition of sharpened
appetites, and long fasting, and now
combined with these the little party did
trencher feats worthy of the red men
whose exploits had so much astonished
them. The guide had pointed out to
them on their route during the day fresh
signs of deer and antelope, and when
they once ascended the hills they had
heard the bleats of the mountain goats;
from all this they argued a plentiful and
various supply of food for the camp. The
traps and gear for trapping were brought
out after supper, and put in order, and
the camp looked like a scene of bustling
activity. Charles had now acquired sufficient
of the Delaware tongue to be able
to hold conversations, upon all ordinary
topics, in that language with Le Beaux,
and he was constant and persevering in
his efforts to master it. The guide often
spoke in terms of the highest praise of
that tribe, and seemed to manifest strong,
deep feelings of attachment to them.
Charles loved to listen to the anecdotes
he recounted of their bravery, their honesty,
and the sacred regard they invariably
paid to their pledged word. All these
traits were illustrated by a thousand incidents
that had passed under our guide's
observation, and showed that he was
well acquainted with the tribe. He told
his young friends that he should not be
at all surprised if they met the Delawares
in this vicinity during the winter; they
were bold hunters, he said, and brave
horsemen, and wandered farther from
their villages than the other tribes.
Charles, who was most anxious to become
acquainted with a tribe whom he
knew already from the many descriptions
Le Beaux had drawn of them, eagerly
said he did sincerely hope that
they might meet them; it would afford
him the greatest satisfaction, and he was
now able to speak to them in their own
tongue, too, he said, laughing. As yet he
had had but little opportunity to become
acquainted with the Indian from actual,
personal observation, and to him this
was a more important and more desired
object than the hunting and taking furs,
though he was, as they had seen, exceedingly
fond of this sport. The Indian
character had from a boy interested him,
and he was very anxious to become thoroughly
acquainted with it, and as anxious
to use his utmost efforts to promote
their welfare and better their condition.
He spoke eloquently, warmly, upon
this point. He dwelt upon the wrongs
they had suffered at the hands of his people;
the evils that they were exposed to;
the vices that were fast consuming and
destroying them. As he went on, his
face lightened up with excitement, and
he presented that beauty of person for
which he was so distinguished, and
which was so strikingly displayed when
his feelings were aroused.
Le Beaux gazed intently into his face,
he caught the feelings that filled his mind,
his eye glistened in pity as he pictured
their low condition; it blazed in anger at
the story of their wrongs, and again it
gladdened in gratitude to the noble youth
who had devoted himself to their cause.
He had already formed a strong attachment
to our hero, though he had been
born and brought up in the forests, and
had possessed but comparatively few opportunities
for educating himself, yet had
he acquired much knowledge; no time
had been squandered or thrown away
in his father's lodge; who, as we have
already said, was a Frenchman; he had
learned him to read and write. Possessing
a mind naturally reflective, and
strong common sense, he had indulged
in the one to his profit, and been judiciously
guided by the other in his efforts;
he therefore was better able to judge, and
more ready to appreciate the elevated
character of Charles, than many whose
advantages had been tenfold greater than
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his own, and who were surrounded with
all the aids and helps of civilization. As
he listened his heart expanded and his
feelings warmed towards Charles. Now
he loved him with a strong and everenduring
love; he loved him as if he
were his son, and secretly in his own
heart resolved to watch over him, and
serve him with all his strength.
Jonathan, whose chief object in the expedition
was the accumulation of money,
the profits to be made from his furs, felt
his heart kindle with a new and kindly
interest towards the savage and rude children
of the forest, and caught something
of the spirit that actuated and inspired his
cousin.
The next day they commenced their
hunting operations; the best places were
selected for setting their traps, and everything
carefully and cunningly prepared to
cheat the sagacious animal, and lead him
to the snare. At night the traps were all
set.
A buck had been run into the camp, in
the afternoon, by the hounds, which were
allowed to hunt on their own account,
and proved to be good purveyors for the
camp. The buck was shot by one of
the half-breeds,—skinned and cut up for
use. These men acted as servants to
our little party, and performed most of
the labor at the camp; but their generous
employer allowed them most of their
time; to be spent as should please them,
either in hunting or in any other manner
they chose. Jonathan drove a bargain
with them for all the skins and furs they
would take, to stimulate their efforts, and
now all indicated a stirring life in the
camp; guns were kept in readiness;
powder and shot and bullets were assorted,
the trapping-gear was put to rights,
and they had fairly got under way.
The traps were visited early the next
morning by our interested little party,
and they found themselves more successful
than they could have expected; they
had trapped ten fine looking beaver, round
the beaver dams, and two or three seals
had been caught in other spots; these
were killed and brought to the camp.—
Our young friends took their first turn in
dressing their furs this morning.
Thus passed many days at the camp,
visiting the traps morning and evening,
preparing the skins during the day, and
often hunting the deer and antelope, and
mountain goats, with the hounds, during
the afternoon; occasionally fishing in the
lakes and streams, which abounded in
excellent fish. They were very successful,
and being apt scholars, were soon
pronounced by Le Beaux as first rate
trappers and hunters. They kept an
abundant supply of meats and fish and
wild fowl in the larder. Their horses
grew sleek and fat, feeding on the rich
bottoms, and nothing occurred to mar
their sport, or interrupt their enjoyment.
It was about a month from the time
they first pitched their camp on this beautiful
spot, when, late in the afternoon, or
rather in the beginning of the evening,
for the sun had gone down below the
western horizon, and the dusky shades of
evening prevailed, when the ever-watchful
hounds roused themselves from the
quiet sleep they appeared to be enjoying,
and showing signs of uneasiness, began
to snuff the air and search around, as if
something unusual were taking place.—
Charles noticed this, and mentioned it to
the others.
“Let them take their own way,” said
Le Beaux; “the Great Spirit has given
them the gift of perceiving the approach
of objects from a long distance, and they
never err. We shall soon see what is
stirring, that has so troubled them.—
Meanwhile, it is better for us to look to
our weapons, and be ready for whatever
may come.”
As he was saying this, the dogs started
off from the camp, with their heads
thrown up in the air, their eyes glaring,
and the stiff hair bristling upon their
backs, uttering all the while low and fierce
growls. They were gone but a short
time, when they came bounding back, and
taking their places by their master's side,
pointed in a direction opening upon the
door of the camp; while they set themselves
to watch, growling and giving, in
their own manner, evident warning of an
approaching foe.
“'T is wonderful,” said Le Beaux,
“with what unerring certainty and exactness
these animals use their gift. I'll be
bound that something is coming up to the
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camp; yet cannot we, with all our ears,
with the most close watching or listening,
see or hear anything.”
The hounds now ran forward a few
steps, and gave repeated loud barks.
just then, looking in that direction, they
saw objects advancing towards them, and
Le Beaux said he distinguished the tread
of horses. Each one of our little party
clutched firmly his rifle, and, secreting
himself as well as he was able, prepared
to defend themselves against whatever
might attack them. As the new comers
kept on, without making any effort to
conceal themselves or prevent their approach
being distinctly seen, Le Beaux
said, thinking aloud rather than addressing
any one of his companions—
“Their intentions are not hostile, whoever
they may be. Let us keep still and
await their coming, for I can see they
mean to approach the camp.”
They soon came up, and Charles and
his cousin were surprised to see a tall, noble-looking
Indian leap from his horse
and salute Le Beaux, who hastily stepped
forward to meet him, and seized his hand
with every appearance of pleasure and
strong friendship. They talked together
for a few moments, when Le Beaux,
guiding him to where Charles stood, presented
to him his adopted son, Ottahontas.
The two young men stood for a few
moments regarding each other with the
most careful attention, and seemingly each
well pleased with the other. They were,
indeed, two of the finest specimens of
their respective races the world over.
About the same age, in all the vigor of
young manhood, their fine forms having
acquired a full and perfect development,
they exhibited still a striking contrast.
Ottahontas was tall, very tall, and straight
as an arrow; his head was large, but
well formed; his hair and eye-brows
black as jet; his eye, that sparkled beneath
his heavy eye-brows, was keen and
proud as the eagle's, and seemed as if it
would look into your secret soul as it
scrutinized you. His form was stouter
than our hero's, but closely knit and muscular;
his limbs were fashioned most
beautifully—round and tapering at the extremities,
they exhibited proofs of that
great agility and strength for which the
chief was remarkable; the whole bearing
and carriage of the man lofty and noble,
he looked as if nature had fitted him
to rule his fellows. There was a native
grace and majesty about him that impressed
those who approached him, in spite of
themselves, and claimed their respect
and extorted their homage. Charles we
have already described. The young
men withdrew into the camp when their
introduction was over, interested and
pleased each with the other, and both
thinking within themselves that rarely,
if ever, had they met their equal; and
resolving to cultivate the acquaintance
they had commenced.
Ottahontas was presented in due form
to Jonathan, who accosted him in a hearty
tone, asked him when he left the settlements,
and what was stirring. The chief
replied in laconic style to these questions.
Pointing with his hand to a couple of pack
horses, under the care of a true Indian,
Jonathan recognized the pack horses as
his stock in trade for bartering with the
Indians for furs, which had been left behind
when he came out. These were
speedily stowed away; and everything
being quiet again, they all sat down to
supper, which was nearly ready when
Ottahontas' sudden arrival interrupted
them.
The explanation of the young chief's
appearance, in this manner, amongst
them, is easy. When Le Beaux left the
cabin where, as we have related, our hero
fell in with him, he wrote a note, which
he left with the host, to be delivered to
his adopted son on his arrival there, containing
instructions as to the route and
the company with him; and, also, directing
him to bring out with him the packages
of goods, which it had not been convenient
for them to carry with them; and,
also, any letters that might arrive for his
party meantime. He gave him a brief
sketch of the route he was to take, some
directions of the marks and signs he
would make, which he knew would be
more than sufficient to enable the best
scout in the West to follow them; for he
had the greatest confidence in the skill
and ability of Ottahontas. And good reason,
indeed, had he for such trust. Often
had they, together, followed the trail
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of an enemy, which had been concealed
with the most cunning skill; often, when
his own quick, practiced eye (and few
could boast a sharper or keener pair of
optics) had failed to detect any trace of
their path, the wonderful sagacity, or instinct,
it appeared to him, of the young
chief, would point with unerring certainty
the course to be pursued. Amongst a
crowd of noted chiefs, he took the palm
for sharp-sightedness, and the ease with
which he could follow the footsteps of an
enemy. This had gained for him the
title of the Eagle Eye, by which he was
distinguished among the tribes; and his
companion, Le Beaux, who always
fought by his side, whose dreaded rifle
had sent many a bold chief and brave to
another world, was known, also, by another
title: they called him Leloim Lelu,
which signifies, the Sharp Panther. But,
to return to our narrative.
When the Eagle Eye entered the cabin,
and received the note which informed
him his companion was a thousand
miles away, he lost no time in getting
everything in order, and setting out to
overtake him. He followed the trail
without difficulty, although there had
been several rain storms since our party
passed over the route, which had, to the
eye of any but a trained scout, obliterated
all marks that might possibly betray the
path pursued. He made great haste to
reach them, traveling early in the morning
and late in the evening, stopping in
the heat of the day, but only sufficiently
long to rest and refresh the horses. He
brought with him two Delawares, who
accompanied him on his journey before.
These were his old friends. He was
accustomed to hunt and fight in company
with them. His father's tribe was a
branch of the Delawares, and they were
his natural friends. Our young friends
admired their athletic, well proportioned
figures, their intelligent faces, and their
dignified and grave bearing. They were
both young chiefs in their tribe, and
friends of Le Beaux, who seemed glad
to meet and cordially welcome them to
his tent, or our party's tent. He presented
them both to Charles in due form.
The oldest was called Wahallah, and was
a leading chief in his tribe, and a great
warrior; the other was quite young, and
though from a highly esteemed family,
had yet a name and fame to carve out for
himself. His name was Shooshoone,
and he was the best looking by far of
the two. There was a native grace and
unassuming deportment in him, which
could not fail to please. His features
were uncommonly regular and delicate;
his voice, full of feeling and rich in tone,
sent a thrill through the listener. Charles
entered into conversation with him in the
evening, while Le Beaux was deeply engaged
in the account Ottahontas and
Wahallah gave him of their journey.
Charles addressed him in his own language.
Shooshoone's eyes glistened as
he listened to his white brother speaking
his own language, and he did not attempt
to hide the pleasure it afforded him. He
replied in the same language, although
he spoke the English quite fluently.
Our hero asked him if his people were
far from here, and if they were engaged
in hunting.
He replied that the Delawares were
hunting, and the smoke of their fires
might be seen from the high mountain
yonder.
Charles asked him if there were many
lodges in the party.
Shooshoone said that they left behind
many of their tribe—it was but a small
band—there might be a hundred and
fifty lodges. Among them, he said, was
Wahallah's lodge, and, also, his father's;
and the Flower of the Valley came, too,
with them.
Charles asked him what he meant by
the Flower of the Valley.
Shooshoone hesitated for a moment,
and looked as though he felt surprised
that he should ask such a question, or
be ignorant of the loveliest maiden the
tribe could boast. He, however, soon
launched forth again, and spoke her
praises in such terms as not only left no
doubt on his mind as to whom the Flower
of the Valley might be, but even raised
his curiosity, and excited an interest in
his heart with regard to her. In answer
to his questions, Shooshoone said her
step was light as the fawn's, the grass
scarce bent beneath it, the dew-drops
were scarce shaken from the leaf that she
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passed over, her eye was soft as the
dove's, her voice sweeter than the robin's
song, her lips like ripe cherries, and dark
roses flowered on her fair cheeks; her
silky hair was more shining than the
humming bird's plumage, and blacker
than the night-clouds; her voice, again
he said, was like all sweet birds that ever
sung—now the robin's notes were repeated
from her lips, and now the lark's
sweet song was warbled on her tongue:
like all she sings, said he, but better than
them all. The Great Spirit had given
her power to heal the sick and make the
diseased well. She held long talks with
the Great Spirit by herself, and the tribe
dared not interrupt her then. They all
loved her, too, he said, because she was
so kind and gentle.
Charles asked him if there were among
them no chiefs who wished to marry
her.
“The sun shines not in the night,”
said he; “the dove mates not with the
eagle. No, brother,” said he, “she will
never marry an Indian,” and he sighed as
he uttered this declaration.
“Is she not an Indian?” asked our
hero, becoming more and more interested
in her.
“No,” said Shooshoone; “her father
is a pale face chief. He is a great warrior,
and his enemies are afraid to hear
his voice. He lives with the Delawares,
and is one of them. They love him.
His wife is the great Delaware chief's
daughter, and the mother of Coquese,
who is called the Flower of the Valley.
But,” said Shooshoone, “the white chief
will hunt with the Delawares—he will
see the Flower of the Valley. Shall it
not be so?”
“It shall,” said Charles. “I will
visit them.”
Thus did Charles and the youthful
chief pass the evening, in speaking of
the Delawares, Charles often asking
questions, and listening with pleasure to
the ready answers and beautiful language
of his friend. The Indian is full of similes
and comparisons, which he draws
from natural scenes and existences, and
this often renders his speech highly figurative
and beautiful.
Charles resolved that he would soon
visit the Delawares' camp, and spend
some time with them, while Jonathan
should continue the trapping and trading
business of the camp.
But what has Jonathan been doing all
this evening? Look at that bright pitch
knot that is giving a brilliant light over
the camp; close by it sits the Yankee,
and in his hand is an open letter; his eyes
are fixed upon it earnestly; deep feelings
of tenderness and love are stirring in his
heart; as he reads, his thoughts fly back
to his early, happy home; they nestle in
the bosom of that bright-eyed, rosycheeked
girl, Nancy, the farmer's daughter;
her soft low voice whispers in his
ear, her charming breath is warm on his
cheek, and her bright eyes are bending a
look full of love and happiness upon him;
her plump, soft, little hand seeks his
palm, as if its home were there, and it
loved to rest there; now comes another
seene, she is sitting down on the grassy
mound, where he, at her feet, poured out
the torrent of his bursting love; her rosy
lips are pressed to his, and winding his
arm about her slender waist, she is locked
in a lover's fond embrace; warm are
the kisses he gives, and sweet, honeyed,
the nectar that he steals from her lips;
nay, steals not, she gives him all, she
gives her heart, it is his. Where else
should her kisses be bestowed except on
the manly, noble youth who loves her,
and is beloved by her? Look at Jonathan,
and see the changes that come over
his open, manly countenance, as these
tender recollections, one after another
rush through his mind; now a smile
breaks over his face and dimples his sun
burnt cheeks, with youthful laughter;
now the color forsakes his tell-tale face;
his look is like a suppliant that kneels to
beg for life, yet fears his prayer will find
a cold reception; but see, the truant
blood that ran away, comes leaping back,
the modest eye that drooped and played
the suppliant so well, is sparkling with
sudden joy and hope; his parting lips
kiss the air, his hand seeks an airy phantom,
in vain he draws his arm in a closer
embrace. The dream is over, and he
looks with staring and astonished gaze
about him.
Such was the scene which might have
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[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
been observed in one corner of the tent
where Jonathan sat reading a letter; none
of your little, short, cramped-up, unsatisfactory
letters; but a bold hand, a well
covered sheet and home-sounding words,
all breathing unabating and unchanging
love to him,—poor, wandering, unworthy
mortal.
This was the letter that Nancy wrote
months ago to him, and it had followed
him from place to place, and sought him
long, in vain; but here at last, close at the
foot of the highest peak of the Rocky
Mountains, it had come up with him,
and oh! how it gladdened him with its
presence! how often he pressed it to his
lips, and kissed it, and how happy it
made him feel to hug it to his breast, and
fancy that it was his dear, laughing, loving,
mirthful little Nancy, that had come
after him.
But what in the world did she say
in her letter, that had such an effect
upon our friend, and made him silent
a whole evening at a stretch? such a
thing had not happened before since his
acquaintance with the present party commenced.
They both noticed his unusual
silence, and saw the cause, but like sensible
men they allowed him to enjoy an
uninterrupted evening over it. Nancy
had written him, like a good, true-hearted
girl, that she was well, how she loved him
better, if possible, than-ever, how she
longed to see him, and hoped with all her
heart, he would soon come home again
to leave no more; she dreamed of him
when she slept, she said, and then, oh!
how happy she was; he seemed to be
again by her side, and then his clear
voice, so full of love and tenderness whispered
in her ear in tones sweeter than all
other sounds; this, she said, was her
only happy time; and then how she
loved to sleep now, that she might dream
of him, and that kind letter he sent her
from St. Louis; but it was a dangerous
city, so sickly she was glad he had left
it; but oh! what a mighty distance he
had gone from home, and how much she
feared lest he should be sick, and have no
kind friend to help and take care of him.
Then she told him how well her father
and mother were, and how they prospered;
what a great crop they had reap
ed, and how healthy her brothers and
sisters were.
But we will not intrude farther into
Jonathan's letter: we have already seen
enough of it, we think, to satisfy any
sensible man, that those antics and somewhat
uncommon faces that he made this
evening, were all right and perfectly correct;
he did as he should do, and it was
nobody's business but his own. That
night sweet sleep came to him and
brought him dreams, sweeter even than
his waking fancies had conjured up before
him. He kissed the dear letter
again and again, a hundred times before
he went to sleep, and when at last he settled
himself to rest, he placed it close by
the side of that shiny braid of glossy hair
he wore over his heart, and before he
closed his eyes, he asked for all Heaven's
blessings to rest on his dear Nancy.
Such were Jonathan's thoughts and
actions that night; and all arose from
that noiseless, silent letter, that had
reached him. What a charm or joy there
is in a letter from a dear friend! There
is nothing so like to seeing the friend
himself, as holding in your hand his, actually
his, or her letter. It is not so
much the words of the letter, though they
may convey the most interesting intelligence;
it is not the length of it, nor the
brevity of it; it is not the flowing wit
and humor, nor is it the deep feeling, the
tender love, the sober tone, or lively
painting, that so much enchants us. No,
none, nor all of these can do for the
reader what Jonathan's letter did for him.
It is the sight of that hand, the feeling
that it comes from home—from loved
friends—has, in itself, independent of
any and everything else, has a power to
awaken and arouse old associations, to
call up from their hiding places the absent
ones that we love so well, and make
them stand out before us again in all their
freshness and well-remembered forms.
Their features are distinct to the sight;
all, everything, is as we left them; again
we are transported back to the scene of
the writer; we walk with him through
the shady garden alley; every familiar
bush and sprig smiles upon and greets us.
The same little birds are singing in the
trees in front of the house; nothing is
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[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
gone—nothing is changed; all the scene
is perfect: and, as it stands out in all its
glowing colors before our mind's eye,
we are filled with delight and pleasure.
Such is the mystery that wrought upon
our Yankee friend's mind, on the receipt
of that wonder-working epistle. Had he
visited his home and his friends, and
looked with his bodily eyes upon them,
they would not have appeared more distinct
to him than they were when he looked
at the letter he held in his hand. But
it is time we gave a thought to old Le
Beaux, whom we left very unceremoniously
to talk with Ottahontas and Wahhallah.
He had succeeded in his object in visiting
Astoria; he had led safely the little
band of settlers, whose lives were
sought by hostile Indians. They had
been defeated in their purpose, and disappointed
of their expected plunder.
Four of his mortal enemies had fallen by
his own hand in fight; and now he had
safely returned. A little band of Delawares
were encamped about an hundred
and fifty miles to the south of them,
where they proposed to spend the winter
in hunting and collecting furs. There
were about an hundred and fifty lodges
in the encampment; and those two Delawares
with him, belonged to one of the
lodges.
Such was the character of the information
which Ottahontas had to give Le
Beaux, which I give only in the outline.
There was much of exceeding interest,
of a strictly personal nature, which we
cannot relate. The evening was far
spent when our little party retired to
sleep that night. A new arrival was, in
itself, a great event in their camp life.
CHAPTER XI.
Early the next morning the trappers
set about their pursuits, as usual. The
traps were visited, and the captures
brought into camp, and dressed. The
remainder of the day was spent in hunting
with the new comers; and not until
evening did they return from the chase.
After supper our hero had a long conversation
with Le Beaux, upon the contemplated
visit to the Delawares; and it
was agreed that they—that is, Charles,
Le Beaux, and the two Delaware chiefs—
should set out as soon as they could
get ready, leaving Jonathan and Ottahontas
in charge of the camp, with the two
half-breeds. Accordingly, the next day
was spent in getting things ready.—
Charles selected from his stock many articles
for presents, which he intended to
give the chiefs. Nor was Coquese, the
Flower of the Valley, forgotten. A pair
of showy bracelets, a handsome string of
beads, and a bright-colored, pretty scarf,
were among the particular articles chosen
for this famous dusky maiden. Charles
could not help laughing to himself, as he
was thus engaged, at the idea of his deliberately
picking out these articles for
the Indian belle, whom he had never
seen. There was no fear that she would
refuse them. None of that hesitation and
tumultuous palpitation and wild throbbing
of the heart, which so often afflicts and
torments the white dandy, as he selects
and purchases some bauble love-token to
please the eyes of his heart's chosen; no
calculating whether she will be so kind,
so particularly condescending, as to accept
it; or whether she will laugh at
him for his presumption, and ridicule
him for his daring folly. And, then, the
framing of his speech, in which he humbly
begs her acceptance of the trifling present,
and hopes she will wear it on his
own, sole, particular account. None of
these; but, like a woman selecting potatoes
for the pot, he overhauls carelessly
his store, and readily chooses his presents,
and puts them into his packet.—
But we will see by and by how he feels
and how he acts with regard to this same
maiden, and whether an Indian belle is
so very different from a city belle—whether
her gallants are not as courteous, as
ardent, and as watchful to please her, as
any buck that sports his laced collar and
well-trimmed mustache, for his lady to
admire, in the refined and polished city
circle.
All was settled and everything in readiness
the next morning. They calculated
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upon reaching the encampment the fourth
day after this, and expected to make
their journey without meeting any roving
bands of Indians, as the Delawares informed
them that the other tribes did not
often come so far from their villages to
hunt. The Delawares were much pleased
that the white chief, as they styled
Charles, was to return with them. They
were already much pleased with him.
The Indian is a great admirer of beauty
in the human species, and has a good eye
for beauty. His judgment is not often
wrong on this point. They had readily
acknowledged the superior claims of our
hero to manly beauty; and they had also
some more striking proofs of his generosity,
in the shape of presents which
he had bestowed upon them. To Wahhallah
he had given a hunting-knife, with
a handsomely carved handle and a polished
metal sheath, with which he appeared
to be much delighted, and was
constantly admiring it. To his younger
brother he had given a pair of brassmounted
pistols and a powder-flask.—
The youth appeared pleased with them,
but evidently thought less of them than
Wahallah did of his present. He seemed
rather delighted to be in the company
of his new friend, and loved to listen to
his words. He saw that he was a great
man, and had much learning; his wisdom
and his kindness were the attractions
that bound him to the white chief,
and made him his fast friend. Charles
loved to talk of the red men, and to ask
questions of Shooshoone concerning
their lands, their language, their tribe,
and all their customs; and often would
he break forth in their praise, as Shooshoone
related some anecdote, illustrating
their devotion to their chiefs, or their love
for the land that held the boues of their
fathers; or their exploits in war, showing
the personal prowess of their great
warrior-chiefs. It would call forth his
admiration, and remind him of the tales
he had read of the chivalry of the old
feudal times. There was much, to his
mind, that resembled it in those untaught
natives of his own land.
The third afternoon of their journey
they found themselves approaching the
village of the tribe. It was still some
miles distant, and Wahallah proposed
going forward to inform his people that
guests were approaching, with the desire
to hunt with them, and remain at their village
during the winter. This was according
to Indian etiquette. A chief always
sends a courier ahead to prepare his tribe
to receive his guests. It was, therefore,
agreed that Wahallah should go forward
for this purpose; and he fixed upon a
place where he would again rejoin them
the next day—under the guidance of
Shooshoone, who was to remain with
them, and conduct them on the route.—
The next day when they had approached
to within two miles of the village,
Shooshoone led them to an oak grove,
where, he said, they were to await the
coming of Wahallah. They had been in
the grove but a few minutes, before a
horseman was seen at full gallop crossing
the plain, in the direction of the village,
and approaching them. He soon came
up, and they recognized in him (though
with some surprise) Wahallah, now superbly
mounted on a dark, wild horse,
adorned with trappings of strange device
and brilliant colors. He wore a
large and showy plume of eagle's feathers
on his head; his moccasins were
highly ornamented with stained porcupine
quills, and a pair of fine buckskin
leggins, ornamented with the same material,
covered his nether limbs. A gaudy
hunting-shirt, made of calico, completed
his dress. He told them his tribe was
ready to receive them; and stopping a
few moments to talk with them, turned
and rode back. Charles thought this
singular deportment in his friend, but the
guide told him that he was one of the
leading chiefs, and it was the custom of
the tribe for the chiefs to receive their visitors
in a body, and Wahallah had gone
back to join them, but he would soon see
him again.
They now mounted their horses again,
and set forward to reach the village. After
having proceeded awhile in silence,
they were interrupted by Le Beaux, who
said to Charles—
“Look yonder: they are coming to
meet us.”
Charles suffered his eyes to take the
direction pointed out to him; and there,
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ahead of them, and advancing toward
them, were a large body of Indians, all
mounted on horseback. They came
gaily on, their horses prancing, and striving
to show themselves off to the best
advantage, while their riders performed
various feats of horsemanship, which
showed them both bold and dexterous
horsemen. In this manner they approached
almost to the place where our
horsemen had drawn themselves up and
came to a halt. They then fell into close
ranks, in perfect order, and advancing to
our party, bade them welcome to their
village. Then, wheeling round, they returned
in company with our friends to
the village. Arriving here, Wahallah
leading the way to his tent, he invited
them to dismount and enter. He gave
their horses in charge of the young sanaps
that stood by ready to take them. A
few minutes elapsed, when Wahallah,
who had gone out immediately upon ushering
them to his lodge, returned, and
motioned them to attend him. They
followed him in silence through the village,
to a lodge that stood apart from the
others, and was tenanted by Chihua, a
venerable-looking man, upwards of eighty
years old. This was the hall of audience.
Here they held their councils, and
received their ambassadors from other
tribes; here, too, their guests were introduced
to the chiefs, and when this ceremony
was once performed, they were under
the protection of the tribe, and they
considered themselves sacredly bound to
perform towards and extend to them the
rites of hospitality.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, they
saw some dozen chiefs and braves, who
were accustomed to give attendance on
such occasions as the present. They
were presented to each of them in turn.
Le Beaux was on terms of familiarity
with all the tribe, and received a cordial
greeting from all the assembly. After
this ceremony was over, the pipe was produced,
which is always used on state occasions,
and is the indispensable companion
of the red man in times of council,
whether the object be one of war or
of peace, or, as at present, the reception
of guests. It is the mode, the symbol
which concludes and completes their
compacts and treaties. It is the warrant
which binds them to inviolably respect
the rights and property of their guests;
and from the time of this ceremony, so
long as he remains, a guest may put confidence
in their acts.
The pipe was lighted, Chihua puffed a
few clouds, and with his own hand presented
it to the white chief, who did the
like, and then presented it to the chief
on his right. In this way it made the
circuit of the assembly, each one puffing
at it in silence a minute, and passing it to
his next neighbor. Chihua then, in a
short speech, invited the white chief to
become his guest. He said the Indian
was weak, and the pale faces were strong,
and dwelt in large cities—not in camps,
like the poor Indian—and had many
goods, and much wealth; they had grown
numerous as the stars in the sky, and
they had conquered all their enemies in
war; their horses were strong, and fed
in flocks in green pastures that the pale
face had made for them. The pale face
had plenty of rifles, and was rich in powder
and lead. He said, the poor Indian
could not equal his white brother; but,
the pale face brought the fire-water to the
Indian, which made him mad, and changed
him into a beast. This was wicked,
he said. His white brother knew not
the suffering, the curse, it brought upon
the poor Indian. His arms fell dead at
his side, his feet caught in the grass, and
he reeled like the tree shaken with the
whirlwind; but, said he, I knew my
white brother would bring no fire-water
to his tribe; he was the red man's friend;
Wahallah had told them what the white
chief had said, and his people loved him.
Wahallah would lead him to his lodge,
and the white man should hunt with the
Delawares, and eat at his table, and sleep
in his lodge, safe from his enemies.
It now was our hero's turn to answer.
This he did in a short speech, in which
he thanked the chiefs for their ready hospitality,
and repeated to them his professions
of friendship and good-will. He
assured Chihua, that he looked upon the
practice of the pale faces of selling fire-water
to his red brothers as wicked and
detestable; and that he had no heart to
do it. Then, turning to Le Beaux, he
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requested him to open the pack which
contained the presents he had brought
with him. These consisted of powder,
lead, tobacco, knives, and a quantity of
highly colored pieces of calico; together
with various other articles, such as are
most esteemed by the Indians. These
he distributed to the different chiefs, who
were much delighted with their gifts, and
praised him in warm expressions of gratitude
for his kindness to his red brothers,
and pledged their friendship and protection
to him.
Wahallah, at his own request, had
taken upon himself the office of host;
and, now, as the assembly was broken
up, he led them to his lodge again, where,
he told them, they were to make their
home. It gave him great satisfaction to
entertain the white chief, so great an impression
had Charles already made upon
him, not only from the presents he had
received from him, but because of his
wise talk, as he called it, and his noble
bearing. Also, the guide was a well
known and highly respected friend of this
tribe. They knew him to be a great
warrior, and a good friend to the Delawares.
There was in the council one
man who had particularly attracted our
hero's attention, and who had saluted Le
Beaux more familiarly than the rest. He
was a tall, fine-looking man, as, indeed,
were all that band of chiefs and braves;
but, even in such a company, his figure
was strikingly commanding. Taller than
the rest, he was, at the same time, finely
and symmetrically proportioned, so that
his uncommon stature showed none of
that awkwardness which often is connected
with men of very tall stature.—
He was dressed after the fashion of those
around him, save that there was about him
a certain attention to neatness and tidiness
which none of the others could claim.
His features, too, although almost as dark
as his companions, were more regular,
and resembled more the European than
the Indian. His hair, instead of being
black and straight, like the others, was a
dark brown, and hung in thick curls all
over his head and neck. He occupied
the next seat to the old chief, at his right
hand, and seemed to be treated more like
a superior than an equal. He did not
display that eagerness and admiration the
others showed when the presents were
distributed, though he received his share
with the others, and thanked our hero in
the Delaware tongue for them.
“Who is he?” said our hero, as soon
as they were alone in their lodge. “I
do n't think he is an Indian by birth; if
he is, he is not of their tribe, certainly.
He is a captive, who has been taken from
the settlements in time of war, perhaps.
He is, truly, one of the noblest men in his
bearing I ever met.”
Le Beaux was evidently pleased rather
than astonished or surprised at these
questions. He was pleased at the quickness
with which Charles made the discovery,
and the truth which had been so
suddenly developed by him. He, therefore,
in a pleasant tone, said to him—
“Well, really, you are a very shrewd
man, to see through so complete a disguise
at a single glance. I must confess
there is not one in a hundred who could
have done it. I dare say you are right
in part of your supposition, and wrong
in part. He is not an Indian by birth,
though he has lived long with this tribe,
and adopted them as his people, and has
married the old chief's daughter—and a
very pretty woman she is, too, and makes
him as good a wife as many a white woman
would have done. He is esteemed
the strongest and the bravest man in the
tribe, and is known as a great warrior.
His history he has before now told me;
and if there is an honest and a generous
heart in the world, it beats in the breast
of M. Boileau. He is a Frenchman by
birth, and is of good family, and was once
rich; but the world treated him cruelly,
basely, and he turned his back upon it,
and sought the friendship of the Delawares,
who gladly received and soon
came to love him. For more than twenty
years he has lived with them, and has
not, for the first time, quitted them to visit
his former acquaintances. He seems
happy and contented here, and has done
the tribe much good, by teaching them,
and reforming their bad habits. Through
his means intoxicating drinks have been
banished from the tribe, and are forbidden
to be brought into their villages. He has
a family growing up about him, whom
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you will have an opportunity to see.”
Some hour, or thereabout, after their
introduction to the tribe, they were
summoned to a plentiful feast. This
lasted about a half hour, and was spent
in eating. Conversation is not a gift of
the red man; he wears it, like a great
coat, only to put on when it is impossible
to do without it. If some of the pale
faces would do the like, I fancy there
would be less worn-out garments displayed
before the parior firesides and in the
crowded saloons of fashionable people.
So thought Charles. There was one exception
to this wholesale eating in the
ranks: that was observed in M. Boileau,
who had now come in for an increased
share of Charles' attention, that he had
gleaned a few facts from Le Beaux, in
conversation with him, of his history. He
ceased eating about the same time that
Charles did, who thought himself
wonderful for his powers of stuffing. It
was, however, comparatively moderate
in that company.
Charles felt an inclination to take a nap
after he had retired to his lodge, but his
attentive host was already at his side, with
the tempting pipe—that emblem of all
that is good and true and noble in Indian
life and character—that dear friend, to
whom they fly for comfort and consolation
in peace and war, in hope and despair.
It is, at all times and in all places,
a true friend of the red man's. It inspires
the tongue of the orator, when he
sways, by his convincing and persuasive
word, the councils of his tribe; it renders
soft and fascinating the out-pourings of
the Indian lover, when he wooes the dusky
maid, and breathes, in passionate
tones, the story of his love, when he
paints the glory of his course, and lays the
promises of future greatness and fame
that await his steps down humbly at her
feet, as an offering to her, his divinity and
idol. In victory and prosperity it sends
up to the clear heavens its white, curling,
clustering wreaths of smoke in dense
clouds, that follow thick and fast, and
mount up gaily. In sorrow and adversity
it sympathises with the crushed and
chastened heart; now its thin, light
wreaths come slowly forth, and cling
around the face and neck, as if to soothe
and caress the sufferer. Slowly they
lift themselves, tardily they spread their
ærial wings for flight, and often, with
streaming eyes, he sees them depart. All
this the mute, silent, speechless pipe does,
and boasts not of its deeds; and much
more does it do, and can it do for its
friends. Is it strange, then, that Charles
shook off his drowsiness, and put his
mouth eagerly to one of these blessed instruments?
For a long time he sat smoking, and
ruminating all the while, upon the strange
scenes he had just witnessed. When
he had finished he carefully knocked the
ashes from the bowl, and looking lovingly
upon it, handed it back to Wahalla;
then rising he took his cap and gun in
his hand, and turning to his companious
told them he was going to take a stroll in
the woods near the village, and would be
back soon. His faithful hounds, that we
last saw on the track of the flying deer,
now watching the movements of their
master, slowly roused themselves from
sleep, and getting up, prepared to follow
him. He left the lodge with them at
his heels; and directing his steps to the
opposite side of the village, passed by
several lodges that lay in his way, an
object of observation and interest to the
many dark eyes that turned towards him
from the inmates. But heedless of
them all, he reached the woods that
skirted the opening close by the village,
and without any definite motive or attention
to his way, took the first path that
he met leading to the forest. For some
time he walked on, following the windings
and turnings of the path, occasionally
stopping to admire some strange bird
that leaped from among the branches of
the trees which overhung his way, or
alighted on the ground before him.—
And here and there his eye was attracted
by the blooming flowers that opened
their bright tinted leaves to catch the sun
beams, that found their way through the
tangled and netted foliage that grew
above and around them; when a sudden
bend in the direction brought him in full
view of a beautiful little stream, which
wound its peaceful way in noiseless flow
through the dense forest shades. It was
but a few steps in advance of him, and
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he walked on till he stood upon the grassy
bank that confined its waters to their
narrow channel. Dark and shining were
the clear waters of that little stream, hidden
in the depths of the forest. The
bending branches of the tall trees that
grew on either side, seemed to mingle
and interlock with each other, as if in
close friendship, and in many places
formed a complete shade from the sun's
rays.
The air was calm and still. Not a
breath of wind disturbed its smooth and
polished surface; but here and there the
sportive gambols of some tiny fish, that
lived in its limpid bosom, for a minute
would dash aside the water, as it leaped
into the air, and as quickly darted away
again in its native element, just showing
in its brief visit, the shining scales that
covered its gracefulshape. Or perchance
some luckless little insect that rashly
ventured on its domain, would bring its
watchful tenants to the surface, to punish
the intrusion.
Charles stood for some minutes, gazing
with pleasure on the scene, and watching
the movements of the fish. As he at
last cast his eyes along the banks, up
and down the stream, he saw not far
below where he stood, a small, slight
canoe that lay by the bank, fastened by
a cord. Curious to examine it, he took
his way to the spot, and coming up, his
curiosity was a good deal heightened as
he discovered on examining it, that it was
singularly modeled, and constructed most
skillfully, with evident attention to beauty.
It was curiously ornamented along the
sides. Near the top, from stem to stern,
stained bark of various rich colors, was
interwoven with bands of dressed skin.
A painted figure of a fish, adorned the
bows, with an imitation of its native
element about it. The inside was lined
with skins, and fur cushions covered two
small seats that stretched from side to
side, at either end. The paddles that
lay on the bottom of the canoe, were
covered with carving of various devices,
and were the work of great labor. It
was altogether a fairy little boat, and
a fit bark for the nymph of the stream,
when she might wish to ride over her
kingdom.
Charles examined it long and attentively,
and as he did so, wondered to
whom it might belong. He thought it
too fragile and little for a man's use, and
everything about it denoted it a pleasure
bark, rather than one for common use.
But he puzzled his brains in vain; he
could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion
with regard to it.
As he turned round and looked up the
bank, he discovered near where he stood,
a little sylvan arbor. It covered a space
not greater than ten feet square. Living
branches of green, closely woven and
interlaced, formed its sides, and these
were turned into an arch above, which
rendered it completely impervious, both
to the rays of the sun, and the drops of
rain. The front that looked out upon the
stream, was mostly open; the branches
had been trimmed, and their leaves cut off
to afford a wider prospect. Two or
three low seats were placed at the farther
side. Fresh green boughs were spread
on the ground, and it looked like a suitable
abode for the possessor of the little
canoe.
Charles now felt persuaded that there
was something more than the untutored
and rude taste of the Indian in these
woods, that had formed these really beautiful
structures. It looked to him more
like the garden bower of an Eastern
princess, than the tent of a North American
Indian girl. But he resolved to
enter and see if there was not something
within this enchanting little arbor, that
would give him a clue to its owner. But
in vain he searched every nook and corner;
nothing rewarded his efforts. And
after having gone over it some half dozen
times at least, he sat down as wise as
when he commenced.
After sitting a few minutes, he concluded
that he would wait here for the approach
of its tenant, and in this way discover the
mystery. He accordingly stretched himself
at full length on the soft boughs, and
taking off his cap, he placed it under his
head, laid his gun by his side, while his
dogs stretched themselves at his feet.—
This was a dangerous position for a man
to take after a hearty dinner, if he wishes
to keep awake.
But Charles did not intend to remain
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but a short time; he would return shortly
to the lodge. Such was his resolution.
But alas! for his resolution. A few
minutes only had passed in this quiet
spot, upon his really soft couch, ere he
had fallen into a quiet slumber. He had
been asleep for more than an hour.—
He dreamt of fairies dwelling in rustic
bowers, in wild solitudes, and clothed in
more than mortal beauty and purity.—
And he would see them skimming the
smooth water in painted barges, and little
fairy boats, that floated gracefully over
the waves, propelled by their slender
hands. A smile was breaking over his
face, his long, silken, dark eye-lashes,
that fell upon his cheek, trembled; his
long clustering curls fell down his neck
and over the side of his face, partly hiding
his white forehead; his red lips slightly
parted. His neck was mostly exposed,
his collar having fallen back from his
throat, exposing the clear white skin.
As beautiful, voluptuous a spectacle he
presented, while there he lay in graceful
ease, as a real, living, breathing Apollo.
Just at this moment, had he been awake,
he might possibly have heard a light,
merry footstep, that came tripping over
the grass in a different direction from that
which he had taken, and approaching
the bower, with a smiling face, the stranger
turned at the opening of her accustomed
haunt, when suddenly a sight met
her eyes that checked her course and
arrested her step, and caused her to draw
back. But she did not scream or faint;
but listening a moment to the breathing
that came from the intruder upon her
privacy, she carefully advanced again,
and as she looked upon the young pale
face that was thus sweetly slumbering,
the blood mounted to her face and neck,
and a modest blush suffused them both
with a deep glow; her heart beat quicker
in her bosom. His exceeding beauty,
now that she saw him, (for at first she
had only discovered that there was some
one in her arbor), fascinated her, and
held her gaze riveted upon him. Her
fond and tender heart overflowed towards
him, and feelings such as her heart had
never known before, stirred within her.
The trusty hounds that lay at his feet,
raised their heads and glanced quietly at
her, then, as if knowing their master was
safe in such hands, offered no opposition
to her advance. As if impelled by an
irresistible fate, she slowly, step by step,
advanced towards the sleeper, stopping
at each step, and listening carefully, lest
she might awaken him. But still he
moved not, but continued to sleep on,
his face changing as his dreams broke
over his vision. She reached his side,
and stooping over him, she gazed upon
him with looks of love and melting tenderness.
And there by his side she sat;
still, scarcely breathing, lest she should
disturb his slumber, gazing eagerly upon
his face. Every feature, every line was
impressed upon her heart with a power
that would never suffer it to be effaced.
She compared him with all she had ever
seen before; but how mean did they all
seem when contrasted with him. She
almost fancied that he was a sleeping
angle, and feared he would spread his
golden wings and seek the sky, should
he awake.
As she hung over him brushing away
the flies that sought to light upon his
face, and watching his every movement,
his lips parted, and a low sound came
from between them. She bent low her
ear, as if to catch the sound, but it died
away in an indistinct murmur, and came
not again. His lips moved, but there
was no sound. Then of a sudden, he
turned round on his side, with his face
towards her; as he did so, his hair fell
over his face, and disturbed him. She
gently put back with her soft, little, plump
hand, the truant curls. As she did so,
her hand touched his cheek; at the
touch, a thrill ran through her whole
frame, filling it with the most delightful,
most exquisite sensation, and sent the
blood swiftly through her veins.
Her love grew as she gazed upon him,
and ere she herself knew it, or ere he
had opened his eyes, she had yielded up
her heart to the sleeping stranger. What
pleasure to sit and watch by him. It
was a new, strange feeling. She had
found in this youth, the ideal image she
had pictured in her dreams. Alone in
the woods, in her private bower, as if
dropped there from the skies, she had
found him. But look, he moved his
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hand. What a small, pretty hand, she
thought to herself. But now his face is
shaded as if with pain. His hand has
fallen under him, and he is pressing upon
it. Tenderly as a mother raises her
infant, she moves him and takes his hand
from under him. Again that thrilling,
exquisite sensation runs through all her
frame. She folded his hand in her
bosom, and pressed it to her lips. Oh!
what bliss! what sweet happiness!
And now emboldened by his sound sleep,
she stooped low over him, and parting
the hair that falls about his forehead, she
softly kisses him, her blushes all the
while chasing each other over her glowing
face. How she longs to have him
open his eyes, that she might see him
smile upon her. She already fancies
that he will love her. Such was her
pure and simple heart; so void of guile,
so destitute of art, that she, feeling that
she had given him all her fond heart,
believed he must return her love.
At last he moves; again his long eye-lashes
tremble, he is about to wake.—
Now she, poor thing, trembles; she
would fly if she could, from what a
moment ago she desired so strongly;
but her strength has forsaken her. Before
she recovers herself, he opens his
eyes; he looks confusedly about him at
first. Suddenly his eyes meet hers; he
opens them wider, and with wonder depicted
in his face, he for an instant stares
at the lovely being that sits by his side;
then closes his eyes again. It must be
a dream. Is he awake? can it be that
the nymph of the stream is really, truly
beside him? “Would that it were so,”
he murmurs to himself. But he almost
fears to open his eyes once more, lest the
sweet vision shall have fled. Slowly
he opens them again. 'Tis true; there
by his side sits the fairy. With blushing
modesty her eyes are veiled beneath
her silken lashes; her swelling bosom
heaves full plainly to his sight, beneath
her light mantle. Her breath is almost
on his cheek.
“Yes,” he exclaims, “it is, it is a
blessed reality, and you are not a spirit,
a phantom of a dreamy brain.”
In eager, but beseeching tones, he
utters these words. She starts at the
sound of his voice, and lifts her eyes to
his flushed and excited countenance.—
If she admired him while sleeping, how
is she now fascinated as his bright,
sparkling eyes, lighting up his whole
countenance, and giving life and expression
with double force, are turned in
admiring gaze upon her. She understood
very well the language he used,
and a slight smile at his eager words,
and ardent, wondering look, broke over
her face. Charles saw it, and this at
once recalled him to his senses, which
had wandered a little at first. Rising
at once, and blushing deeply, he attempted
an apology for his intrusion. He had
not meditated for a moment the purpose
of sleeping there, he said. He had for
a minute or two rested, but sleep over-took
him before he was aware of it. He
hoped she would pardon him for the intrusion.
While he spoke, the rich tones of his
manly voice came upon her ear like sweet
music. She hardly dared to look at him,
and yet she desired to do so. When he
ceased speaking, he humbly and anxiously
awaited her answer. In a soft, silvery
voice she answered him, that no apology
was needed for his intrusion. She was
glad indeed, very glad, her little arbor
had afforded him a shelter. It was a
great pleasure to her to find him there;
she would love to have him come there
and rest himself often; and would he not
come to her father's lodge? it was but a
step, close at hand, she added.
As she spoke, Charles, who now had
regained his presence of mind, jumped at
once to the conclusion which his quickened
senses pointed out. Yes, thought
he, it is she; it is Coquese, the Valley
Flower, that Shooshoone spoke of. And
with this conclusion, he raised his eyes
to see more fully her queenly beauty.—
As he did so, he thought he had never
beheld so fair, so rich a beauty before in
his life. Above the medium height, she
was most beautifully proportioned. The
graceful curves of her limbs; the soft,
swelling roundness of her beautiful bust;
her plump, round arm; her small, neat
ankle, and pretty foot; her long, wavy
auburn hair, that floated so gracefully
about her beautifully moulded shoulders,
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and reached even to her feet; her large,
dark, expressive eyes, that seemed to
swim in love and tenderness; her
straight, Grecian nose and profile; her
small mouth, with the curved line of
swelling lips, that blushed more rosy
than the morn; her chiseled chin, with
the soft, full round throat; all her rare
perfections of form and feature, were
adorned and gathered farther beauty from
the rich, clear olive complexion, that
looked almost transparent, and glowed
with her blushes to a rich, deep red, a
lovely hue, that defies description, and
mocks at imitation, while it rendered
more conspicuous and brilliant, the dazzling,
pearly whiteness of teeth that were
regular and even. By chance, her small,
and delicately formed hand rested upon a
slender branch, that had broken from its
training, and displayed her taper fingers.
From these Charles suffered his eyes to
wander again to her face, and wondered
at the dark, and beautifully penciled eye-brows,
which o'erarched her lustrous
eyes. Love and feminine tenderness
played over all the lineaments of her
lovely face. Whilst free from the reserve
and restraint that fetters and distorts
ladies of fashion, there was an ease in
her movements, a true, simple delicacy,
an air of grace, an alluring charm
about her, that not all the wealth of the
world can purchase, nor all the honors of
high birth can give.
Charles was spell-bound by her beauty
and her loveliness. A strange reluctance,
or rather diffidence, seized his tongue,
and made him speak broken sentences
and stammering words, when he attempted
to address her. The simplicity, the
ready confidence, and affectionate reception
which she offered him, all made a
strong impression upon him, and called
forth such feelings from his heart as all
the wealth and all the polish and glittering
attractions that had assailed him in
civilized society, had failed to awaken.
It was love which, although he knew it
not, nor would acknowledge it, perhaps,
even to himself, was yet destined to fill
his heart, and sway his future life. Sometimes
love is the growth of long acquaintance,
and is fed by the esteem or regard
first felt towards its object. Little
by little it works its way into the heart,
where it grows and fixes deep its strong
roots, that strengthen until they have entirely
gained the affections. Sometimes
the elevated character and great reputation
of the beloved object first kindle the
flame that, by degrees, burns with an all-consuming
fire. At others—as in the case
of Charles and Coquese—it leaps, at a
single bound, over all barriers, and a
glance as fully and as completely enthrals
the heart with its strong, enduring bands,
as if it had been the idol they had cherished
in their hearts from childhood. We
venture to say that our hero was as much
in love with this fair girl of the forest the
first time he saw her, and that she as
strongly, as ardently loved him in return,
as ever two mortals were with each other,
or ever can be. Love leaped out of
their eyes and seized upon their hearts,
like the flash of an electric shock. How
this can be possible we shall not attempt
to say, but that it was so we feel assured.
Love is blind, says the old proverb. We
do not believe a word of it; on the contrary,
we boldly affirm that it sees quicker
and farther than any other passion that
moves the heart. It wants no argument,
it seeks no counsel, but at once, by itself
alone, it accomplishes its purpose. It is
a strange but no less true observation, that
its way is the same, whether it is found
in the wise and learned, or in the weak
and illiterate. It acknowledges no
classes or distinctions, it obeys no masters,
it lays down no rules. A look, a
sigh, a tone, a word, may bring it fullgrown
into life, and give it strength to defy
the world.
Charles soon regained his self-possession,
and recovered his lost power of
speech. He lingered by the side of his
new found treasure, delighted to listen to
her voice, to watch her lovely countenance,
to study her every motion. His
whole soul was at once centred in her;
he forgot everything else in her presence;
and, now, he tells her of his ramble, and
how, by chance, his footsteps wandered
to this spot; how the little canoe, which
he now learns from her own pretty lips,
is her own, caught his eye; how he admired
it, and how he praised its beauty,
and wonders how she can guide it in the
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stream. How delightful it would be to
be her companion, and to ply the delicate
little paddles in the deep stream, with her
seated at his side. Then, the story of
the beautiful little arbor is again re-hearsed
to her pleased ears, and she asks
if he did, indeed, dream that a nymph
from the stream came to him; if he did,
truly, search the little bower to find its
owner; and what he thought when he
first awoke and saw her sitting there.
And, then, she tells him, in her own simple,
beautiful way, how fearful she was
that she might awake him, and how she
started when she first found that some
one was in her arbor, and how long she
had sat by him watching for him to open
his eyes; and when, at last, he did open
them, how she trembled; and how
frightened she was.
Thus did our happy lovers, (for lovers
they were, indeed, though they, perhaps,
did not know it) delighted with each
other, the first warm sweets of love expanding
in their hearts, and each minute
growing stronger and deeper, converse
with each other. Their looks, their
words, all that they did, however trivial
in other eyes, seemed full of meaning to
them, and brought fresh pleasure to their
enchanted bosoms; and, as they sat, side
by side, in this solitary spot, they heeded
not the hours that flew so swiftly by.
The sun went down behind the western
sky, and shed a glorious beauty over the
world at his departing. They marked it
not, so much were they absorbed in each
other; and, yet, no word of love, no
vows, no promises, were on their lips, or
dwelt in their hearts. They were too
happy with each other in their present
enjoyment, to think of aught else. But
the darkening shades of night at last
aroused them to a sense of their situation,
and they awoke, as from a dream of bliss
and love. Coquese started up, exclaiming—
“Now we must go to our homes.
Night, alas! how quick it steals over the
bright sky!”
They hastily traced their way homewards.
Tenderly did Charles support
the fair girl, and joyfully and smilingly
did she look up into his face, as she
pointed out the path she now trod so
happily. It was not a long distance from
the village to this spot, but it seemed to
them far less than it really was; and,
now that they were about to separate, it
gave a pang to their loving hearts, and
showed what progress swift-footed love
had made with them in a few short hours.
A lingering farewell came from their reluctant
tongues, and so they separated.
Their tender glances followed each other
to their respective doors.
CHAPTER XII.
It was, as I have already said in the
preceding chapter, late when they returned
to the village; but this excited no
attention on the part of those whom they
met at the village, or on the part of the
parents of Coquese, for she was their
eldest child, and a great favorite, and was
accustomed to go and come when she
pleased. She was indulged in all her
fancies, and moreover, she was in the
habit of spending much time at her little
arbor, by herself. Often did she sail
alone in her fairy canoe, on that silent,
beautiful stream. When she returned,
therefore, this evening to her home, she
met the accustomed welcome that greeted
her, and was left without any question
as to her afternoon's walk, or where she
had spent the time; questions which
now for the first time in her life, she
would have blushed to answer, and would
rather have avoided.
Such are the first fruits of secret love.
True, she seemed different from usual
to-night; she was very light-hearted, and
happy, and the sparkle of her dark eyes
might have been a shade brighter; the
tones of her merry, sweet laugh, might
have been a touch freer, and more musical.
She was indeed, very happy, and
like a child of nature, she showed her
feelings in her every movement and act.
The watchful eye of a mother perceived
this unusual flow of spirits, but supposing
it to proceed simply from the effects of
her walk, and the attendant excitement,
only noticed it by saying.
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“You seem very gay, and in excellent
spirits to-night, Coquese.”
Her daughter blushed, and looked a
little disconcerted for a moment, thinking
that her long interview with the handsome
stranger had been discovered; but
quickly recovered herself, as she reflected
that such a thing was impossible, and in
her pleasantest manner, replied that she
did feel very happy; and this concluded
the whole matter.
Had, however, her mother watched her
carefully, when M. Boilean spoke of the
guests who had arrived amongst them
that day, and praised anew his old friend
Le Beaux, who held the highest place in
his regard, for his honest, sterling worth,
and also enlarged upon the fine, imposing
appearance of our hero, and applauded
his conduct and bearing at the
council, then might she have seen
Coquese paying the closest attention,
drinking in eagerly the words of her
father, and blushing and looking pleased
at these words. He said that he should
take every opportunity to cultivate his
acquaintance and friendship, while he
remained amongst them; for it was not
often, as Le Beaux said, that such as
Charles were to be found traveling in
these wilds. And M. Boileau declared
his intention of inviting him, for a part
of the time, to become his guest at their
own lodge. While he was saying this,
Coquese could hardly command her feelings.
Was he, indeed, to become her
daily companion, for some time to come,
and lodge beneath the same roof, where
she should see, and be with him much of
the time, and where she could show
those attentions, and bestow that love in
various acts upon him to whom her heart
was given?
Such were the reflections his words
awakened. This made her happiness
greater. That night she laid her head
upon a pillow, around which visions of
the future came clustering in her fond
anticipations, with happy days, and pleasures
richer than ever before she had
even dared to hope. A thousand plans
were formed, and in them all, Charles
had a conspicuous part to play, and this
dear girl was to be his only partner; she
would take him all to herself, she would
have him alone where none could steal
away a moment of his loved presence
from her, or warm beneath his sweet,
enchanting smile, or catch the soft, delightful
tones of his dear voice. All, all
must be given to her, and yet she did
not deem herself selfish. Was not that
strange, think you, for one whose
thoughts and efforts had always been so
freely, so cheerfully given to the happiness
of others, even before her own happiness
was cared for? It would have
been, had she not been in love. Not
now was it; this omnipotent passion
transforms its subjects, as if they were
children in its hand, and sweeps away
at a single stroke, the old habits, the old
feelings, that held undisputed empire
over them, up to the time of its rule.—
Man and woman unresistingly, and without
dispute, bow to the little rosy god.
Coquese had many dreams that night,
after the teeming fancies that had held
her long awake had yielded to sleep
her due, and when she had closed her
bright eyes in slumber, they came in
happier visions than her waking musings.
They heaped up joys and bliss mountain
high to yield to the idol that so
lately had usurped her whole soul. And
now she dreamed that he was again by
her side; like an angel he was sleeping
near her, in all his rich, attractive beauty.
Again she delighted to look upon his fair,
youthful form; again did she watch by
his side, and as she touched with tenderest
care his snowy forehead with her
pretty hand, again did she feel run
through all her form that thrilling sensation,
so new, so blissful; and as in her
bower, so now in her dream, upon her
happy couch, she saw the long, silken
lashes tremble over his eyes, and knew
that the unconscious sleeper was waking.
Foolish little thing, what makes her
tremble to see those eyes she so wished
would look upon her? Now how radiantly
beautiful he seems, as in startled
confusion and wonder, he first sees her
at his side, and what a sweet voice comes
to her listening ears.
All this her faithful and enamored
memory brings back upon her sleeping
couch, with truthful image, and stirs her
heart, as if it were indeed reality. All
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bright and smiling were the dreams which
one after another came across her busy
brain, and till the morning song of her
pet robin, that from his perch by the
door, awaked the dreaming maid, did she
in fancy sport with these bright visions.
But the faithful favorite knew not what
joy his mistress in sleep was taking,
and at his accustomed hour at her door
poured forth from swelling throat his
sweet lay. The sound awoke her, and
gradually fled away those visions, so
vivid that they at first held her in forgetfulness,
and cheated her into the belief
that they were not shadows, dreams,
flitting fancies, that would vanish at the
approach of morn and light. But not
long was it before all that had occurred
passed in review before her awakened
mind, and now she gave her thoughts
by day to him to whom by night they
stole away in fancy.
But where is Charles, all this time?
and how fares it with him? We left
him just entering his lodge, full of tender
feelings towards the Indian maid, that
was almost a stranger to him, and whom,
a few short hours before, he had never
seen. Le Beaux was waiting his return,
and Charles thought he could detect a
knowing look in his honest face, as he
entered; but if so, there was no other
sign that he had a knowledge of the use
Charles had made of his time, since he
went out: for he, in a careless, good-humored
tone, asked him if he had enjoyed
his walk, and what he thought of the
country about the village. He said there
was a very pretty stream a short distance
south of the village, where an abundance
of excellent fish were to be found, and it
was, moreover, a favorite retreat for M.
Boileau's family, and some others of the
tribe.
Charles, perhaps, might have had a
slight suspicion that Le Beaux knew a
good deal about that stream, and farther,
that he knew what was done there sometimes,
and especially this afternoon; he
in turn, therefore, sought to discover
what the sharp-witted guide did know,
and with an indifferent air, asked him if
he had been walking since dinner.
“No,” said Le Beaux, “not far, at
least. I have spent the time in the lodge
of that chief you admired so much, and
in fact, had but just returned, when you
came in.”
This was satisfactory to Charles, who
was anxious to question Le Beaux about
Coquese and her family, and he thought
this afforded an excellent opportunity to
do so, without exciting the curiosity of
Le Beaux. Charles asked him how long
he had known the family of M. Boileau,
and whether their eldest daughter, Coquese,
had ever been to the white settlements.
Le Beaux replied that he had
known that beautiful girl from a child.—
It was quite early in life that he made
the acquaintance of her father, when he
was first on his way to join the Delawares,
and they had remained friends
ever since, and that nothing had ever
occurred to disturb, or interrupt their
friendly intercourse. Although often
their wandering life had separated them
for long periods of time, yet had they
met quite often, two or three times at
least, every year, when he paid his
visits to the family, and usually was their
guest for some weeks at a time. “And,”
said he, “the more I see of the family,
and the better I know them, the stronger
grows my attachment to them. As to
their daughter Coquese, she is indeed, a
fair flower, and as good as beautiful;
she is a ministering angel to those about
her, and never was any mortal more beloved
than is she by the whole tribe.
Her alms and charity are freely bestowed
on all who want, and she administers
with her own hands to the sick and afflicted.
She has acquired much skill in
the treatment and knowledge of the diseases
which prevail amongst the tribe,
and treats them with great success; for
which she is looked upon by them with
great reverence and almost awe, I might
add.”
“But to answer your question, which
I almost forgot while speaking of her, (for
I love her as well as I could if she were
my own child, and regard her happiness
with the greatest solicitude and interest,
and also watch over her with careful vigilance),—
she has ever lived with her
parents, and has never contracted any of
those false notions and customs which
intercourse with the whites so often
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introduces among the children of the forests.
She is a pure, simple-hearted child
of nature, with all its winning loveliness,
and artless grace, and truth about her.
She is indeed, a gem worthy of the noblest
and best of earth's lords.”
Le Beaux was not talking idle, empty
words, paying mere compliments, such
as often come from the lips and flattering
tongues of those polished, and refined,
and very fashionable members of society.
No, they came straight from his heart,
and were the real, true feelings of his
soul. Truth was stamped upon his face,
and in his tone, while he spoke, which
convinced Charles that he was in earnest;
and while he was somewhat surprised at
what he heard, he was not the less
pleased to hear her praises from the
mouth of one who had his entire confidence,
for his honesty and integrity, and
whom he highly respected for his sense
and intelligence.
Charles was pleased to hear their new
acquaintance so highly spoken of, and
continued to ask such questions as would
give him a farther knowledge of her
character, and life, and education. To
all these questions, he found Le Beaux
an interested listener, and a ready respondent.
His close acquaintance and
intimacy with the family, and his fatherly
affection for Coquese herself, had given
him the most ample means of acquiring
information, and becoming thoroughly
acquainted with her; and now, that this
young man, who had at first acquaintance
so strangely, yet, nevertheless, so strongly
interested him, and who had constantly
from that date, grown more and more in
his favor, asked him with an ill-disguised
interest and feeling, of her who was his
darling, he took more than usual delight
in proclaiming her virtues and her
well-deserved merits, and beauties of
character.
He was a skillful reader of character,
and a quick scholar at this task. And
now in his own mind, although he did
not utter such a sentiment, he still was
fully persuaded that he had found the
man who was worthy to make his idol
child a happy partner, and one whom
he felt persuaded she would love. With
these feelings in his mind, then, the
reader will not wonder that he spoke so
fluently, and often made long digressions
in his answers to Charles, that he might
give him a better idea of the treasure
that any man who should obtain her,
would possess in Coquese. And did
Charles fret and grumble at this round
about way of answering his questions?
No, on the contrary he listened with the
most pleasurable interest, and encouraged
him by his manner and words to
proceed.
In this conversation the evening
passed rapidly away, and it was rather
late at night before they retired to rest,
both well pleased with the evening's entertainment,
and Charles more in love
than ever with the subject of their conversation.
It was Le Beaux's purpose
that our hero should fall in love with and
marry Coquese, and he resolved to help
on an event which would so perfectly
satisfy his own wishes, and which he felt
convinced would result in the happiness
of his young friends. He had learned
from Charles, since they had been together,
what his views were in relation
to the society he had left behind him,
and also in what light he held the character
of the better portion of the wild Indian
tribes; and from this he was almost
certain that when he did meet, as he
meant that he should, with Coquese, he
would at once become attached to her.
She possessed a mind of no ordinary
powers, and these had been developed
and expanded under the faithful and
careful tuition of her father, who, in early
life, had received the best education his
country could afford, and was esteemed
one of the most promising among his
fellow students; and now, although he
had left the learned world behind him,
and exiled himself from them, yet did he
not neglect his mental training. In his
lodge was a handsome and large library.
Large, I say. Perhaps, that is speaking
extravagantly. It, however, contained
more volumes and a better selection than
could be found in the houses of many
educated gentlemen who lived in the
white settlements of the West. And it
was his pleasure to direct his beautiful
and darling child in her perusal of such
works as he thought best for her; and,
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in connection with her reading, would
he, in explaining and inculcating the
truths contained in them, often draw from
his well informed mind such information
as would best tend to form her character
in that mould of purity, and virtue, and
feminine delicacy which would best and
most adorn a refined and virtuous society;
and such was the interest and attraction
he would clothe his teachings with,
that he never failed to gain the attention
and impress the mind of his child.
In all the ordinary branches of learning
she was an adept, and far surpassed
those who have enjoyed tenfold her advantages.
In many of the walks of literature
she was studied and showed
herself conversant with them. The science
and practice, too, of the healing
art, from the circumstances in which
she was placed, she found it necessary
to learn somewhat; and her efforts had
been successful, so that now she had
made no mean progress in the art.
The most beloved branch, and the one
which so well suited her natural endowments
in the ornamental studies, as they
are frequently called, was music. In
this she could not be excelled. Her
soft, sweet voice, so full of feeling and
melody, in the strains she had learned,
would fall upon the ear with ravishing
sweetness and mingled tenderness.—
There was a depth, a feeling in her manner
of singing that appealed at once to,
and kindled the heart, and melted the
feelings. Clear as a bird the notes of
her voice sounded in those different passages
which perplex and defy a voice
which is possessed of but ordinary compass.
Her voice seemed to have no
limit in its stretch, gliding as smoothly
and softly along the highest notes as the
birds which sung around her door, whose
songs she learned to sing with an exactness
and truthful imitation that would
confound the listener.
Such was the character and such the
accomplishments of our dusky maid, with
whom Charles had scarcely contracted
an acquaintance ere he had given her his
first—his ardent love; and from whom,
at the close of their first interview, he
had parted with such reluctance; whose
image had floated before his vision in
dreams of bliss and happiness that night.
He was early up the next morning, and
impatient of the delay which held him
waiting for breakfast; for he could not,
without offence, neglect his host, who
was all attention and kindness towards
him. Le Beaux asked him at breakfast
what he intended to do to-day; whether
he desired to hunt, or would visit the
lodges and see the Indians at their own
firesides?
Charles replied that he would remain
at home that day; that he did not yet
wish to commence hunting there, but
should like to become better acquainted
with the tribe. “But,” said he, “before
doing what you propose, I shall take a
short walk.”
Le Beaux listened to him with satisfaction,
and, as he closed and spoke of a
walk, gave him a look similar to that
which greeted him on his return to the
lodge the evening before. Now, the
fact was, he more than half suspected,
when he left Mr. Boileau, and Coquese
had not returned, and Charles also was
absent, that they had met, but it was only
a suspicion. He knew nothing further.
The evening's conversation confirmed,
his suspicion, and, now that Charles so,
readily gave up the plan of visiting the
lodges, so quickly, too, or rather delayed
it, when he had left the camp almost for
the express purpose of learning by actual
observation, more than otherwise he
could do, of the Indian character and
habits. He felt he was right in his conjecture,
and the conviction that he was
so showed itself in the way we have
mentioned.
He, of course, made no opposition to
such an arrangement, but said he would
wait for him, and he supposed he would
not be gone long, unless he should accidentally
meet Mr. Boileau's pretty daughter,
who had interested him so much
when he should certainly forgive him if
he took the liberty to stay all day;
“for,” said he, not appearing to notice
Charles' confusion, “she is a most beautiful
girl as you ever saw, as I believe I
have already told you several times before.”
With this they parted. Charles
to take the path which yesterday had led
him to such a strange, but pleasant
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encounter; and, although there was no
mention made of revisiting it to-day, he
did so with the hope—nay, the feeling
that he should meet Coquese there
again. Le Beaux walked over to the
lodge of an old friend to talk and smoke
with him; and, leaving him seated there
in contentment with a brave old warrior,
we will follow the footsteps of the enamored
pale-face youth.
Quick though they be, and will soon
leave us behind if we are not in haste,
love gives wings to its children, says
some one, and I should think this might
be the case by the way Charles went
down the winding path to the bower by
the little silver stream. It was early in
the forenoon when he came to the spot
where he stood the day before, when he
first discovered the little canoe. The
scene seemed to smile upon him in its
solitary loveliness. There lay the same
little fairy skiff floating on the still water
close by the bank; the green trees were
rustling in a gentle breeze that stirred
their tops. He stood still a moment,
while he looked around him, and then
with a beating heart and slower pace he
turned his steps to seek the bower where
he had first seen her by accident, who
was now so eagerly sought after by him.
As he approached in view of the spot,
he looked quickly to see her there, but
the view was obstructed by intervening
trees, and showed but a part of the little
retreat. And, now, his path winding
around in another direction, brought him
opposite the side of the little tent, so
that the front, which alone was open,
and could give him a view of the inside,
was hid from his gaze, and it was not
until he had fairly reached it, and stood
at the entrance, that he could know
whether Coquese was there or not; but
the first look that he cast within put his
doubts to flight at once. There, seated
upon one of those little stools, sat the
happy girl. She had heard his step,
and her first impulse had been to fly and
meet him, but she, at the instant, checked
herself; a feeling of modesty stopped
her, and kept her to her seat.
As he appeared at the entrance, however,
she quietly rose to meet him, and
gave him her hand as he greeted her
with the morning salutation. She blushed
deeply in spite of herself, and stood
with her hand resting in his for a few
minutes, while he inquired after her
health, and spoke of the happiness it
gave him to meet her again. In a few
minutes she withdrew her hand from its
willing prison and, smiling, she invited
him to take a seat by her, which, as a
matter of course, he very readily did.—
She had a book in her hand when he
entered, and still continued to hold it, but
of course it was shut; and she, turning
to him, did not attempt, as our city
young ladies would have done under
such circumstances, to have been astonished
and surprised to see him there,
although they might have gone there for
the express purpose of meeting the very
individual whom they spoke to; and
would in reality have been surprised and
disappointed too, had he not come. No,
she was perfectly artless; free from all
foolish affectation; and in her looks and
in her voice there was written the pleasure
she felt in seeing him; had she not
told him, as she quickly did, with sweet
grace, in a low voice, that she knew he
would come again, this morning, and she
ran down to meet him; it was so delightful
to be with him. She had left
her mother and little sisters at home, she
said, but she was afraid he would be disappointed
if he did not find her there.
Charles was filled with joy as she
spoke to him in this artless manner. It
was so unlike the cold, formal intercourse
of the refined world. There was
so much heart and feeling in it too; and
then she looked so beautiful, so fresh, so
like a creature born for happiness and
sunshine. He took her hand again; he
could not help it; it lay so close to him;
it looked so enticing too; and gazing
fondly into her face, “my dear Coquese,”
said he, “I owe you a thousand
thanks for thinking so kindly of me, and
greeting me so smilingly, and for coming
down to the stream, that I might not be
disappointed. I should, indeed, have
been disappointed had I not met you
here. It was to see you, and only to
see you, that I came. But you often,
every day, come here, do you not? It
is so beautiful a spot.”
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“Oh, yes,” replied the fond girl, “I
love my little arbor very much, but how
much more dearly since I have met you
here. I shall always love it now; I
shall always think of you when I am
here, and,” said she, blushing and sinking
her voice the while, as if supplicating
him, “I shall often meet you here,
too, shall I not?” As she spoke this, she
leaned her head towards him.
How charming she is, thought Charles,
and what a fond, loving heart she has,
too. Then, speaking aloud, he said,
“You make me happy, indeed, Coquese,
by what you say. I shall hold you to
your words, and shall seek you here
every day. I, too, shall always love
this quiet spot, and remember that here
I found an angel.”
Coquese smiled at his words, which
he spoke with ardor. “Why, you do
still believe me the nymph of the stream,
as you called me yesterday, when you
first opened your eyes and saw me, do
you?” said she, laughing.
“Oh! no,—you are far too beautiful
for even such a creature, and I can hear
you talk to me with your own sweet
voice, and see your bright eyes bent upon
me, and hold your little hand in my own.
No, no, I am thankful you are not a
nymph,” said he, “so long as I can see
you and be with you. But indeed, I
was so confused, when I awoke and saw
you, that I did not know at first, whether
you were mortal or a spirit. I heard
you not when you came, and when I laid
down, there was no one near me,—but
was you not afraid of my hounds,
Coquese?”
“No,” said she, “they looked so
gentle, that I had no fear of them, even
at first sight; and when I saw you sleeping
so soundly there, I did not notice
anything afterwards but you, and was it
not strange,” she added, “that I should
feel so?”
Charles smiled at her simplicity, but
could not help wondering more at the
mixed character she possessed. He saw
already she was better informed than
many of the city belles, but then she was
so simple in many things.
“No, Coquese, it was perfectly natural
that you should be interested to know
who it was that had the boldness to enter
your bower and appropriate it to his
own use, thus unceremoniously and uninvited;
it would have been strange if
you had not felt an interest in him. But
did you find out the name of the intruder,
Coquese, or did you try to do so?” he
added sportively.
“No,” said she “I thought only of
him, not caring for anything else; but do
tell me your name, it must be a sweet
name, I know. I desired to ask you
before, something prevented me when
was about to do it. I should so like to
speak your name, and your sister's, and
father's and mother's. I wish to know
them all. Does your sister look like
you?—ah! how I should like to see
her.”
Charles could hardly keep from laughing
as Coquese, in the same breath
almost, and with all the ardor of a curious
child, asked these several questions.
“Well, my dear Coquese, I am afraid
you will be disappointed in my name; it
is not a very uncommon one, that is certain,
and has, I think, no very strong
claims to be considered pretty, but I must
tell you, I suppose, for I cannot refuse
you anything since you have been so
kind as to allow me to visit you. My
name is Charles Stanley; my sister's
Isabella, and we both have the same
names that our respective parents bear.
How do you like it?”
“Oh! I knew it must be a very pretty
name, I was sure of it,” and she repeated
it again and again, “and now I shall call
you Charles, shall I not, I like it so
much? But you must tell me all about
your home. I suppose you live in a fine
house in a great city, and have everything
about you that you can wish. I heard
Le Beaux say you was a very rich man
and lived far away by the side of the
great ocean, in a very mighty city. I
have read oftentimes, descriptions of cities
and fine houses, in books, but my home
is in the little lodge. Do you love to
live in the Indian wigwam, Charles?”
“Yes, Coquese, I love the wild wood
and the snug little lodge, and longed to
come away from the crowded city to
this quiet life, and now since I have seen
you I love it better still, you are so good
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so beautiful, so kind of heart. But do
you know the city is not green like the
forest? it is crowded with buildings, and
dusty streets wider than the path of your
little village run throughout the length
and breadth of it; and besides, it is very
noisy and full of tumult. I shall always
love such a delightful, quiet spot as this,
Coquese.”
Her bright eyes sparkled and her face
beamed with pleasure as he said this, and
he felt the little hand he held gently press
his own. Then she added,
“I love to hear you say so, Charles.
I love my home dearly, I love to wake
in the morning and hear the sweet songs
of the birds, as they commence again
their daily task, and I love to walk in the
bright day through these shady woods.
I love to sail over the quiet stream in my
light canoe, to watch the fish as they
swim gracefully in the clear water, or
dart swiftly to seize their prey. Then
there are the blooming flowers that laugh
in the sunshine, and open their pretty
mouths to catch the dew drops that come
to them from the sweet sky. I love
them all, oh! how dearly, and all these you
cannot have in your city home, Charles.”
“You are right, Coquese,” replied he,
“we cannot have these beautiful gifts of
our bountiful Creator, but men seek to
supply their place by introducing dead,
and lifeless imitations of them. Their
painted walls would imitate a forest scene,
their artificial flowers are woven into a
wreath to look like that you are wearing,
and the free, sweet, singing birds that
love to hop among the boughs of the
trees, or soar on fearless wing above the
clouds, are caught and held in little
prison-cages, to sing about the houses of
their captors. As to the pretty golden
fish, it is taken from the running stream
and kept in globes of glass, where he has
scarce room to turn himself about, or
water to give him air to breathe. Do
you think you would love these things as
well as those about your village, Coquese?”
“Ah! no,” said she, “it is so hard to
bind the poor birds and fishes captives.
Do they not die of broken hearts sometimes,
or pine away their lives in wishing
in vain for their freedom?”
“Yes, often, but man heeds it not, it
is but a bird, or a fish, says he, what
cares he for them.”
“It is a cruel world, Charles; I do not
love it, now that you have told me this.
But the white man is very learned, and
has many books about, and many advantages
which the Indian knows not, and
he makes a thousand comforts for his
home the simple Indian never knew. I
wish to know all about your own home,
Charles.”
And Charles did tell the curious Coquese
much that was strange and new to
her of his own home, and of the customs
and habits of the white man. She expressed
a good deal of interest with
regard to the women of his people. She
asked if their complexion was like his
own, so white, and begged him to describe
their dress, and the occupations
which employed their time. When
Charles told her that there were many
ladies in the cities that had no other occupation
but that of preparing and procuring
their dresses, nay, even many whose
whole lives were spent in barely arraying
themselves in fashionable dresses which
were prepared for them, that they might
be elegant and beautiful, she could not
restrain her surprise and wonder. How
it could be possible to sacrifice all those
high and elevating pleasures which are
placed before our race, for such a purpose,
was beyond her comprehension;
but when he spoke of those whose lives
were spent in bestowing blessings on all
about them, in acts of benevolence and
charity, in relieving the poor and destitute,
and administering comfort to the
sick and suffering, in contrast to the vain,
giddy, empty crowd that flutter through
life on idle wing to show their gaudy
trappings, like butterflies that sport in
the summer air; how did her true and
generous heart sympathize with them,
and yield to them the ready tribute and
respect which a noble and generous heart
always feels in contemplation of what is
truly elevating and worthy in human
conduct.
But we will not attempt to follow them
through a conversation which kept them
seated in the little bower for more than
two hours; time, that glided swiftly by
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with them, and served to bind them
closely to each other. As on the preceding
day, they left the bower together, and
took the path Coquese had chosen the
evening before.
Coquese invited Charles to visit her
father's lodge and become acquainted
with the family; and though it would
have delighted him to have done so, and
satisfied a strong curiosity he felt concerning
them, still he felt that it would not
be in accordance with the customs of the
tribe, who always left to the men both
the introduction and reception of guests.
They parted at her door, to which Charles
had accompanied her; when he immediately
joined Le Beaux, whom he found
sitting at the door of Wahalla's lodge,
looking out upon them.
“Well,” said he, as Charles approached,
“I see you have discovered
the lodge of the Flower of the Valley,
what do you think of her?”
“She is an angel,” said Charles, “your
description fell far short of her sweet
perfection. She does indeed merit all
the praises you have bestowed upon
her.”
Le Beaux smiled at the warmth and
feeling with which he spoke of his favorite,
but said nothing further. Charles,
however, had too much in his teeming
brain to keep silent long, and in a few
minutes he said, “I wonder, Le Beaux,
that so fair a maid has not many lovers
from the young men of the tribe. Do
they not consider her beautiful? She
must be now quite old enough to have
suitors, I should think.”
“She is but seventeen,” replied Le
Beaux, “and yet there is not a young
man in the tribe who would not give
everything he had to call her his wife.—
She is beloved by all, and all pay homage
to her worth and beauty.”
“And is there no favored suitor among
so many brave warriors and Indians?”
asked Charles, although he was well
persuaded, from the intercourse he had
had with her, that her heart was not
another's, but even believed that she felt
towards him as he was now aware he
did with regard to her.
“No,” said Le Beaux, “there is
none to mate with her in all the tribe.—
Her spirit is of a different mould. She
loves the habits, the studies that are unknown
to them. They cannot share her
feelings, although there is many a brave
and honest heart among them. See you
yonder three lodges that sit apart by
themselves? They belong to the Black
Feet. A renowned chief, with a select
band of his chosen braves, dwells there.
He has visited this tribe ostensibly with
the purpose of hunting with them, but if
I am not much mistaken, the dog has
come here to carry off the Flower of the
Valley, to make her his squaw.”
Charles was taken by surprise at this
information, so suddenly and unexpectedly
given. His blood boiled at the
thought of the fair and lovely girl becoming
the slave of any chief, and more
especially the slave of the coarse, brutal
being mentioned, whose only claim to
respect or regard was founded upon his
brute, physical strength. “Why then is
he suffered to remain amongst them?”
said he quickly. “Is his purpose
known to her family, to herself? And
what do they intend to do? Surely
they will not force her to marry him
against her will; and I know that she
will never consent freely.”
“No,” said Le Beaux, “if she ever
marries him, it will be by her own free
choice. Although the women are contracted
in marriage among the Indians
without their own consent very often,
yet will it never be the fate of Coquese.”
“But do you mean to say that she
favors that huge giant chief, who is the
leader of the Black Feet?” asked
Charles, eagerly, the blood running
quickly back to his heart.
“By no means,” said Le Beaux, “but
he is determined to have her, I see that,
and will attempt to accomplish his purpose
by any and all means.”
“By heavens,” said our hero, “if he
dares to lift a finger against her, I will
send a bullet through his heart.”
Le Beaux laughed at the angry heat
Charles displayed, but, at the same time,
cautioned him about Cilagu, called by
his tribe the Red Hand; and told him
he was the first chief of the Black Feet.
Charles said no more, but suddenly
became thoughtful; the information Le
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Beaux had just communicated to him
respecting Red Hand's intentions upon
Coquese, in spite of his firm belief that
she already loved him, and in spite of the
impossibility arising out of the difference
that existed between them in feeling, in
education, in habits; in fine, in every
point of character, rendered it utterly impossible
there should ever be any sympathy,
in thought or feeling, between them.
He knew what a pure and gentle nature
she possessed; and tortured his heart
with the suspicion that, should her parents
insist or urge her to an alliance with this
detested creature, her love for them, and
the strict, constant obedience she observed
to all their requests and wishes,
might lead her even to sacrifice herself
in this cruel and dreadful manner. And
was it not possible that her father might
listen to the Black Feet chief's suit for
his daughter? He was a renowned chief.
None of all his tribe could equal him in
feats of strength; none could boast such
deeds of arms, such conquests achieved
in single combat. Never, in the many
and fierce struggles of his people with
their enemies, had he met his equal.—
Before the might of his strong arm his
foes fell like weak and puny boys; their
hearts quailed and they fled on every
side of him. The trophies of his victories
were hung around his lodge in thick,
close rows. He could show more scalps
that were the mute witnesses of his
boasted valor, than the bravest chief of
his tribe. His temper, too, was violent
and hasty; his will inflexible; his cunning
and shrewdness more than a match
for his brother chiefs. Hence, he came
to exercise an almost despotic influence
over the tribe.
In oratory his efforts were well suited
to wield and sway the minds of the
warriors. His voice was loud and deep;
his manner bold and haughty; his words
cunning and deceitful. He forced from
his people their consent to his measures
by the awe and fear which they felt towards
him, rather than by any good
qualities he possessed, or wisdom he
displayed. His wonted bearing to those
about him was supercilious and domineering,
and often amounted almost to
insolence.
He had been with the Delawares but
a short time, and had been received
kindly by them, and treated hospitably.
The two tribes were at peace with each
other, but yet never had they been
friends. At most they were indifferent,
and chose rather to live by themselves,
with only such intercourse as was necessary
and unavoidable. Hence, some
surprise was felt by the Delawares when
Red Hand presented himself at their
hunting ground, with a request to be allowed
to hunt with them. And, although
they would have wished him
any where else but in their midst, and
felt suspicion and distrust at the presence
of this wily chief, yet they could not refuse
him without arousing his anger and
hate, which, they well knew, was sufficient
(such was his power over his people)
to involve them in a bloody war.—
And then, too, it must be owned, his terrible
fame led them more earnestly to
desire a continuance of the peaceful relations
they now maintained with his
people. They did not fear him. Great
warrior as he was, he had never encountered
a Delaware in battle, and, therefore,
could boast no superiority over them.
Many were the brave warriors in their
tribe, who would fearlessly have met
him in single combat. And one there
was, in their midst, whose strength and
valor had rendered him more renowned
in war than even Red Hand. This warrior
was the father of Coquese, whose
daughter Red Hand now sought in marriage.
Charles knew all this—knew the
weighty reasons that existed to force the
Delawares to keep peace with this chief,
and he trembled, lest these should rule
the mind of M. Boileau.
Little did he know of the elevated
character, and strong, tender feelings of
the brave heart of this great chief; and
as little did he understand the strength of
character which was possessed by his
fair daughter. Both detested the character
of Red Hand; and both alike would
a thousand times sooner have died ere
they had granted his request.
The Black Feet had shown an evident
and marked dislike to our hero from the
first, and had taken no pains to conceal
it. Red Hand had even affected a
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contempt for him, while, in his heart, he
feared and hated him as a rival for his
mistress' favor. And our hero was not
so dull and unobservant as to have not
observed it, though he was at a loss to
account for it. The haughty, insolent
air of Red Hand had engendered a dislike
to him in his mind; and, although
he felt too much real contempt for him
to resent it, yet had it grown into almost
hate of him before he knew it. His
conduct had led Charles to inquire his
character of Le Beaux, and in answer to
his inquiries he had gained the information
we have just given, with this exception,
that the guide had not before said
anything of his love for Coquese. Now,
that he knew this, he hated him with a
good will, and determined to punish the
first insolence he offered to him in a way
that he should remember.
Charles sat until he was aroused from
his reflection by a summons to dinner.—
He had revolved all the circumstances
which surrounded him again and again.
He had questioned himself as to his feelings
towards Coquese. How was it;
how did it happen that he had so suddenly
and so warmly conceived such an interest
in this girl? and what were his intentions
towards her? What would the
result be? These questions he put to
himself, and the conclusion to which he
arrived was worthy of his noble, high-minded
character. He could but acknowledge
to himself that he was more
deeply interested and attracted to this
obscure maiden, than he had ever been
before in his life to any of the many females
he had met. The difference in
their education, and rank in life he did
think of; but, thought he to himself, if I
can win her heart she shall be mine.—
She is a priceless treasure—so pure—so
gentle—so lovely. The deceitful and
detested forms, and empty ceremonies;
the practiced disguise, and tricky arts of
fashionable life had never entered here to
disfigure, and deface, and degrade her
mind and body, and destroy her heart.—
She is fresh as a rose from the parent
stock; and the image of her Creator is
full upon her as when she came fresh
from His creating hand. I will, I must
love her.
Such was the result of Charles' long
deliberations. He did not know that he
had, even when he first saw her, given
himself to her; but such, nevertheless,
was the case, and had the same circumstances
surrounded him then as now,
his heart would as promptly have vindicated
its power and control over him.
With this resolution he determined to
seek her society as much as possible,
and use his efforts to gain her affections,
which he more than half believed were
already given to him. This resolution
quieted his disturbed and excited mind,
and when he joined Le Beaux, and his
host at table, he entered freely, and
with interest into the schemes and proposals
they were discussing for a bear hunt.
This topic, hunting, is always a favorite
with the Indian. He can give you
much strange and surprising information
with regard to the method of conducting
the hunt, which the white man knows
not. The well-managed arts and tricks,
with which he blinds the watchful and
timid animals to his approach, the skillful
and perfect disguise with which he
lures them from their hiding-places, and
inapproachable dwellings; the sagacity
with which he seeks their path and pursues
it when found, all go to make up a
science of hunting in which he is schooled,
and which he studies with long and
patient labor.
He is obliged to resort to this course
to make up the want of those more sure,
and better prepared weapons that his
white brother uses; at least, was so
obliged not many years ago; of late years
the rifle and gun have been introduced to
some, but yet limited extent, amongst
them.
They talked long upon the hunt, and
our hero received many valuable hints
from Wahalla and Le Beaux, who had
followed this business many years with
success. After dinner, Charles accompanied
Le Beaux to several lodges; all
their doors were open to their guest, and
by all whom he visited he was kindly
treated. He found the squaws in almost
every instance, at work, in a great variety
of tasks. It is with the Indians, as
with many of the eastern people, customary
to require the females to perform
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all the labor of the household. They not
only attend to all within doors, performing
all the offices of house-keeping,
but also do all that is accomplished in
cultivating the soil, planting the seed, and
gathering the crops. Their life is a life
of toil and labor, while their lordly husbands,
in time of peace, either follow
the chase, or give themselves up to lounging
idleness, or do both by turns; and in
time of war, it is their duty to fight the
battles of the tribe, and it cannot be denied,
they do it bravely.
Charles saw much that he was pleased
with, as he passed from lodge to lodge.
Happiness and contentment was written
on every face, and all joined together in
their employments on equal footing;
there was no distinction of families, no
grades and distinct classes; for with them
distinction is strictly personal, and attaches
exclusively to the honored individual,
and it is acknowledged in him
only so long as he continues to deserve
it. His friends, and even his own family,
gain nothing from his fame.
The afternoon was spent in this way,
almost, when Charles managed to extricate
himself from any further visits, at
that time, though he was pleased with
them, and away he turned to seek the
little bower, more eager than ever to
meet Coquese. He had something to
tell her, something to ask her, and some
cautious hints to give her; all which had
arisen since he parted from her. Quietly
seated in the little bower, with her book
in her hand, this beautiful girl awaited
him. Although her book was open before
her, yet its words were not her
study; her bosom was full of mingled
feelings of love and anxious expectation,
which produced a sweet confusion, so
graceful, so charming in a lover's eyes.
He had delayed long to-night, she thought,
what could keep him, would he not come?
he could not have forgotten her; she
knew he would come, yes, she felt he
would. Hark! a sound of hurried steps
meets her ear, and they approach, a rosy
blush steals over her face; in a moment
he is by her side, his face glowing with
excitement from his hasty walk, and
thoughts of her. She springs forward to
meet him, and her little hand is clasped
in his own, in a warm, affectionate embrace.
They met as lovers only meet,
with a fond, contented happiness; it was
enough to fill their loving hearts with
pleasure, to enjoy each other's company.
Charles led the willing girl to her little
seat, and sitting down beside her, ere she
could have time to open her pretty lips to
chide him for his lateness, he commenced
a recital of his visits to her people, and
all that had struck him as remarkable, or
new and strange in their habits or conduct;
and what he did not understand, he
brought to her for an explanation, it was
so charming to hear her sweet voice and
listen to her truthful and natural, artless
words. And then he told her how he
managed old Le Beaux, to extricate himself
from his company, and this explained
his absence for so long. He questioned
her as to how long she had waited for
him, and if she was anxious to see him.
She was perfectly satisfied with his excuse;
she did not for a moment doubt
that he was as well pleased and as happy
to meet her, as was she to see him.
Charles for a time forgot the information
that Le Beaux had communicated to
him in the morning, but now it came
back to his mind, and he resolved to
mention these facts to her; and with this
view, he asked her if she admired, as
other females about her did, the hunter's
bold and stirring life? and if she did not
honor and love the character of the brave
and successful warrior, who led his
tribe in battle? She replied that indeed,
there was much of excitement and pleasure
in the daring deeds of the chase; that
the successful hunter was the pride of
his tribe; that the brave chief who led
his people to victory, was crowned with
the praises of the tribe; “but,” said she,
“I love better the quiet walks of home,
the pursuits of peace. I love to read of
the countries where the white man
dwells, and which teach me the great
truths they have discovered concerning
his immortal mind, and never-dying soul.
I love not the bloody chiefs that delight
in war and plunder; no, my soul is sick
of those cruel sights, and savage deeds.”
“Does Coquese know the great chief
of the Black Feet, who is the guest of her
people, and whose lodge is in their
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village? but she surely does know him, for
his fame is great, and all the tribe speak
of his great deeds.”
“Yes,” she replied, “I know him,
and of late, he has often by chance, met
me in my walks, and offered me many
presents, but I have refused his gifts. I
do not like his manners, and he seeks to
be familiar with me. There is something
in his heart which I cannot see,
but which leads him to seek me; but his
presence is annoying to me, and I believe
he would make love to me if I gave him
an opportunity,” said she, laughing, “and
therefore, I have avoided him as much
as possible, and I see that he is revolving
some mischief by himself. Sometimes
he regards me with angry looks, and
though I know not what his purposes
are, I feel convinced that he is plotting
some evil towards me.” This she spoke
in a serious manner.
“I can solve the mystery for you,
dear Coquese; you are too pure, too good
to understand the wiles and deceit of
such an one as Red Hand. He loves
you and is seeking to marry you. It is
for this that he watches your steps so
closely, and follows you so often in your
walks.”
Coquese, as Charles uttered these
words, looked full into his face. The
blood at first mounted to her face and
neck, dying them with a purple tinge,
then suddenly fled back to her heart,
causing paleness to overspread her countenance;
she trembled as if some sudden
and great danger had overtaken her.
Charles was surprised at the effect his
words had produced, and bent an anxious,
inquiring look upon her, as he ceased
speaking. In a few moments she recovered
herself, and turning again to him,
(for she had bent down her face when he
had spoken, and hid it in her hands), in a
calm voice, with a still pale face, though
full of expression, she said to him,—
“I believe you are right, Charles;
though it never occurred to me before,
that such, in earnest, was his object. I
never saw him but a few times before,
and that only for a moment, as we passed
through his district on our way to this
spot. I fear if this is indeed true, that
some great calamity or misfortune will
befall me. Oh! Charles, you know not
what a terrible enemy he is, when he
hates. I have heard my father often
speak of him, and he says he never relinquishes
his wishes, or is thwarted in
his desires, without taking cruel vengeance
on whoever had been the means
of thwarting him; and he is a great warrior,
and rules his people as if they were
children. You have told me that which
will fill me with constant dread and fear,
so long as he continues near us.”
“Do not alarm yourself, dear girl,”
said Charles, “he cannot harm you. If
he would, you have many trusty friends
as brave of heart as he, as strong of arm,
that will die willingly, if necessary, to
protect you. If he dares offer insult to
you, I will punish his insolence with my
own hand, or die in the attempt.”
Charles was full of feeling, as he spoke
his eye glared and his brow was knit as
with firm resolve, his small lips were
compressed; he looked like one who
would dare to undertake what he promised.
Coquese gazed at him with eyes
of love, she pressed his hand slightly for
a minute, then withdrawing it, she hastily
exclaimed,
“No! Charles, you must not seek to
quarrel with him. I pray you do not,”
and she looked beseechingly to him.
“I will seek no quarrel with him,
Coquese, but he has already showed his
bold insolence towards me, which has
rendered him an object of dislike and disgust
to me. I will not, mean not to notice
his conduct towards myself, but should
he dare to treat you in any other way
but that of respect becoming your station
and sex, I swear to you that I will punish
the black-hearted villain, should it
cost me my life.”
With such assertions did Charles endeavor
to re-assure the mind of Coquese;
but now a greater fear than any that
could arise for herself, took possession of
her, and this in an instant revealed to her
how much she loved Charles. She was
more alarmed for him than for herself;
she feared that he would be slain by the
savage, giant chief; she knew how powerful
he was, how unequal in strength
Charles was to him. And in this new
fear, like a loving, true-hearted woman,
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she forgot herself, her father, and all her
other old friends. She begged him to
avoid Red Hand, and if he met him to
treat him kindly.
Whatever might have been his supicions
before, he had no fears now, that
she would ever love this chief after this;
he felt certain that her affections were
his; he had watched her closely during
the conversation, and every word, every
look told him he was dearer to her than
all else. And in spite of the dangers
which stood in their way, the feelings
which each tacitly, but, nevertheless,
fully entertained that they were dear to
each other, made them soon banish these
thoughts, and abandon themselves to the
sweet emotions of their loving hearts.
All around was bright and joyous, and
were they not right in forgetting all else
save the pleasure they experienced from
each other's company?
CHAPTER XIII.
In the forming of those purple-tinted
hues that color the schemes and bright
anticipations of future happiness, and
which lovers are apt to indulge in, the
hours of sun-light sped away with our
fond pair. They seemed never to tire
or weary of talking and listening to each
other. Their words were invested with
a meaning, a charm that rendered them
tenfold interesting to one another, but
which, were we to repeat them, we fear
would appear both dull and commonplace
to our reader's ears.
It was late in the afternoon, and the
dusky shades of evening had spread
wide over the heavens, and rendered
misty and indistinct the objects that
break and diversify the surface of mother
earth, by their darkening folds, ere
Charles and Coquese bethought themselves
of the necessity of returning to the
village. They were now all in all to
each other, and could they live in one
another's company they would have
been content to have passed all their
lives away, far from the busy, changing
world, and never have asked for any of
its varied, artificial pleasures, or its numerous
and differing occupations. So
they thought and felt at this moment, but
now they must part again, and remember
that there were other beings in the world
beside themselves; a fact which they
were apt to forget while together. As
before, they took the path leading to the
village, which Coquese had chosen, she
leaning fondly on the arm of Charles,
not for support, for her footsteps were
light and elastic as the fawn's, that
bounds so lightly over the forest path,
but she loved to feel his arm gently and
fondly supporting her; it was a token,
a proof of all the love and fondness she
wished and believed he felt for her; and
it was enough for her happiness that it
was his own dear self, whom she so
deeply loved, so fondly clung to. This
feeling that he was by her side, that his
loved hand was supporting her steps and
protecting her way, should it not render
her happy? We leave for lovers such
as they were, to solve this question, and
comprehend these feelings, for we believe
they only can rightly judge them.
When they entered the village, they
were met by M. Boileau, who was just
returning to his own lodge. He cordially
returned the salutation of Charles, and,
arrived at the door of his lodge, invited
him to enter. Charles readily accepted
his invitation; on entering, he saw M.
Boileau's wife, to whom he was introduced
by his host. She was a fine,
matronly-looking squaw, apparently much
younger than her husband; she looked
not more than twenty-five, so smooth
and fresh was her rich, olive skin, so
clear and bright her dark, beautiful eyes,
so light and graceful her movements, so
springy and elastic her step. She was
not so tall as Coquese, but perfectly
straight, and her form developed the most
exquisite and beautiful symmetry of
graceful proportions. There was, perhaps,
a slight, very slight tendency to
emboinpoint, which some would have
said, detracted from her beauty; but in the
eyes of their visitor, a full, plump form,
and finely rounded limbs, were associated
with rosy, lively health, and a sweet disposition;
it gave an additional charm
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and attraction. Her thick, glossy hair
was luxuriant, and black as the raven's
plumes, and unlike most of the Indians,
who pay comparatively little attention to
dressing their hair, her's was arranged
with scrupulous neatness, and with becoming
taste. It was parted on the middle
of the forehead, and combed smoothly
down on either side; the long tresses were
gathered in braids, or plaits, at the back
of the head, and confined by a very pretty
comb; her dress was a pretty calico,
made very loose, low on the shoulders,
leaving exposed her beautiful neck, and
the top of her swelling bosom. Her features
were rather small, and perfectly
regular. In this simple, unpretending
attire, with none of the ornaments that
fashionable ladies use to display favorably
their beauties, and conceal, or often
supply the defects of nature, she would
unhesitatingly have been called a beautiful
woman, even in the most fashionable
and fastidious circles. There was an
air of refinement and delicacy in her
manners, a native grace and ease, a kindliness
of bearing which delighted and
charmed our hero. She spoke both the
English, French, and Delaware languages
with fluency and sweetness. Her voice
was soft and low. She asked Charles
if he had been long from the white settlements,
and if he was pleased with a
forest life? She inquired kindly after
his family that he had left behind, and
remarked that he must find it difficult to
correspond with them in this part of the
country. Charles answered readily that
he was much pleased with the hunter's
pursuits, and his free, roving life; there
was a freedom and careless pleasure in
it that suited his taste. His friends, he
said he had not heard from for several
months; he left them in the fall, at which
time they were well and happy; but
since he left St. Louis he had received
no news of them; and as for corresponding
with them, he said he did not expect
to be able to do so when he entered the
forests, unless by accident he should
have an opportunity.
She said that it must have been a hard
thing for him to have undertaken such a
journey; to have left all his friends and
his pleasant home, and alone to journey
so far to these forests, where he could
find neither cities nor towns. She also
remarked that he must, and doubtless
had already missed many of the comforts
which surrounded him in his native home.
But Charles soon assured her that he
suffered not for the lack of any comfort,
that his health had been, and was excellent,
and he regretted nothing but the
presence of his friends, to whom he expressed
his warm attachment, to render
him completely happy. “It is with a
better appetite,” said he, “that I sit
down to eat the food I have taken with
my own labor, and prepared with my
own hands; and I relish it far better
than the spiced dishes I have eaten in
the city.”
Charles then spoke to the younger
sisters of Coquese, who stood by their
mother listening to the conversation, and
casting wonderous looks towards him.—
He would have known their relationship
to Coquese at once, from their resemblance
to her, had she not before told
him of them. These three daughters
were all his children; and we have
already said sufficient of Coquese to
convey to the reader the fact, that they
must be beautiful children, as they resembled
her. The youngest was about
six years old, and Charles thought one
of the prettiest and most interesting children
he had ever seen. She was longing
to come to him to see the beautiful
sparkling pin he wore in his cravat,
which had attracted her attention.—
When he called her to come and see
him, she was afraid a little, but Coquese
encouraged her, and took her seat by
Charles' side. This emboldened her,
and she came up to him looking timidly
in his face. He raised her on his knee
and told her she was a good little girl, he
knew. He played with her dark, curling
hair, and soon she lost all timidity,
and began to play, with all the full confidence
and gaiety of her age, with him as
if he had been an old friend. His open,
handsome face had, at first, won her
liking, and now he took so much pains to
amuse her. She loved him; she looked
up in his face after a few minutes, and,
pointing to his pin, asked him to give it
to her, it was so pretty. Charles handed
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it to her, and after handling it a few
minutes, and turning it over and over,
she put it in her dress, and, laughing, she
jumped down and went to her other sister
to show it to her.
“Why Leila,” said Coquese, “you
are not going to carry off the gentleman's
pin, are you?”
She said nothing in reply, but taking
it in her hand, with wistful looks, she
brought it back to him. Charles then
took a pretty string of beads from his
pocket, and told her he would give her
them. She was delighted with them,
and went jumping away to show them to
her mother and sister, with great glee.—
This made Charles her favorite at once.
He was treated by all the members of
the family as an old friend, though they
were entirely ignorant (the rest, I mean)
of the intimacy and affection which existed
between him and Coquese. There
was, in their manner towards him, just
sufficient ceremony used to make him
feel they were anxious and desirous to
please him, without producing the restraint
and reserve which make the introduction
of a gentleman in fashionable
life such an awkward performance as to
render it a bore.
He was cordially invited to remain
and sup with them. He had no excuse
for declining, had he felt disposed to do
so, which, however, was by no means
his inclination. With pleasure he accepted
this invitation. A glance from
Coquese assured him of the pleasure she
received at his course. The family all
sat down to the table to partake of a
simple, substantial meal, which was prepared
for them. The display of dishes
upon the table attracted his notice, and
very much pleased him. There was no
useless array of plates, and cups, and
bowls, and pitchers, and the endless
amount of dishes which burden the tables
of the wealthy white at his sumptuous
repasts. To each one there was
distributed a wooden bowl and a wooden
plate; in fact, all the articles of service
on the table were made of wood, of
pretty style and extremely neat. They
were made from the white wood tree,
and looked as smooth and white almost
as porcelain ware. Their meal consisted
of meats, both fresh and dried, and of
various kinds, that the game of the
woods afforded, and might tempt the
palate of an epicure. At their table he
found what was a great luxury and rarity;
good flour biscuit, and new, fresh
butter, cream and milk, also in abundance.
M. Boileau always kept a supply
of these for his table, if possible.—
His wife had learned how to make butter,
and she constantly kept one or two
cows; a piece of luxury and refinement
the Indian is not guilty of often, though
there are a few tribes amongst whom the
missionary has settled, and who have
been led by him to adopt some of the
habits and customs peculiar to the white
man, and to follow some of his pursuits.
The raising of cattle, and the arts of
husbandry are attended to by them to a
limited extent, but these instances are
rare; and in this tribe M. Boileau's
cows were looked upon as a sufferance,
tolerated out of respect and affection for
him. The Indian despises real, genuine,
downright labor. If he labors at all, it
is an exertion mixed with sport or fame.
It is either in the chase or in war.
But, to come back from this brief
digression. There was one other article
which our hero found upon his host's
table, which he did not expect to find.—
Coffee, excellent delicious coffee, prepared
after the very best manner. The
natives are very fond of this drink, and
always, in their purchases, make it an essential.
Charles was seated at table
next Coquese. She was very happy,
but did not converse much. She frequently
would blush as she caught
Charles' eye fixed upon her; and as she
helped him to some dish, or received
something from his hand,—for he was as
attentive and polite in serving her as if
he were sitting by the side of some fine,
gay, city belle,—she answered his questions
with much modesty and simplicity,
but did not attempt to lead the conversation.
She chose rather to listen to the
conversation of her parents with Charles,
and was highly gratified with observing
the great interest and satisfaction they
took in what he said.
M. Boileau led the conversation to
those subjects which concern and govern
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in the civilized world. He spoke with
the fluency and ease, upon such topics,
of a man of the world. His remarks
showed a deep and thorough knowledge
of mankind, and of the principles of
government. Charles was surprised to
find so much and so full an acquaintance
with the laws and politics of different
governments in him. Many of the
manners and customs of society he condemned
in the severest terms. Their
direct, their only influence upon men, he
thought, was to render them selfish,
heartless and deceitful. Ceremony and
form, he said, were but a cloak with
which men covered up and hid their real
feelings and character. The selfish love
of distinction which regarded only the
fame of the possessor, and was sought
for that end alone, he said, was the
prevailing spirit of men in public life
and high stations; and to this cause,
said he, is attributed the fact, that the
more solid and common duties which
make for the welfare of the whole people,
when faithfully performed, are so
disregarded and neglected for the more
showy and less useful duties of office.—
The incumbent of office loves himself
better than the nation; but he does not
want them to think so by any means,
and blinds the mass by doing, perhaps,
some notorious duty or service, while he
avoids the quiet parts of his duty.—
Wealth, too, exercises a strangely undue
and degrading influence upon mankind.
It is almost, if not quite, omnipotent in
the world. It supplies the lack of head
and brains, wit and learning. In every
occupation, in every pursuit, in all
branches of business that men spend
their lives in, the one idea, the accumulation
of wealth, is the motive, the sole
incentive to labor. In every situation of
life, in every branch of society, this is
the idol which is worshipped most faithfully
and constantly. By this test a man
is tried. Is he wealthy, or is he not?—
If he is, then will his stupid words be
stamped as witty and humorous, and
toadies will echo with laughing voice
and swelling sides the poorest jest.—
When he talks politics, he is a Solon in
wisdom. When he talks religion, he
is a Paley or a Dick. In all things he
stands confessed a monstrous wise man.
So say the truckling sycophants, while
they all in their hearts say he is an
ass.
“A most lamenting and humiliating
picture of society, is it not?” said M.
Boileau. “But not, for that reason, the
less true, I fear. Will it ever change,
and for the better? Will the time ever
arrive, when the mind shall be considered
and treated by the great mass of mankind
as though it were of equal consequence
and importance with the body, or
the trappings that can adorn it? But,”
continued M. Boileau, “I have been
speaking of the manners, and customs,
and feelings of the white man, in all
the points I have enumerated. I can
now point you, with pleasure, to his less
enlightened, uncivilized brother for a
contrast.”
“But are there no grades of distinction
among the red men?” said Charles, “are
they not in their manner of life as selfish
as the white?”
“No,” said M. Boileau, “I feel assured
that I can say no, to the question,
without fear of contradiction. With
them form and ceremony holds no place;
everything is plain, simple, straight-forward.
They speak and act by feeling,
not from rule; distinction follows, never
creates this. Station and rank are the
rewards of worth and sterling qualities.
You cannot find a chief who is a coward;
nay, more, who is surpassed by any of
his nation for bravery. Among the Indians,
he and he alone, who possesses
virtues and qualifications that can benefit
his tribe, or such traits and qualities as
are deemed virtues among them, is the
great and honored. The bold and daring
warrior, though his wealth may all be
reckoned and summed up in the price of
his weapons, and a poorly, scantily furnished
lodge, is both highly honored and
esteemed. His voice is heard first and
with the most eagerness in council; his
views and plans are highly considered,
and weigh most with them; his influence
is both felt and acknowledged. So
long as he practices the virtues that have
distinguished him, and is devoted to the
interests of his tribe, and faithfully serves
them, he maintains his exalted rank.
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But let him prove unfaithful or wanting,
or his heart become timid or cowardly;
let his strong arm become weak and
slow, and he falls to give place to a better
man. But while the brave and deserving
man, though wanting all else but these
good qualities, is thus honored, the rich,
the wealthy, simply are pitied and despised;
they are considered like squaws,
and not fit to be trusted with any important
duty, or office, nor wise enough to
be heard in council, or possessed of aught
that entitles him either to respect or
esteem.”
“I can but agree with you in what you
have said of the habits and ways of our
enlightened nations,” said Charles, “and
I am ready to believe you have spoken
rightly of the character of the Indian,
from what I have already observed from
my intercourse with them. I have noticed
with very great interest and pleasure,
the readiness, the cheerfulness with
which your adopted people divide and
share among each other the comforts, and
necessaries, and luxuries they hold.
They appear to know no difference of
caste or grade in social and domestic life;
they seem to set but little value upon the
articles of property they possess. It is
only when in the deliberations and general
affairs of the tribe, it becomes necessary
to call forth the talent and courage of
the nation, that they make the distinction
of their great men known; this is the
only distinction which comes from great
deeds achieved in behalf of the tribe and
their country; and he who has most
bravely and skillfully led on his followers,
who has most successfully overcome and
vanquished his enemies in war, or whose
daring and dexterity have best supplied
the wants of the tribe in the successful
chase; he is the really enviable and honored
man. The acts of the Indian are
true to his professions. I wish with all
my heart that we who profess to know so
much more, and so much better, the great
ends and purposes of life, could be induced
to adopt the same rule, and the
same course with regard to what we
believe. The conduct of men to each
other in civilized countries, is but a sorry
proof of the sincerity of their professions;
nay, worse, it is proof of their want of
truth. They universally profess and
declare that the honest, enlightened, benevolent,
poor man, is more worthy of
their respect and esteem, than the deceitful,
ignorant, mean, rich man; yet do
they constantly and habitually turn their
backs upon the subjects of their praise,
or treat them coldly, and with evident
lack of respect, while they court and pay
homage to those characters they either
do, or affect to despise.”
“Wealth,” said M. Boileau, “as I
have before observed, is the touchstone
that tries the worth of men in society,
and proves their capacity for any and
every station in life, and insures them
success, or rather approbation or applause,
in whatever they may do, or attempt to
do. All this it does by force of the extravagant
and exalted worth men blindly
invest it with. It is all a complete mockery,
a sham; and what is more, all know
it to be so; to be a perfect farce, at which
all the world plays. Yet such is the
power and weight of wealth, foolishly
enough given it, that none dare tear away
the flimsy covering which hides, or shelters
the fools and their folly beneath, and
show up boldly its real worth, and set it
in its proper place; but on the contrary,
all strive as much as possible to cheat
and deceive others, and themselves too.
They profess to estimate it at its proper
value; their actions give the lie to their
professions. While such a course is
pursued by the community at large, never
can the great and glorious principles
which should govern men, and which,
indeed, most men acknowledge prevail
and bless the world; they have been
heretofore, and will ever continue to be,
while such a use is made of them, inefficient
and of no avail. A principle of
conduct professed, and acted against, is
almost as good as having no principle at
all; not quite, however.”
“But,” said Charles, “I look upon it
as proving something in favor of society,
that they deem it necessary to attribute
these principles and their character, to
those persons whom they would honor.
It is the first step in reforming error, to
know it to be an error, and when one
becomes ashamed to avow his practices,
but seeks to hide it by his professions,
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he is in a fair way of abandoning it; one
or both must go.”
“I can but look upon this fact that you
have just spoken of,” said M. Boileau,
“as an idle ceremony, a mere pretence;
ah! worse than a mere empty form. It
serves to lull and hush the reproaches of
conscience, and the voice of truth that
speaks to them from their own hearts,
for the deceit they practice upon themselves,
and confirm them in their base
course of life. The true character is
often developed by the changes and accidents
that occur in this changing world.
To-day this man is honored and treated
as if no distinction or regard were too
great to be shown him; while that poor,
forsaken, friendless, unknown being who
walks by his side in the streets, or meets
him at the corner, to ask in vain of him
for relief from poverty's sharp pains, is
unheeded, or spurned from his path —
How do these two men differ? asks the
stranger who observes them both. One,
the first is a man of wealth; he wears
the golden cloak that hides a heart the
most selfish and depraved; he makes his
own happiness his only, his sole study;
if he ever thinks of others, it is to despise,
or hate, or turn them to account in ministering
to his own selfish gratification;
they, poor fools, do not, or will not think
so, or if they should, dare not utter such
a thought. The poor man, how stands
it with him? has he the same feelings,
the same selfish character? No, he has
seen better days, and he was then a
blessing to those about him; his hand
was open to give to the needy, his heart
was quick to feel, and ready to sympathize
with their troubles. He ever
thought more of the welfare of others,
than of his own happiness alone; but a
sweeping calamity fell upon him, and
deprived him of all his wealth, and like
a star he falls, and is plunged in a deep
oblivion; no one of his companions of
his happy, prosperous days, knows him;
they look strangely upon him, and pass
him by. He is virtuous, he is honest;
they cannot deny it, and they will sometimes,
in confidence among a few select
friends, that used to feast upon his generosity,
say (with regret of good things
they had from him), he was a fine fellow
when he was worth anything; I'm sorry
for him. They were sorry for themselves.
But change the course of life;
a little time, and we see the real monster,
the vicious, golden-plastered man, stripped
of his costly trappings, all his gold
had gone; he is indeed to be pitied, for
it was his all; and dark clouds of wretchedness
and contempt quickly cover him
in the impenetrable folds of forgetfulness.
Nobody knows him, or cares to know
him. Now say those who used to fawn
upon him and flatter him, and boast of
his acquaintance, I always knew he was
a fool, and a knave, into the bargain; I'm
glad of it. But the same wind that scattered
his wealth and blew away his
admirers and false-hearted friends, came
to the noble, poor man, who was forgotten;
but not with anger or loss; he had
nothing to lose but his integrity, and men
think such a loss small, too small, to
grieve for; any change that comes to
him must be for the better; and so it
was. This gale that wrecked the hopes
of the rich man, was laden with wealth
for him; it brings him gold, it makes
him a rich man. The news spreads as
on the wings of the swift-flying clouds.
With haste those who lately scorned him,
now seek him, they humbly bow down
to kiss the golden hem of his robes; literally
true is it, they worship this, and
not the possessor. They fawn, they
flatter, they are loud in his praises.—
True, he was a noble-hearted man before,
but unfortunately he was poor; now he
has got something better than a feeling,
generous heart, and educated mind.—
Why, my dear sir, he has got gold,
he is wealthy; who can help admiring
him now?”
“This is the consistency and wisdom
of boasted civilization,” said M. Boileau.
“I have seen just such events as I have
related,” said he, in a serious, half sad
tone, as of one thinking upon some unpleasant
scene of the past; and then
added, in a cheerful tone, “let the civilized
world have its own way, but give
me the integrity—the honest simplicity
of the Indian character, ignorant and unenlightened
though he may be. He
knows enough to stick close to the side
and serve with all his power his
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courageous chief and daring brave. In prosperity
not more faithfully than in adversity;
in smiling sunshine, and when
dark and threatening clouds cover the
sky, with his life he will defend and serve
his friend. Ah, more than this. His
love and devotion increase as grow and
deepen the perils and dangers that surround
that friend. In poverty and
wealth he equally honors and esteems
him. And, too, on the converse, the
sluggard and coward, the cheat and the
knave, is despised and unheeded, though
he may possess wealth enough to buy
all the property of the rest of the tribe.
“There is in the wide range of society
nothing so humiliating, nothing so degrading
to the higher nature of man, as
the spectacle of a noble, gifted, learned
man, who towers far above those about
him in his expanded and highly cultivated
intellect, bending and bowing before
the golden calf, prostituting his great and
god-like powers for the gratification of a
vulgar, ignorant, degraded man. That
he may gain his gold or his favor he sells
his gifts, and often vilely, basely does so,
for simple wealth. That his purse may
be filled, he rifles his own heart and
wounds his brain. Alas for humanity,
that it should be so. That man should
be so blind, so simple, as to destroy all
that is actually and really of worth and
importance to him, or degrade it for
such a paltry reward.”
Charles could not deny the truth of
the reflection which M. Boileau then
made upon society. He felt its justness,
and feeling it, he was humbled at
the thought. But this did not prevent
his feeling surprised that such views
and such words should come from the
mouth of one who lived far from cities
and the refined world, in the depths of
the forest, and in the companionship of
untutored savages; and he could not but
feel, as he looked around upon his little
family, and saw them all listening attentively
to their father, that they would,
they must grow up well educated and
informed, with correct and reasonable
views of life under such a teacher. And
he anew congratulated himself upon
the chance that brought him acquainted
with them, and, as he hoped, would lead
him to a still closer connection with
them.
After tea Le Beaux came into the
lodge, and was soon engaged with M.
Boileau in an interesting and absorbing
conversation of a private character.—
This gave Charles an opportunity to pay
more particular and direct attention to
Coquese and her mother.
Coquese was perfectly happy as she
sat by the side of Charles and listened to
his voice, and saw also around them all
those dear friends whom she loved best
on earth. Her spirits were buoyant and
lively, and her native wit and sense displayed
itself in a brilliant and captivating
strain of conversation, that completely
fascinated Charles. It was a delightful
evening he spent in their rustic lodge,
and it was with reluctance, at a late hour,
that he rose to take his leave of them.—
Before doing so, however, he had seized
the opportunity of a few minutes' absence,
on the part of the mother, of
pressing the little hand of Coquese,
which he had stolen unperceived by any
in the room, and expressing to her how
happy he was, and how delighted he was
with her family. These were sweet
words to her ear, and she loved him better
than ever for it. As he was leaving,
M. Boileau pressed him to visit them
often; and with familiarity Charles expressed
to them the very great pleasure
his visit had afforded him, and assured
him that he should have no reason to
complain of his negligence in calling
upon them. And then, bidding them
good night, he and Le Beaux returned to
Wahalla's lodge.
On the way there he was eloquent in
his praises of M. Boileau and his family,
and kept Le Beaux, long after their return,
a listener to his out-pourings of
heart towards them. He had the good
luck, however, to speak to willing and
delighted ears; for Le Beaux loved them
very much. Charles spoke in the highest
terms of the wife's grace and dignity
of manner. Her sweetness of disposition
and her rare beauty were all commented
upon. He wondered at the
facility with which she had acquired
such refined and lady-like manners.—
But, most of all, he was delighted with
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the beautiful daughter; so lovely, so
witty, so intelligent.
The next day all the hunters of the
camp were busy getting ready for a bear
hunt, which was to come off the day
following. Some of their shaggy fraternity
had been discovered on the high
hills that lay a few miles west of the
village, and it was determined to attack
them, and exterminate the monsters.—
The Indians, however, to tell the truth,
had no other motive but, first, a love for
the dangerous sport, and, second, a desire
for the flesh, which they esteem very
highly. The bear, most common to this
part of the country, is not the common
black bear, that is found in almost every
part of the country, but is of the species
known as the grizzly bear, and is both
stronger, larger and much bolder than
the black bear. The hunting of this
bear is attended with much more risk to
the hunter than almost any other animal,
native of the western forest. When
pursued or wounded, he almost invariably
turns upon his enemies; and wo be
to the luckless victim who falls into his
claws, for, when enraged and infuriated,
he rushes with mad fury upon his tormentors,
and tears them with savage
ferocity, both with teeth and claws.—
The hug of the bear is certain death to
any animate creature that falls into his
embrace, and the more furious he grows,
the tighter he hugs.
Charles was entertained by his host
and young Shoonshoone with many daring
exploits of the tribe, in the hunting
of this animal, that would have made a
less courageous man hesitate about venturing
upon their hiding places. But
this dangerous chase only served to
stimulate and heighten the desire he had
to encounter them. He was fond of
daring sport, and, as we have before
said, a most excellent marksman and
hunter.
One of the most remarkable instances
of this sport occurred to Wahalla, a few
years before, and had gained him a great
name in the tribe for his address and intrepidity.
He was returning alone from
the war path, where he had followed his
most deadly enemy. It had been a long
and perilous undertaking, and after days
and nights of constant vigilance and close
pursuit, he had been at last able to slay
his enemy close to his own village, where
his companions had separated from him,
and he, deeming himself safe, was preparing
to return to his tribe, decked in
the trophies of his bloody victory. For
three days after this Wahalla pursued
his homeward way, devoting but a few
hours of the middle watch of night to
sleep. The fourth night he came to a
woody hill covered with a thick growth
of oak and beech. Wearied with his
long continued efforts, he sat himself
down upon the grass, at the foot of a
wide-spreading oak, whose thick foliage
hid his figure under its heavy cover,
and, resting his rifle by the side of the
tree against which he had seated himself,
he fell asleep.
The streaks of gray dawn were just
stretching along the sky, when, after a
sound slumber, he awoke. On opening
his eyes, the first object that met his
view, was a huge bear, sitting on his
haunches, directly in front of him, and
not more than two yards distant. He
was watching for some movement on the
part of the sleeper, that should give proof
of animation, in order to commence the
attack; for it is a fact in relation to the
bear, that he will touch no dead prey.
Wahalla in a moment saw his danger,
and determined upon the course he would
pursue. He knew that at the first movement
on his part, the bear would be upon
him; and looking him steadily in the
eye, he contrived at the same time to
reach with one hand, his rifle, and slowly
and steadily bringing it down to his knee,
he levelled it deliberately at the head of
the bear; his wish and aim was to strike
him between the eyes; a moment, and
he fired, and instantly springs upon his
feet and draws his hunting-knife; the
bear uttered a wild, fearful scream of
pain and rage, and recovering his feet—
for the fatal shot had knocked him backwards,—
sprung upon Wahalla, with the
fury of a fiend. So sudden was his
bound that Wahalla could not escape his
grasp; his sharp claws pierced his arm,
and tore away the flesh; while the maddened
beast raised his head, showed his
strong jaws, and sharp, fearful-looking
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teeth, preparing to crush him. At this
moment, with a presence of mind truly
heroic, Wahalla deliberately marked the
spot upon his broad throat, that should
receive the keen knife, and plunged it
there with a force that buried it deep in
his vitals. It was a fortunate point; the
blood gushed in a flood from the deadly
wound, and with a moan the savage brute
fell dead at his side. He was a huge
beast, and the deed was, even amongst
these bold huntsmen, a theme for wonder
and admiration. It was not accomplished,
however, without cost to Wahalla;
for a long time after, his arms
were supported by a sling, and it was
doubtful whether he would ever recover
the use of them. The wounds were
dreadfully deep, and the flesh awfully
mangled and torn; but with care, they
finally were healed, and Wahalla is now
as strong of arm as before; there are,
however, upon his arms, proofs of the
encounter which will abide with him to
his grave, in the large scars and seams
that are left upon his flesh.
This story was told Charles by Shoonshoone,
who related it with the greatest
interest, and seemed to envy Wahalla the
exploit.
Le Beaux said that the grizzly bear
had been known to run for miles, after
more than ten balls had been lodged in
various parts of his body; and when
overtaken, turn with the greatest fury
upon his pursuers, and make a stout fight.
They not unfrequently, when pinched
with hunger, attack man, though generally,
if left undisturbed, will allow him to
pass unmolested.
Le Beaux attended to all the preparations
necessary both for himself and
Charles. During the course of the day,
Charles had walked through the village
and visited many of the lodges; amongst
others, he paid a visit to the lodges of
the Black Feet, and entered the lodge of
Red Hand, whom he found with his
braves around him; they did not appear
busy like the others, but were lounging
idly about the lodge, smoking, and talking
to each other in their own tongue.
They received him coldly, and treated
him very much as an enemy would have
been treated. The chief, in a supercil
ious manner, asked him if the white chief
was not afraid to go on the bear hunt?
Charles affected not to notice his manner,
but very kindly, and readily replied
that the bear hunt would be very pleasant
for him; that he loved to encounter
dangerous animals, whether bear or any
other that roamed in the forests; that the
greater the danger, the more exciting the
hunt. Red Hand is a great hunter and
warrior, and knows no fear in war, or in
the hunt. His white brother has the
heart of a Delaware, and is, like Red
Hand, afraid of neither man nor beast.
He looked steadily at the chief, as he
said this, and his firm look neither trembled
nor swerved for a single instant.
This act seemed to produce some effect
upon his hearers. It seemed very much
like a defiance of their boasted skill and
strength. The chief muttered a few
words to his followers, in their own
tongue, which Charles did not understand,
but he judged from their looks
that they were amazed at his rashness.
Red Hand then turning to Charles,
cast on him a scowling look, that expressed
the hatred he felt towards him;
and said, “the pale faces have white
hearts, they are cowards; they are afraid
of the Black Feet,—is it not so?”
“The pale faces,” said Charles, “are
a great people; their warriors are many
and strong; but they are friends to the
red men, and would be at peace with
them; but they can punish their enemies
if they do them an injury; they know
no fear, their hearts are strong and
brave.”
This terminated the visit, and Charles
left them to give free utterance to their restrained
feelings of hatred, and form their
plans of vengeance; although there was
no cause, except what they had formed
in their own minds; yet, still they hated
him with all their wills. Charles thought
he perceived in their manner, something
that indicated both contempt for their
entertainers, and satisfied assurance in
themselves. He believed, though he
could not tell why, they had plotted
some scheme which they relied upon with
great certainty; and he resolved not only
to keep a close watch upon them himself,
but also to mention his suspicion to Le
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Beaux. But soon taking leave of these
thoughts, he turned his steps to the little
arbor, which he approached by the well-known
path, which had now become
perfectly familiar to him. So absorbed
in his feelings was he, that he did not
observe a stealthy figure that dogged his
steps, and kept close upon his path.—
When he arrived at the bower, he found
Coquese there already. She greeted
him with a fond welcome, and invited
him to take a seat by her. He accepted,
of course, her invitation, and inquired
after her father's family. He expressed
to her great pleasure from his last evening's
visit to her father's family. Coquese
was delighted to think that he was
so favorably impressed from his visit to
her parents. She knew the prejudices
of the whites towards the Indian; and
although she felt persuaded that her dear
Charles must love her kind mother, when
he should become acquainted with her;
yet she could not help feeling some anxiety
upon a subject so intimately connected
with her happiness. After conversing
a short time upon this subject,
she spoke to Charles of Red Hand, and
what he had told her the day before
concerning him, and it appeared to give
her much uneasiness; she dreaded his
power of working harm, and felt now
more than ever terrified at the disposition
which she knew he possessed, of avenging
anything which appeared an obstacle
to his wishes. Charles took her hand
tenderly, and was endeavoring to quiet
her fears, with his promises of protection
and watchfulness of her happiness;
when suddenly and noiselessly, Red
Hand approached the bower, and stood
at the entrance. For a moment, so engaged
with each other were they, that
they did not perceive him. He looked
upon them with a scowling, fiendish expression,
as he contemplated their loving
looks, and familiar conduct towards each
other; and his shrewd mind at once discovered
the truth of their feelings, and
their relations to each other. His worst
fears, and suspicions were proved true.
Coquese, whom he sought from a brutal,
low passion, and whom he was determined
to make his squaw, loved the accursed
pale face. He felt that it was so,
and all the black, devilish passions of his
soul kindled at the thought. He shut his
teeth hard together, and regarded them
for a moment with equal hate, and had
half the purpose within him, to kill them
both on the spot; but it was only for a
second only,—Charles must die by his
hand, and Coquese should yet be his
squaw. This was the second thought,
and he fixed upon it greedily.
All this passed through his mind, in
much less time than we can write it.—
Just as he had arrived at this determination,
Coquese caught a glimpse of his
shadow on the ground, and instantly
looking up at the entrance, beheld him
standing there, with that fiendish expression
still on his face, intently regarding
them. She uttered an exclamation of
surprise and terror,—the blood fled from
her cheeks and neck, and left her pale
and trembling.
Charles at once turned his eyes in the
direction she had looked. Doing so, he
saw the cause of her alarm was the huge
Indian, who remained fixed where he
stood. Charles met his savage scowl
with a calm, determined look, and, in a
stern tone, asked him what his business
was, that made him, in such an insolent
manner, intrude upon their company.
Red Hand's brow was flushed with
anger and hate at these words, and with
a voice full of passion and bitterness, he
said, “Does the pale face think that Red
Hand will allow himself to be questioned
by such as him? What brings the pale
face to the tent of Red Hand's squaw?”
Charles was now in turn angry at the
tone in which Red Hand spoke of Coquese,
as his, and the insolent bearing
he manifested. But quickly replying,
that this was no place or time to dispute
with such a coarse brute as he was, told
him “begone!”
Coquese, who had listened to what
was passing between them, with an anxious
heart, here begged Charles, in
English, not to say anything to anger
him; but to recall what he had just said,
and suffer him to enter, when they might
endeavor to pacify him and make him
friendly to them. This, however, it was
too late to do, could it have been possible
to have achieved such a purpose at the
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outset. He was now fully aroused, and
nothing but vengeance on the object that
had angered him would satisfy his passionate
temper. Without any farther
words, he advanced a step into the
bower. Charles started with a hasty
impulse to throw him out quicker than
he came in; but Coquese laid her hand
upon his arm and entreated him to be
quiet. This checked him, and, in obedience
to her wish, he controlled his
anger.
Coquese now addressed Red Hand
with the words, “Red Hand has unexpectedly
and without giving her notice
of his visit, come to Coquese's private
retreat. What leads the great chief to
this spot?”
Red Hand felt abashed and confused
before the innocent and beautiful girl,
who thus, in a kind manner, addressed
him. After his rude conduct, he would
have liked it far better if she had spoken
harshly and angerly to him. He would
then have had a chance to display his
insolence and impertinence; but this
unlooked-for kindness and words of
respect completely confused him. He
replied, however, rallying his self confidence,
that he came to seek the Valley
Flower for his squaw; that he loved her
and would make her the mistress of his
lodge. He recounted his gallant deeds
and feats in war and the chase, which
had given him so high a rank in his tribe.
And by such arguments as the Indian
lover is wont to use, by extravagant
praise of her beauty and goodness,
sought to win her assent to his proposal.
She listened to him patiently, though
the changing color which came and went
alternately in quick succession showed
that her feelings were deeply affected.—
In truth, she felt that there was great
danger impending over her. This avowal
of Red Hand's wishes with regard to
her, showed her, what she feared before,
that he would become an enemy to her
happiness, and a foe, deadly and cunning,
to her dear lover. But she never faltered
or hesitated for a moment; but as
soon as Red Hand ceased speaking, she
answered him that it could never be;
that her heart was already given away,
and even were it not so, she said she did
not think herself fit to become the squaw
of so great a chief. There were many
other maidens of his own tribe who were
fitted to be the wives of their chief, and
who would delight to accept his vows.
She thanked him for his regard and
esteem for her, but could not, as she
already said, ever be his.
As she spoke, Red Hand's face grew
dark and cloudy. He felt humbled; nay,
he deemed it an insult, that any squaw
should reject his proposals; he, the chief
of his warlike tribe, though he anticipated
her refusal. He immediately turned
and left her presence, muttering as he
did so, some threats against the pale face
who had stolen her away from him.
Charles, who had been sitting by her
side during the dialogue between them,
and who, in spite of himself, was a good
deal amused by the course which the
chief pursued in his proposals to Coquese,
and was also filled with admiration
at the manner in which Coquese
had received them, and replied to him,
now, that he was gone, congratulated
her at the ready means she used to get
rid of him, and silence him forever.
But she was silent and thoughtful.—
She seemed even sad and dispirited, and
did not reply to his words.
Charles asked with an inquiring tone,
if she regretted that he had gone.
“No,” said she, surprised at the question,
“I only fear for you. I heard the
threat he uttered against you as he left,
and I know him too well, not to feel that
you are in danger.” She spoke in a
melting tone of tenderness, and her large
black eyes were turned lovingly upon
him.
He could restrain his feelings no
longer. Her looks, her love for him,
fired his heart, and, seizing her little
hand, he breathed forth into her ear, in
gushing, burning words, and earnest
tones, his love. She felt the blood rush
into her face again, and then she became
pale. Her downcast eyes hid her looks
from him; but the suppressed breathing
and pressure of the little hand he held in
his own, confirmed his hopes.
In a few moments she raised her face,
beaming with happy blushes, and, in
reply to his ardent and repeated wishes,
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that she would assure him that she
would ever love him, with her own lips,
she said, “Forever.” He clasped her
in a warm, close embrace, to his heart,
and their lips clung together in a warm,
sweet, long, thrilling kiss; a kiss of love,
that carried with it their heart's best love.
They forgot everything else but their
dear, fond love for each other. It filled
their hearts, and absorbed and overflowed
all their soul. It seemed as if they
never knew what happiness was before,
so completely felicitous were they now.
All around them looked beautiful. The
murmuring flow of the gentle stream that
was just before them, came to their
enraptured ears like sweet music. The
rustling of the leaves, that were stirred
by the soft breeze, whispered love. The
bright flower that decked the luxuriant
and blooming bank, never before looked
half so bright. And, to his eyes, how
beautiful, how surpassingly beautiful,
was the girl that sat by his side and
smiled so fondly upon him. Those
eyes, those dazzling, brilliant, sparkling
eyes! Did he ever see such eyes before?
The stars were dim, when contrasted
with their beaming light. And now,
how fond and lovingly they shone upon
him. And now he glances at the little
hand that was reposing in his clasp—so
tenderly, so affectionately—like the dove
in its nest, or the child on its mother's
bosom. Was he not the most fortunate,
the most favored of men? Was there
such delight, such bliss, as he now felt,
ever before bestowed upon man? How
he chided himself that he so poorly
appreciated, heretofore, those exquisite
perfections and surpassing beauties in his
dear Coquese. How blind and stupid
he must have been! his dear Coquese!
The thought filled his heart with love,
with fondness, with fullest joy. He
looked tenderly upon that sweet face,
that lay confidingly, close upon his
bosom, and in a low, endearing voice,
that thrilled to her very heart, and sent
a sweet thrill of delight throughout all
her being, he softly murmured, “Dearest
Coquese, oh, how much I owe you,
for this happiest moment of my life.—
Would that I could tell you how much,
how deeply I love you; but words are
poor, and but feebly express the feeling
of love that flows in my heart. You
are my life, my all. I feel that I could
not live without you, sweetest, dearest
girl. I loved you when I first beheld
you, as I awoke in your little arbor.—
Your image has ever, from that moment,
been present to my vision. It seemed
as though I had never loved before.—
Feelings as delightful as now kindled in
my heart, and all my life, that had
passed, seemed but a dream, a shadowy
vision, in the comparison. Oh, say
again, sweet one, you love me; I do so
delight to hear you say so. I could
never tire of your dear voice.”
“My darling, my idol,” said Coquese,
“my love has made me bankrupt, it has
taken all I have,—it is all yours. Would
I had more, how charming, how sweet
to give it you. 'Tis heaven to listen to
your fond words of love; dearest, I am
filled with fondest happiness. My love
is an ocean into which I have poured all
the gushing feelings of an overflowing
heart. Oh! that we might always be
thus; I could bid adieu to all the world,
without a sigh, were my loving Charles
to be always by my side. Do you know
I think you so beautiful, dearest, that I
almost fear you are an angel, and will fly
up to those beautiful fields in the sky,
that would alone make you a fit home?
But will my darling always love his Coquese?
will he always find delight in
her company, and love to sit by her
side?”
“Dearest love,” said Charles, “your
words are rapture to me, and you do love
me so very much; I am jealous of your
love, I would take it all; 'tis so sweet to
feel you love me. Does my sweet one
doubt, can she doubt, that her own
Charles will ever, can ever cease to love
her? Can my eyes cease to delight in
the sweet rays of the sun that makes all
things so happy-like, and gives such
friendly heat? Not until my heart forgets
to beat, can I, will I cease to love
you, sweetest, with all the fond, burning
affection of my true heart,” and he raised
the soft, beautiful hand he held, to his
lips, and impressed a warm, ardent kiss
upon it. She raised her blushing, happy
face to his,—so full of love, so full of
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beauty and tenderness. He was enraptured,—
he gazed with fondest admiration
upon her.
“How strange, how wonderful is it,
dearest, that we should ever have met!
What a change has come over me since
then; it seems as if it were my whole
existence pressed into these few, short
days.”
“I can remember nothing else,” said
Coquese.
“Say not so, sweetest,” said Charles,
“we were made for each other; believe
me, I feel that it is so. I recognize in
you, my love, the enchanting being of my
visions, the ideal that possessed my longing
imagination. Oh! I do, indeed, find
in you, all, and more than all I sighed,
and so ardently longed for.”
“But only to think,” said Coquese,
“how short a time, how few days have
passed since I found my Charles slumbering
in my little arbor, like a bird in
his nest; and yet it seems a life to me.
I fear my darling will think his Coquese
is light of heart, and too forward, that she
has given him so suddenly her heart.”
“My dearest, darling Coquese, “I
adore you as the best, and most beautiful
of women; and I love you more, if possible,
that you did thus give me your
priceless heart, so suddenly as you say.”
“Oh! how could I help loving you,
darling? I found you so unexpectedly,
so strangely, and then you looked so
beautiful, so noble,—I loved you before
you opened those lustrous, brilliant
eyes,” and again blushing, she leaned
her face on his breast.
“Dearest, darling girl,” said Charles,
“I shall never forget the moment, when
first, on awaking, I beheld your dear self
standing by my side. Speechless and
confused, I gazed with wonder and admiration
upon your graceful form and
beauteous face, and then closed my eyes,
believing it was a spell of my brain that
called up such a fairy creature; but oh!
what joy, what delight were mine, when
I again opened them, to see you still
there, and feel convinced you were indeed
a mortal, if indeed, you are. I felt
that I had found her whom I had loved
in my dreams, and my ready affections
lcaped to meet you, and fold you in a
warm embrace. Dearest, what happy
days we have spent together; they are
worth a life.”
But we will pursue the course of our
fond pair no farther; they talked of all
the incidents of the days of their acquaintance;
no event was too trifling or
little to escape their recollection. With
that sweet, charming confidence, which
true, intense love alone can create, they
poured out the sweet thoughts and feelings
which had occupied their minds,
and found new cause for their happy
love. Evening was far advanced, still
they sat in that little bower, close to each
other, side by side. Charles had wound
his arm around her waist, her hand was
folded in his, while she leaned her head
upon his shoulder, and fondly looked up
into his face. Happy hours! how short
you seemed! and when, at last, they
were warned by the thick shades of
night, of your flight, how amazed were
they at your rapid course; they started
as if awakening from a dream.
“We must go home, my Charles,”
said Coquese, “it is late, and my parents
will miss me.”
With unwilling hearts they left the
little arbor, the scene of their happy
loves. They pursued the path that led
to the village; they walked on in silence,
they were sad at the thought of parting,
even for so short a time, for they knew
they would meet on the morrow. Suddenly
Charles felt the arm that rested in
his, tremble,—a shudder passed over the
form of Coquese. She had just recalled
the meeting of Red Hand, at the bower,
and fear and a sad foreboding chilled her
heart. Charles, at once, in a tender voice,
exclaimed, “what troubles my Coquese?
is she afraid of aught that can happen
while her devoted love is by her side?”
“Alas!” said Coquese, “we have forgotten,
in our happiness, the wicked
threats, and deadly anger of Red Hand.
Oh! my darling, it is for you, my heart
is oppressed with fear. Your dear life
is threatened, and can your Coquese be
happy while it is so? Dearest, I implore
you to guard yourself; avoid that
blood-thirsty, remorseless man. I cannot
rest until you promise me you will not
meet him.”
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Charles pressed her hand with affectionate
love, for her fond anxiety on his
account, and readily promised what she
wished. He was so happy in her love,
he said, that he would forgive all his insults,
and be his friend. He had no
enemies, she had made him love the
world, and all about him.
And now their path emerged from the
woods, and they were close to the village;
they must part at her father's door; this
was a trial to their new love. They felt
as though they could not live out of each
other's sight, even for so short a time.
What might happen? The suspicion
that some accident might occur to them,
saddened their hearts, and made them
reluctant to separate; but they had reached
the door of her father's lodge, and
they must bid each other farewell.—
Charles pressed the fair girl to his heart,
and their lips met again; it was the parting
kiss,—without a word they separated.
Coquese entered the lodge, where her
parents sat, and were beginning to be
anxious about her return. They joyfully
welcomed her, and her mother said they
had been waiting for her, anxiously expecting
her.
Coquese blushed at the proof of the
lateness of the hour, but sat down to supper,
without making any reply. Her
thoughts were with her lover; and the
sweet hours she had just passed with him,
were her delightful subjects of reflection.
She recalled his loving looks, and dear
words. How good and beautiful he was,
thought she; and what a blessed fortune
was her's to be loved so ardently, by
one so gifted and kind. Her thoughts
kept her silent during the evening. 'Tis
true, they were interrupted at times, by
the danger which threatened their love,
from the passion and disappointment of
Red Hand; but she would not, could
not believe that any wrong, or adversity
could overtake her own, dear Charles;
and she banished these fears as unfounded,
to dwell upon the sweet prospects
open to them, and recall the blissful feelings
she had experienced in his company.
With such happy feelings she sought her
pillow.
And Charles—did no visions of joy
and happiness visit his pillow with
dreamy delight and pleasure? or did the
images of danger and trouble, which Red
Hand had evoked upon his head, fly in
sad and terrifying array before him?—
He remained late awake after retiring to
his couch. His mind was too busy, too
full; his heart too joyous, and crowded
with blissful emotions, to suffer him for
a long time to sleep. He reviewed his
day of love and delight with contented,
nay, with sweetest feelings. The image
of Coquese was before him, in all her
simple grace and surpassing loveliness.
He lived those charming hours over
again, and when his thoughts would send
their gaze far into the future, it was to
meet a captivating, enticing future of
deep and mutual love, and increasing
happiness, that should exist and crown
his lovely wife and his fortunate self.
With such thoughts, he at last fell
asleep, and the shadowy spirits and
sprightly fairies that hover o'er the
dreamer's pillow, came flocking round
him, bearing with them their rarest gifts.
Visions more bright, and scenes more
ravishing than in his waking moments,
were present to his view. These little,
but wonderous, powerful, and captivating
spirits unfolded them to him, such
only as they deign to bring to the happy
lover. So happy and blessed were his
dreams, that he was almost inclined to be
angry at the kind voice even of Le
Beaux, who, at a late hour in the morning,
came to awake him. For that same
voice that called him back to consciousness,
and broke his slumbers, frightened
and put to route the sweet companions
of his dreams. But there was no help
for it. Le Beaux would insist upon his
instantly rising and preparing himself for
the day's sport. The hunters, he said,
were already mustered, and were soon to
leave the village for the contemplated
bear hunt.
As soon as Charles recollected himself,
and was aware of the engagement
he had entered into for to-day, he at
once sprung from his bed, told Le Beaux
to get everything in readiness, and he
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would join him immediately. Hastily
dressing himself, he sallied out of the
lodge. He found the chiefs, and braves,
and all the men of the tribe, with the
exception of a few too old to go on the
chase, and the two younger lads, with
their weapons in their hands, and prepared
to set out.
Wahalla, who was amongst them, as
soon as he saw him, went to him and
requested him to enter the lodge again
and partake of a breakfast, which was
ready for him. Charles took a hasty
meal, and then went to bid Coquese
good morning, and say a few words to
her before leaving. He found M. Boileau
ready to leave, and, therefore, had
time only to interchange a word or two
with his love. She was happy as her
contented, loving heart could make her.
She bade him take care of himself, and
not expose his precious life, and then,
with an affectionate look, bade him good-bye.
Charles took his rifle from Le Beaux's
hands, and, calling his hounds, he set off
with the party for the hills, where they
expected to find the game. On arriving
at the foot of the range of hills, after
forming their plan of operations, and
dividing into parties of two and three,
they separated to take different directions,
agreeing to meet at evening at this
spot, where they now parted company.
Our hero and Le Beaux, Wahalla and
Shoonshoone, formed one party; and
Charles noticed that Red Hand so arranged
it, that his braves were by themselves,
in two parties, and both took
paths very near each other, and leading
them rather round the foot of the hill,
than deeper into the forest, or further
from the village. But this did not excite
his suspicions. He thought it natural
they should prefer hunting together, and,
perhaps, they knew that the bears had
left the hills and come down to the level
lands, at their base. At any rate, he
soon forgot this circumstance, and with
eagerness and impatience began to search
the thickets for the expected victims.
After having climbed the hill about
half way, and finding no recent traces of
the bear, they halted and deliberated
upon the chance of their search. Wa
halla and Shoonshoone each proposed by
themselves to strike off a little distance
from each other, and from Charles and
Le Beaux, who were to keep together,
and so search through a wider space
until they reached the summit, where
they were to meet again. They had
been separated in this manner but a few
minutes, before the report of a gun in the
direction Shoonshoone had taken, and
the well known howl of the bear, gave
them notice that he had been successful
in coming upon one. Hastening to a
little knob, which gave them a wide
prospect in the direction of the sound,
they looked carefully through the trees
on each side of them, and great was their
horror, when they saw Shoonshoone
standing close by a thicket, his gun,
which he had just discharged, by his
side, and a huge bear with an angry
howl rushing upon him. Shoonshoone
had just time to gather himself up and
make ready, before the enraged animal
was close upon him. He had approached
the bear while sleeping, and
had not fired until within a few yards of
him. The ball had entered his head,
but seemed only to enrage him. For,
springing up, he turned at once, without
showing that he was wounded or hurt,
upon his enemy. Shoonshoone had just
time, as we said, to seize his gun, and,
raising it over his shoulder, high in the
air, he aimed a tremendous blow at the
creature's head. But the bear caught
the blow on his paw, like a well trained
fencer, with a side cuff, that the next
instant sent the gun at least ten rods
from Shoonshoone's hand, and the next
moment he had closed upon him with a
desperate bound, and was rolling over
him on the grass. His presence of
mind, however, did not desert him at this
moment of most imminent peril and
danger.
Forcing his hand to his girdle, he contrived
to loosen his hunting knife, and, in
the struggle, his arm was freed, so that he
had a chance to give the bear a deadly
thrust, that for a moment made the animal
relax his hold. In an instant he
was upon his feet, but almost in the
same instant the bear again closed upon
him. In wrestling, the bear evidently
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had the advantage of him, and poor
Shoonshoone's life seemed not worth a
straw. But the second time they grappled,
before they fell, Shoonshoone had
struck, with all the might and strength
which desperation lent his arm, several
good blows at the bear, and given as
many bloody wounds; but the infuriated
creature did not flinch or waver in the
conflict. He uttered a dreadful howl
and immediately grappled more closely
his foe. Again they fell together to the
ground. And, now, the bear had a decided
advantage. Shoonshoone was beginning
to grow weak from his desperate
exertions, and from the loss of blood
which flowed from his wounds.
And, now, the bear stood uppermost,
and over the prostrate body of Shoonshoone,
making ready to tear him with
his teeth. Our hero was horror-struck
at this spectacle, and stood motionless
and almost breathless with fear for the
fate of his friend, whom he fully expected
to see die before his eyes, without being
able to assist him. But Le Beaux, who
had been watching the fight with as deep
anxiety, but more calmness, and who
had brought his rifle to his shoulder,
ready to take advantage of the first
chance of sending a bullet through the
bear's heart, had advanced a considerable
distance nearer them, all the while keeping
his rifle to his shoulder. Now was
his time. He saw it. In an instant his
rifle was leveled in deadly aim. At the
same time the sharp crack followed.—
The ball sped true to his unerring sight,
and passed directly through the lungs of
the bear, tearing, at the same time, the
upper section of his heart. With a
groan, he fell dead at the side of Shoonshoone,
who, freed from his grasp,
jumped again to his feet. He wrung the
hand of Le Beaux in gratitude, as he
came up to where he stood, but said not
a word. His arms and shoulders had
suffered much in the struggle, and were
frightfully lacerated, and bleeding.—
Charles was relieved from his torturing
suspense the instant Le Beaux fired, and
without waiting to see the result, had
rushed to Shoonshoone.
Their first care was to examine the
wounds of Shoonshoone, and apply such
remedies as were at hand, to them. Le
Beaux had considerable skill and knowledge
in dressing wounds, and in a few
moments he had washed, dressed, and
bound up the wounds of Shoonshoone,
and stopped the flowing of his blood
from them. He bore all the operation
without a murmur; yes, even without
flinching, or changing countenance, and
spoke of the encounter in a tone of pride
and exultation. He had, young as he
was, achieved a deed worthy of the
notice of his tribe, and proved himself
worthy to be ranked with the older, and
acknowledged braves and chiefs. This
thought sustained and animated him,
though the pain he suffered was awful
and agonizing.
The bear was a huge animal, of the
very largest size; and on examining him,
Le Beaux found that Shoonshoone's shot
had struck him in the side of the head,
and passed clear through his cheek.—
The wound he had inflicted with his
hunting-knife was deep and severe, and
would have eventually killed him. Both
praised his courage and presence of mind.
He drank in with delighted ears their
words, and thought them sufficient reward
for all the pain he felt. They now
urged upon him the necessity of returning
to the village. He at first refused to
do so, but when Wahalla came up and
heard the account of the fight, and saw
the wounds, he joined his words to
their's; and at last, induced him to return;
but he would on no account suffer
either of them to accompany him. He
desired them to pursue the hunt, and
promised to see them at the village when
they returned at night. Charles was
very unwilling to accede to this proposition.
He thought it exceedingly rash,
on the part of Shoonshoone, and improper
in them, to allow him to go back to
the village alone, after such a severe
struggle, and after he had been so much
weakened by his wounds, and loss of
blood, and so much exhausted by his
violent efforts. It was several miles to
the village, and they had come on foot;
to go back, Charles thought was altogether
too much for Shoonshoone, in his
present state, if not impossible. But he
refused any assistance, and would
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consent to go, only on condition that they
remained and pursued the chase. He
affected to treat lightly his wounds, and
said he should not be backward in engaging
again in a struggle of a like kind,
if there was an occasion.
Charles saw that it was useless to urge
him farther, and so gave it up, though
reluctantly, at last.
Shoonshoone slowly wended his way
back to the village. Often was he obliged
to stop and rest, from exhaustion, and
debility; and it was not until a late hour
in the afternoon, that he reached his
lodge. When his story was told, all
those who remained at home, came to
him, and praised his daring, and congratulated
him on his success. It was the
most important deed he had ever accomplished,
and won for him a name, among
his people. His wants were all carefully,
and kindly attended to; and his
wounds were now dressed with more
care and skill, by an old warrior, who
was famous for his knowledge of diseases,
and the manner of treating wounds.
Charles and his two companions continued
their hunt for bear. Wahalla
dressed the bear that Shoonshoone had
killed, and hung the meat up by a tree
which he marked, to be taken home on
the morrow; then striking off into the
woods a short distance, commenced his
search anew. He had not been long engaged
in this manner, before he came
upon a young bear, that had concealed
itself in a little thicket that grew by a
stream, which came leaping down the
hill-side. The bear was on the watch,
and started off before he had advanced
near enough to be sure of him. He took
the direction which would lead him
directly across the path pursued by
Charles and Le Beaux. Wahalla followed
him, and fired at him; the ball
entered the lower part of the body, but
did not inflict a bad wound. It made
him utter a wild, shrill scream, that
warned Charles and Le Beaux of his approach,
and at the same time they heard
the voice of Wahalla shouting to them.
Both immediately cocked their rifles,
prepared to give him battle, as soon as
he should be discovered. They had
not long to wait; in a few moments they
saw him coming, as fast as his sluggish
gate could carry him, directly towards
them. When he was about a hundred
yards from them, Charles was anxious
to fire upon him, but Le Beaux coolly
said to him:
“Wait till he gets within thirty yards,
then take good aim, and let him have it.
I will wait until after you have fired, and
be ready, in case you fail to bring him
down.”
Charles acted as Le Beaux suggested,
and fired at the distance mentioned; the
ball struck him higher than he intended
to hit him, but it gave him a bad wound,
however, and brought him to his knees.
He instantly recovered himself, however,
and now furious from pain, made at them
with open mouth, uttering a savage
growl. Le Beaux, upon whose rifle depended
their safety, kept his eye upon
him, and waited till he had advanced to
within ten yards of them, before he fired;
the bear gave one bound in the air, and
fell dead upon the grass,—the ball passed
directly through his heart. Wahalla
soon came up; and upon examining him,
they found that each one had lodged a
ball in him. Wahalla dressed him, and
hung him up, again marking the spot.
While they sat down to rest themselves,
Charles gratified his curiosity in observing
the manner Wahalla used the hunting-knife,—
the skill and rapidity with
which he executed this part of the sportsman's
duty,—they heard far off on the
neighboring hills the shouts and cries of
the other parties, as they drove before
them the routed game; and occassionally
the sharp crack of a rifle would awaken
the echoes that lay hidden in the depths
of those solitary forests.
Soon they were on their path again.
Now the loud clamor of a successful
party would break in loud shouts of victory,
upon their ears, in joyful tones,
that cheered and excited their hearts;
and again, the faint, feeble echoes of the
wild hunter's halloo, would come borne
on the breeze, from some party far along
the wooded hill-side. But for a long
time, they met with nothing but small
game, after they had killed the bear
which Wahalla had started, and were
almost on the point of giving up the hope
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or expectation of any further success,
when Charles proposed that they should
separate for a short time, a little distance
from each other saying that in this way
they could extend their search over a
wider range, without additional labor.—
His hounds, at an early part of the day,
had bounced a buck, and followed after
him, and had not yet come in; so
Charles started off alone, agreeing to
meet his companions, in a short time, at
a spot ahead agreed upon, and which
they were to approach in different directions.
Le Beaux was rather reluctant
to separate from him; he had a sort of
presentiment that he would need him before
long, and this feeling was so strong
within him, that it kept him near the
course taken by him. They had not
pursued this separate search long, when
Charles arrived in his path at a narrow
pass on the hill, through which he must
advance, if he would continue on in this
direction. Suddenly he perceived in
a little thicket, on one side of his path,
two small, glistening orbs, that glowed
like balls of living fire. He was too
much of a sportsman not to know at
once, that this appearance proceeded
from nothing but the watchful and savage
eyes of a wild beast. Whether it was a
bear, or panther, or wolf, he could not
decide. He hesitated a moment, to determine
what course to pursue. Those
flaming balls were evidently watching
him; and of one thing he was certain,
that retreat would be fatal,—the moment
he turned his back, the creature would be
upon him, and to keep on would not, apparently,
be less so. He saw how he
was circumstanced,—fight the beast he
must. The question now was, how
should he best encounter him? It must
be a bold, sharp shot,—a steady hand,
and a cool sight; this alone would save
him. His first step was carefully and
cautiously to raise his rifle, and examine
the lock to see that the cap was well put
on. This done, he threw the barrel of
his trusty rifle across his left arm, all the
while keeping his eye fixed upon the animal.
Noiselessly, and with great caution,
he advances his right hand along
the breech of his rifle till it rests upon
the lock; then, in the same quiet, cool
manner, he cocks it, and the fourth finger
of his right hand he places upon the trigger—
now he is ready; slowly, but
coolly, he advanced a pace or two; but
the bear,—for such it proved to be,—did
not keep him in suspense, as to his intentions.
He had not proceeded more
than five paces, when the bear, with a
deep, savage growl, dashing aside the
branches that concealed his covert, rushed
out, and at once sprung upon him.—
Charles exercised, at this terrible moment
of awful peril, the most perfect
presence of mind. He took as good aim
as the sudden attack would permit, and
fired. The ball passed through the bear's
cheek, breaking a part of his jaw, on the
right side; but apparently, the wound
had no other effect than to render him
still more furious, and raving. Oh!
what would he have given now for his
brave and trusty hounds; but they were
not with him. He had permitted them
to leave him, and with their deep notes,
so cheerful to the hunter's ear, he had
listened to them, and hallooed them on,
as they followed the flying feet of the
startled buck. And now he felt they had
but too well answered to his exciting
halloo.
Quick as lightning these thoughts and
wishes flashed through his mind. Seeing
his peril, in an instant he had seized
his rifle by the barrel, and raising it by
the side of his head, prepared to deal his
foe a tremendous blow upon his head,
with the butt of it. But bruin was too
good a boxer to be tapped in such a way.
He raised one of his fore paws, and very
skillfully threw off the blow one side.—
The next instant, Charles felt the strong
legs of the shaggy beast folded about
him, and pressing him in a closer and
closer hug. He dropped his rifle from
his hand, and struggled to draw his knife
upon him. In the struggle the bear
threw him down, and was standing over
him, or rather pressing down upon him.
One of his strong, brawny paws clenched
his left arm; each hard, protruding talon
pierced through his thick, stout, buckskin
shirt, and tore his flesh. The other paw
rested heavily upon his chest. He felt
as if every moment its sharp claws would
tear his very heart from his side. His
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senses became confused,—his sight grew
dizzy; still like a brave hunter, he fainted
not, nor ceased to struggle with all his
might for the victory. His right arm,
which he had contrived to extricate from
the monster's grasp, was busy for his relief.
He held his knife in that hand, and
continually dealt vigorous and severe
blows at the throat of the bear; in this
way, he prevented him from bringing
into play his bloody jaws, which he was
endeavoring to fix upon his face and
neck. The hot breath of the bear was
poured upon his face, and the hot blood
flowed in streams from the wounds he
had dealt him, down his face and upon
his chest, almost suffocating him.
Such a fearful, desperate struggle could
not possibly be of long continuance; one
or both must soon yield. The burning
eye-balls of the furious bear were glaring
nearer and nearer his cheek; hotter and
hotter glowed his breath upon his face;
but still, so long as Charles wielded the
bloody knife he held in his hand, the
cowardly beast held back, as if conscious
of the superior bravery, though inferior
strength of the man whom he pressed
beneath him.
Charles' power at last relaxed; nature
had done her utmost in his behalf,
she was at last exhausted. He had exerted
every limb, every muscle to the
utmost; every nerve was stretched, but it
was all in vain. The gloom of despair
was on the point of overwhelming him,
his very soul, and death was about to
claim and seize his victim, when the
clear deep bay of his faithful blood-hounds
broke upon his ear, and revived
his sinking heart, and brought back consciousness.
Never was there to him so
joyous a sound before. The next moment
the branches crashed and yielded
beneath a heavy, hasty bound; and his
two blood-hounds, with an overpowering
leap, bounded together upon the merciless
and well nigh victorious foe. The
shock hurled the weakened, but still
obstinate bear, from off our hero's prostrate
form; and Charles leaping to his
feet, felt that he was saved from a most
cruel death, saved at the last moment.
Had his brave dogs delayed their coming
a moment longer, they might have, would
avenged their kind and loved master's
death; but they, too, would have howled
their wailing grief, and bemoaned in sorrow
more true, and deep, than many a
human, rational being, above his lifeless
and mangled form. But this was not
now the case; they came on swift feet,
and came just in the nick of time.
The reader will easily conjecture the
explanation of this sudden appearance,
and truly providential, nay, almost maraculous
rescue of Charles, from the very
jaws of death, by the blood-hounds.
They had run down the buck they
started in the morning, and killed him;
they returned to seek their master.—
They fell in with M. Boileau's party, as
they returned, who endeavored to keep
them with themselves; but it was in vain
they coaxed and tempted them,—all
would not do. They took a hasty look
through the party, and seemed to ask for
their master; then, as if haste was required
of them,—as if they had an instinctive
knowledge of the peril he was
about to encounter, and that this assistance
would be necessary for his safety;
off they sprung, and never tired or slackened
their speed, until their unerring
instinct brought them to his side, just in
time to save his life, as we have said
above.
And where was Le Beaux, all this
time? you will be ready to ask, I fancy.
He had not been out of sight of our hero,
five minutes, when he was startled by
the report of his rifle. Hastening as fast
as possible in the direction of the sound,
he arrived at a spot where he could see
what was taking place, just as the bear
made the first leap upon him. What
his feelings were, when this sight met
his eyes, we will not attempt to describe.
We feel we could not do them justice if
we should try. He had become more
and more attached to Charles, from the
first, and felt for him as strong, as deep
love, as if he had been his own son.—
He thought it was all over with him; he
was not prepared for such calm coolness,
and determinate resolution, on the part of
Charles. He, however, set himself to
work at once, with great earnestness,
and presence of mind, to render him all
possible assistance. He hastened to him
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prepared to use his rifle on the first
chance, but so manfully did Charles
struggle, and so constantly was he in motion,
that he did not dare to fire, for fear
of hitting him at the same time he might
wound the bear. Great, as may be conceived,
was his joy when the bay of the
hounds told him that a safer, surer succor
was at hand; and fervently did he
pray in his heart, that Charles' strength
might hold out a little longer, until it
reached him.
His joy was unbounded as he came
up a little after the arrival of the hounds,
and found Charles safe. He washed
the blood from his face, examined his
arm, and bound it carefully up. Charles
had suffered but little, otherwise than
from being considerably bruised. The
only wounds he received were on his
left arm, and these were not deep or dangerous.
They were mere nothing, compared
with those Shoonshoone had received.
The reason he had not suffered
more from the claws of the bear was
this: Le Beaux had advised him in the
morning to put on a thick, stout deer-skin
hunting shirt. He had done so,
and this, in a great measure, had protected
him.
Wahalla had heard his rifle, and hastened
to his assistance. He had come
in season to witness the closing part of
the struggle, and the brave rescue by the
dogs. He seemed to look upon them
with the most profound veneration and
wonder, not unmixed with admiration, at
their dauntless courage and generous
interference for their master's safety.
Le Beaux, after everything was attended
to, proposed to return to the place
of meeting, and be ready to go home, as
soon as the other partner should come
in. This, his companions readily assented
to. They were quite satisfied
with the results of their hunt, and willing
to cease. They were rejoiced at the
escapes they had from the imminent perils
and dangers they had encountered,
and satisfied with the game they had
won. Moreover, it was now almost
sun-set.
They slowly retraced their steps, and
in little more than an hour came to the
spot agreed upon in the morning as their
rendezvous after the hunt was over.—
Several bands were already there when
our little party came in. All had met
with good success, though the first
adventure of the day, and most daring
personal encounter, were allowed without
hesitation to belong to Shoonshoone.
He was inquired after, and when his
exploit was related to the others by Wahalla,
in his lively, eloquent manner, a
murmur of approbation and praise was
expressed by all.
To Charles, however, they were full
of praises of his courage and skill; and
the story of the hounds, which Wahalla
told in a manner highly favorable to
those four-footed sportsmen, seemed to
excite little less wonder than the sight
had done on him. It was late in the
evening when the last band of the Delawares
came in, and yet nothing was seen
or heard of Red Hand or his people.—
They waited some time for them, but in
vain.
Some suspicions began to take possession
of the minds of the Delawares
with regard to the conduct and intentions
of the missing bands. As we have
before said, they had entertained or
rather endured their presence among
them more on the grounds of policy, and
a desire to avoid offending them, which
they certainly knew would bring on a
war with the powerful and warlike
nation, of which Red Hand was the
principal chief. They treated them
kindly, but there was no mutual friendship
or regard in their hearts. They
even distrusted them, and believed that
some hidden, secret, and hostile purpose
was concealed at the bottom of their professedly
friendly visit.
Charles revolved in his mind all the
facts and circumstances which had come
under his observation, while among them,
relating to Red Hand. And, now, the
observations which he had made in the
morning, and the scene of their camp, on
the day before, so different from the
appearance of the Indian camp on the
eve of a hunt, where two rival tribes are
to try their skill and daring, all came
with startling distinctness and vividness
before his mind, and connected themselves
at once with the scene at the little
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bower, in which Coquese had played so
prominent a part, and where Red Hand
had so suddenly declared his passion for
her, and, mortified and enraged at her
refusal and frank avowal, that she was
already another's, had displayed his as
sudden hate, and muttered the threats
against him, which he had disregarded
and quite forgotten, but which had caused
Coquese so much uneasiness and alarm
for his safety. And he at once concluded
that Red Hand's absence at this time
was another step in his hostile plans
towards Coquese and himself. He
feared the worst from him. He believed
he had seized this occasion of the
absence of the warriors of the tribe, who
could protect the village, to accomplish
his purposes towards her by force. He
knew that his hated enemy would have
no scruples as to the measures he would
use, and, as he reflected upon this, a
shudder jarred over his frame. He
trembled at what his fears brought up
before him. His cheek grew pale, and a
feeling of blight and sickened hopes of
despair came over him. But it was for
an instant only. He quickly rallied
himself, and bent his thoughts at once
upon the framing of measures, which
should defeat his enemy, if his suspicions
should prove true.
His first thought was to communicate
his views to Le Beaux and M. Boileau,
privately, and consult with them on the
course best to pursue. And no sooner
had he conceived this thought than he
immediately put it into effect. And,
drawing them one side, that he might
not be disturbed or overheard by the rest
of the party, he, in an earnest but distinct
manner, told them his thoughts and
his fears, omitting no circumstance which
might serve both to enlighten them and
impress upon them more fully his belief.
He related the scene between Coquese
and Red Hand, and himself, at her little
bower. At the relation of this a cloud of
anxiety and trouble darkened the countenances
of both his companions, and
they instantaneously adopted the view
which Charles had taken of the case.—
Charles could not forbear, at this time,
from confiding to M. Boileau and his
friend, the guide, the story of his love for
Coquese, and the return she gave him,
and soliciting, in any plans they might
adopt, or in any emergency that might
arise, that his aid and personal exertion
might be given a first place. He eagerly
declared that he would, if necessary, lay
down his life for her.
Le Beaux's face was illumined with a
gleam of satisfaction at Charles' avowal
of his love and his determination to sacrifice
everything for her. He grasped
his hand and pressed it warmly, declaring
he would stand by him in every
trouble.
M. Boileau received his avowal with
surprise, and with mingled pleasure and
regret. He thanked him for the honor
he proposed his family, and expressed
in a calm tone, the hope that they would
find things better than their fears led
them to anticipate. He kindly said to
Charles that on some future occasion
they would speak fully on what he said,
but now they must turn their immediate
attention to the danger they feared.—
Then, going to his band, he briefly
related what Charles had said, suppressing
what concerned our hero and Coquese
personally, but giving them a full
account of Red Hand's demand upon his
daughter for her hand.
They listened in silence, but the kindling
of their dark eyes, the compressed
expression of their faces, and knitting of
their stern brows, as he spoke his fears
that their guests had taken advantage of
their absence to accomplish their purposes,
showed their readiness and determination
to avenge any wrongs that had
been inflicted.
Without further deliberation, the Delawares
immediately set out on their
return to the village; they were distant
some four miles, and they set out at a
rapid pace. Their fears lent them speed,
and in less than three-quarters of an
hour from the time they started from their
rendezvous, they arrived at the village.
Charles forgot his wounds, in the deep
anxiety he felt for Coquese's safety, and
her uncertain fate, and kept in the front
rank. When they reached home, they
found everything apparently quiet, and
as they had left it. The squaws were
standing at the doors of their several
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lodges, awaiting their return, and ready
to welcome them. The sight at once
dispelled their fears, and they concluded
that they had wronged their guests by
their suspicions. A load of anxious
thoughts was lifted from their burdened
and troubled hearts, and they could hardly
restrain the joyful disappointment they
experienced, from manifesting itself in
some exulting, outward show. But as
they looked upon the face of their wise
chief, M. Boileau, and saw that it still
wore that anxious expression which had
clouded it, when he addressed them at
the rendezvous, and saw the same stamp
of fear on their two white friends' countenances,
their rising joy was checked.
They all, as if by a secret and unanimous
agreement, remained without their lodges,
awaiting the movements of M. Boileau.
Charles, with him hastened to the lodge
of M. Boileau, and with trembling, eager
haste, greeted Leila, his wife, who stood
at the door, and smiled upon him as he
approached, not noticing the anxiety and
impatience which his face wore. Her
husband saluted her with his accustomed
tenderness, and quiet manner. As he
approached, he had noticed her undisturbed,
fond, affectionate looks, in which
there was expressed nothing but sweet
contentment, and full happiness. This
led him to believe that their fears were
groundless, which he had felt on account
of his daughter, and swept away the
clouds from his thoughtful brow, ere he
reached her. She scanned him with the
watchful eye of affection, and saw at a
glance, that he was safe and unhurt; but
as she turned to Charles to observe him,
with the same purpose, she noticed what
had at first escaped her attention,—that
his arm rested in a sling, and his clothes
were torn and bloody. She started, and
turned pale, and in a breath asked him if
he was hurt badly; for she had already
formed a strong attachment for him, and
had observed the feelings Coquese could
not hide from her mother's eye, which
she had for him. It had pleased her, and
in her heart she hoped that some day
she might become the happy bride of our
hero, whose gentle manners, kind, and
generous disposition she had observed,
and whose praises Le Beaux had enter
tained her with, since his arrival among
them. 'Tis no wonder, then, that seeing
these signs which she could not mistake,
of his hurt, she should exhibit such feeling
and sympathy for him; nay, it needed
not such an interest in him to awaken
these kind and pitying feelings, in her
tender heart. She was accustomed to
render acts of kindness and sympathy to
all who were in suffering, that came
within her observation, or whom she
might find in her rounds through the
village, which she frequently made on
errands of mercy and benevolence.
Charles answered her quickly, that he
was not hurt,—he had received a few
scratches, which did his clothes more
damage than his flesh; it was a trifle,
not worth a thought; “but,” said he,
almost in the same breath, “I do not see
Coquese here,—is she at home?”
He spoke in a trembling, tender tone,
as he asked this question, and his face,
always so ready to mirror the feelings
that stirred his heart, showed the deep
interest he felt in the expected answer;
for so strong was the feeling, the presentiment
of some evil about to fall upon him,
and that through his loved and betrothed
Coquese, that all he saw in the village,
the contented and happy face of his darling's
mother,—all that would, under ordinary
circumstances, have dispelled his
fears, and quieted his anxious heart, could
not now banish the fearful, dreaded forebodings
that harrowed his whole soul,
and filled him with agitation, and painful
suspicion. He would not, could not be
satisfied of her safety, till he again saw
her dear face, and folded her to his loving
heart.
Leila could but be struck by his earnest,
anxious manner, and the deep sadness
of his expression, but not knowing, or
being able to conjecture the reason for
them, she was perplexed and puzzled
how to answer him; and a minute or
two of torturing suspense to our hero,
was suffered to pass, before she recovered
from the surprise and confusion his manner
had thrown her into. She, at the
expiration of this time, answered him,
looking at the same time, inquiringly
into his face, that she was not at home
but had gone out to take a walk by her
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self; which was an every-day custom
with her.
Charles waited to hear no more, but
without a word, or even a look of parting,
darted away in the direction of the
little bower. He ran at the top of his
speed, till he was hidden by the forest
trees from their sight.
We must now leave him for awhile,
to pursue his search at the bower for
Coquese, and turn to the Delawares, who
remained standing in a body, awaiting the
result of M. Boileau's interview with his
wife. They had all, on second thought,
believed that their first impression that
all was right at the village, was a little
too hasty, and might yet be false. As
they recalled the words of M. Boileau to
them, when he spoke his fears, and remembered
that it was the Flower of the
Valley that Red Hand aimed at, and was
come among them to carry off, and though
it was the common method pursued by
hostile tribes to inflict as much injury as
possible upon each other on every occasion
that offered, yet they conjectured
that Red Hand, whose cunning and
shrewdness they well knew, might have
reasons for leaving the rest of the tribe
unmolested, while he was contented to
gain alone the chief object that led him to
their camp. They thought, therefore,
that it was yet possible that Coquese
might have been carried off by him, by
some devilish art he had practised upon
her credulity, and by which he had either
lulled the suspicions, or avoided exciting
the attention of those at home, to
himself and his people. They had observed
with the closest attention, what
had transpired at the door of M. Boileau's
lodge, and their fears were awakened
anew as they saw Charles set off alone
at such headlong speed, and bend his
way to the forest. Wahalla, who had
become very strongly bound to Charles,
could not, or did not resist the feeling
which moved him to follow his footsteps.
He had seen the daring, and almost reckless
bravery which he displayed in his
encounter with the bear, in the morning,
and he believed that should any danger
offer him now in his search for Coquese,
as he hastily concluded his errand to be,
he would rush on heedless of all odds.
He therefore resolved to follow him, and
if danger was in his path, to stand by
him to the death.
Such was his noble, generous nature;
and had he known that he followed to
certain destruction, he would not have
faltered or hesitated for a moment. He
had guessed at the relation which Charles
bore to Coquese, and with a refined and
touching delicacy, he avoided coming up
with him, or annoying him with his
presence, should he meet with Coquese.
He kept sufficiently near him to be ready
to assist him at the first sign of danger;
but at the same time, far enough behind
to conceal himself from his view. In
this way he followed him to the bower.
Leila had looked with silent surprise
and wonder after Charles, as he so abruptly
and strangely left her, and ran as
if he were mad,—like a hound to the
woods. She gazed after him as long as
he was in sight, and then turning to her
husband with a bewildered, inquiring
look, she sought to read an explanation
of his conduct in his face.
He appeared little less surprised than
herself at the moment, but his wife's
appealing look recalled him to the circumstances
around him, and interpreting
at once her look, he hastily, but distinctly,
narrated to her the fears and suspicions
which Charles had first suggested
on noticing that Red Hand and his party
had not returned; and then detailed the
facts Charles had recounted to him and
Le Beaux concerning Red Hand's passion
and declaration to Coquese, and
finished by telling her of Charles attachment
and secret engagement to their
daughter. This latter information at
any other time would have inspired
Leila with hope and joy, and been the
crowning of her fondest wishes, with
regard to her daughter's future prospects;
but now, coupled as it was with dark
and sad fears—it made her shudder
for the fate of her beloved child, and
awakened the same forebodings that had
darkened and grieved the soul of our
hero, and which served to explain his
conduct to her better than words could
do. So sudden, so unexpected to her,
was this information, that it overcame
her. She grew deadly pale; her brain
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reeled, and she would have fallen, had not
M. Boileau caught her in his arms. He
spoke in cheering tones of hope to her,
and endeavored to soothe her excited
fears. He had been deceived by her
manner, and supposed that Coquese was
at home, or that she was satisfied that at
least she was safe, and this had led him
to speak out his fears more plainly and
suddenly to her than he otherwise would
have done. But so tender and loving
was her heart, so watchful of the welfare
of her family, that although she had
thought, and had reason to believe, that
Coquese had simply gone out to take her
accustomed walk, and would soon return
again, yet on the first mention of the
fears which her husband and Charles
entertained for her, her mind was filled
with images of suffering and misery,
which her dear Coquese might at that
moment be enduring. All confidence in
her own reflections were gone in a
moment.
Oh, how bitter, how sad the thoughts
of a fond, loving, devoted heart, when it
feels that its cherished darling is torn
away from its warm embrace by cruel
hands, and plunged in misery and grief.
And a mother's love! Who can fathom
it, or take its measure, or say how great,
how infinite, how holy, how lovely it is?
It is boundless and deep as the ocean.—
It is immortal and eternal. Nothing can
quench it, or take it from her heart.—
Through all the changes of life, in poverty,
in wretchedness, in deepest woe, in
vice, and dark sin, in the lowest, most
degraded stations in life, will it seek its
offspring, and, like a holy, bright angel,
cover and protect them. Tender and
watchful, it is quick to feel the pangs of
alarm, and grieve at the rising fears and
doubts its own holy anxiety awakens.—
Ah, it is the loveliest, purest thing on
earth; the only heavenly, native grace
that was left our race when they were
driven from the golden gates of happy
paradise.
And in Leila's heart lived in all its
strength and purity such love. Wonder
not then, and call them not idle fears,
which so overpowered her, and crushed
for the moment her senses. She made a
violent effort to be composed, and such
was the force of her strong will, which
had been expanded and strengthened by
her peculiar education, that she did calm
herself, and spoke to her husband in a
quiet, even tone.
But now he, too, felt as if his life were
gone. The fear of his wife had in a
moment changed all, and he saw at once
that Charles was right; that there was
no reason yet to dismiss fear. Red
Hand would in his cunning have done
this secretly, if he did it at all, that he
might get a sufficient start to baffle his
pursuers. He saw it all in an instant.—
Both kept silent, awaiting with breathless
interest the return of Charles. They
strained their eyes in the direction where
they supposed he would appear, as if
they by so doing could pierce through
the thick overshadowing foliage, that
formed an impenetrable hiding place the
eye could not reach. They had but a
few minutes to wait, however, though it
seemed like so many hours to their
brooding minds, racked with torturing
suspense.
Leila uttered a wild, heart-rending
scream as she saw him emerge from the
woods alone. Her fears, her worst
fears returned again. Her cheek lost its
color. Her heart almost ceased to beat.
It beat but slowly, feebly sending back
the blood that hurried to it. In fright
he approached. They saw he held in
his hand a piece of the silk scarf she had
worn when she left the lodge, which had
been a gift from himself but a few days
before. It was torn, as if by violent
hands, near the centre, and he had found
it on the ground, at the entrance of her
little arbor. There were other marks
he said, around the spot, which too
clearly, too surely, showed that his dear
Coquese had been torn from her home
by the cruel, bloody Red Hand.
He spoke in a voice choked with feeling
and wretchedness, and his agony of
feeling, which was so startlingly portrayed
in his face, and which would burst
forth in his heart-rending words and deep
sighs, so deeply moved the pity of Leila
that, for a moment, she forgot herself in
the endeavor to comfort him. So utterly
crushed and blighted were his cherished
fairest hopes, that no tongue can speak
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the grief he felt at the fate of his dear,
dear girl. Such a fate, so cruel, so
utterly and completely miserable and
wretched must it make her. And then
she must live on to die by inches, till
her crushed and bleeding heart should
cease to move, and lay cold in death; a
death welcome to her in the spring-time
of life, as the only means of delivering
her from a greater woe. Such were the
thoughts that burnt in Charles' soul, and
in broken and agonized sentences found
vent in his words, that seemed to tear
and rend his heart with their utterance.
But his violent grief was not long permitted
to hold sway over him in this
terrible manner. Le Beaux had, during
his absence, joined M. Boileau and his
wife, and by his calmness and kind
words had done much towards calming
her fears and restoring her to herself.—
And now, she and those about her could
not look upon Charles, and see the grief
that crushed and weighed him down, or
that tortured him to agony, without feeling
that his great sorrow was more than
all their own, however much they suffered,
and deserved their sympathy.—
And for this end Le Beaux now advanced
and sat down by his side. He had to
turn away and brush the tears from eyes
that were not apt to weep, so profound,
so touching was his young and adored
friend's sorrow. But he whispered to
him now that there was hope, that there
was vengeance to be taken on the cruel
foe, due to Coquese and to himself; that
they might yet overtake him and rescue
her from his fiendish grasp.
Charles did not at first appear to
understand him, but Le Beaux repeated
it again. As he did so, Charles looked
him full in the face, and catching his
meaning, his eye kindled into a blaze,
his face changed to one complete, absorbing
expression of determined resolution
and earnestness, and springing to his fect,
he exclaimed in a resolute tone, “You
are right, Le Beaux. It is idle to sit
here and indulge our grief. We can, we
must, I feel we shall yet overtake the
villain.” And his face glowing, his arm
raised on high, he bound himself by an
oath to follow him so long as they lived,
or until he should rescue his betrothed,
or if dead slay her destroyer. Quick!
quick! let us mount our horses and pursue
them.”
“Calm yourself,” said Le Beaux,
“and let all the chiefs deliberate what
measures to pursue, and then we will
lose no time in carrying them into action.
See you that the warriors are yet drawn
up in the village ready to do battle for
Coquese, whom they all love.”
M. Boileau spoke to his wife a few
soothing words and led her into the
lodge. He told her he would soon
return to her; he must now go to the
council: and, so saying, he hurried out to
where the Delawares stood.
CHAPTER XV.
The Delawares, who had been attentive
observers of all that had transpired
at M. Boileau's lodge, and whose attachment
to him and his family, was of a
strong and most endearing nature, were
prepared to receive the intelligence which
was now made known to them by the
distressed and suffering father, M. Boileau.
He had so far learned and adopted
the Indian customs, as to be able to control
and conceal, even the most violent
feelings which might possess and agitate
him. As he now stood up before them
and addressed them, a stranger would not
have supposed that anything of deep and
heart-filling moment had arcused him,
and was moving his soul. In a clear,
but stern tone, like one whose resolution
is not to be shaken, he addressed them:
“Why does Boileau come out to meet
the brave and tried warriors of the Delawares,
and address them? Is it because
a foreign foe has taken the war-club and
the tomahawk, and has come on the
war-path as enemies to the Delawares,
to fight their young men, and burn their
village? Or is it to tell them that the
trail of a panther had crossed their village?
No, it is none of these. The
Delawares have smoked the pipe of
peace with the surrounding nations, and
the hatchet lies buried in their camp,—
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their village is not sought by foes,—the
brave chiefs and warriors of the Delawares
are feared by their enemies, and
none dare break the pipe they have
smoked in peace with them. Has the
hostile envoy from an open foe cut the
wampum belt before their council? No,
it is none of these things that M. Boileau
has to tell his tribe; but,” said he, and
his voice grew louder, and his eye kindled
in fierce anger and determined hostility,
as he said he had come to them to
tell them of the foul wrongs he had received
at the hands of the lying and cowardly
Black Feet, who were their guests.
He had come to tell them they are
snakes, and have crept into their village
to steal away the daughter of their chief.
While the Delawares pursued the hunting
path and slew the strong bear with
a bold arm, the dogs who have forked
tongues, and lying words in their lips;
who have red skins, but whose hearts
are pale, have deceived them, and turned
back to the village, and like cowards have
attacked the women of the Delawares.
They came to the hunting-ground of the
Delawares but few in number, and feeble,
and poor. We gave them lodges to
dwell in,—we opened wide our arms to
receive them,—we gave them meat to
satisfy their hunger,—we smoked the
pipe of peace and friendship with them,—
we treated them like brothers, though
we knew the hearts of the Black Feet to
be black, to be false; yet we would not
turn away our faces from them, or drive
them from our village. The Delawares
are warriors, the pale face is their friend,
their father, and they are afraid of none.
But the Black Feet came from far to
their camp,—they were poor,—their
tongues were filled with fair words,—
they begged the friendship of the Delawares,
and we listened to their talk, and
pitied them.
A low but deep murmur ran through
the band, testifying that they felt and
acknowledged the truth of what he said.
M. Boileau continued, “the snakes
that we have warmed to life, have turned
their sting upon us, they have thrown
dirt upon our lodges, they have cut the
wampum belts at our hearth's side, and
defied the warriors of our tribe.”
A louder and deeper murmur here
greeted M. Boileau's ears, and showed
him their feelings were aroused to a
higher pitch of excitement. In a louder
strain, and drawing himself up to his
fullest height, his eyes shooting forth
beams of fire, he continued still further,
“is not M. Boileau a chief? has he not
slain his enemies on the war path? has
his hand ever faltered? has his back ever
been turned to his foes? have not the
enemies of the Delawares often and long
mourned the warriors that fell before his
arm, and never more returned to their
lodge from the war path? do not the
Delawares love him?”
As he said this, a shout of affection
and attachment burst simultaneously from
the lips of all. Acknowledging with an
inclination of his head, their testimony
of friendship, he went on.
“M. Boileau was good to the Black
Feet, he received and treated them like
brothers; but the Black Feet have turned
to wolves, they have false hearts, their
tongues are forked, and their arms weak.
They have feared to meet the Delawares
in battle, hence they have skulked away
from the hunting-path when all our warriors
were absent, and have by stratagem
seized and carried off the daughter of
your chief. Shall it be so? Shall our
hospitality be violated? Shall our children
be stolen by false-hearted dogs from
our lodges? and shall not the enemies of
our happiness tremble, and be crushed
like snakes under our avenging feet?
Shall the Delaware chiefs be treated like
dogs?” he exclaimed, in a voice of
thunder.
A loud, long shout of anger, and clamor
for revenge burst from the band of warriors
who stood before him.
“It is enough,” said he, “M. Boileau
is content that the Delawares feel his
wrongs, and are ready to punish his and
their enemies. The pale chief will now
tell them what he has seen. Let the
chiefs speak their minds how we shall
pursue them.”
Charles, with a flashing brow and a
bold voice narrated to them all the facts
he had gathered in his search, relating to
the carrying off of Coquese, and in earnest
and moving entreaties begged them
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to hasten their plans, and at once follow
the track of Red Hand. They all readily
signified their assent to his proposition.
A moment's consultation was
sufficient to determine their course.—
Two chosen scouts, whose eyes were
quick to follow and to find any sign or
token of a trail, however slight, which
might be made, were dispatched under
Wahalla, to search for the trail of Red
Hand and his party; while the remainder
of them hastily entered their lodges and
prepared their arms, and all that was
necessary for them in setting out upon
the war path of an enemy whom they
were resolutely determined to overtake
and destroy, and whom they might be
obliged to follow for many successive
days and nights.
Their meals were quickly dispatched,
their rifles loaded, their tomahawks stuck
into their girdles, the lines of war paint
were drawn upon their faces, and filling
their leather pouches with a store of dried
meat, and meal cakes for their food while
absent, in less than an hour they were
again assembled in the village, ready to
mount their horses and pursue their enemies,
whom they now hated with a
deadly and constant hate.
Le Beaux was eager to take the trail
after them. His counsel was sought by
M. Boileau, as to the course they should
pursue. He proposed, that, leaving at
home only sufficient warriors to protect
the village, the remainder should at once
set out together, and with all haste follow
the trail of Red Hand. He now thought
of the hounds of Charles, and the wonderful
instinct with which they scent the
track of their foe. As this thought flashed
upon his mind, he uttered a cry of
joy, which surprised both M. Boileau
and Charles, who were listening attentively
to his plans. “I have it,” said he,
striking his head, “we cannot now by
any possibility fail of reaching them, or
lose their trail. How fortunate, Charles,
you are.”
Charles in utter astonishment asked
him to explain what he meant, for he
could not readily understand how he was
to contribute towards finding and following
the trail, in any special manner.
“But you are, though,” said Le Beaux,
“and in such a manner, too, that Red
Hand, were he fifty times as cunning as
I believe him to be, (and a more cunning
red skin, I believe breathes not, or a
more villainous rascal, too), but I reckon
it will take more keenness than even he
can boast to cheat those keen blood-hounds
that follow you, Charles.”
In the grief and anxiety he felt for
Coquese, and in the eager haste with
which he had rushed upon and formed
plans for setting off at once, Charles had
forgotten his hounds; but now, when Le
Beaux mentioned them as the means of
tracing the footsteps of Red Hand,
Charles fairly clapped his hands for joy.
“You are right, Le Beaux. I defy the
shrewd rascal, cunning as he is, to cheat
my faithful hounds. We shall certainly
overtake him, and then woe be to him.”
All the preparations were now made,
and it only remained for our three friends
to join the warriors, who were waiting
only their presence to start off in pursuit.
M. Boileau drew his wife to him, and
bade her be of good heart, for he felt
convinced that they would soon return
and bring back their darling Coquese
with them.
In a low, earnest voice, Charles added,
“Rest assured I will never return again
without her.”
Leila looked with a mother's fondness
upon his noble form and handsome face.
She felt a pang of sorrow for him, and,
drawing him to her, she impressed a kiss
upon his brow, and bade him adieu.—
She pressed the hand of the faithful and
generous Le Beaux, as he bade nor farewell,
and encouraged her with his hopeful
words and confident manner. But
now, to part with her husband. She
threw herself into his arms, and looked
with affection, strong, deep, enduring
affection, into his face. A tear gathered
in her beautiful dark eyes, her heart
heaved with its deep, full emotions, she
spoke not a word, but clung to him in a
close, fast embrace. Gently he folded
his arms around her, and kissing her
with all the strong, ardent feeling of love
which he felt when first he wooed her,
and which she as ardently returned, he
bade her good bye, promising soon, very
soon, to return, and bring with him the
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lost, but loved one. Then gently disengaging
her arms, which she had thrown
about his neck, he led her to a seat, and
placing her in it, he once more kissed
her, and then left the lodge.
Immediately on his approach, the two
scouts, who with Wahalla had been to
look for the trail, came in. M. Boileau
inquired of Wahalla whether they had
found any signs to guide them on the
track of their foe?
Wahalla answered that there was a
fresh trail, evidently the one made by
Red Hand and his party, and that it ran
to the south-east, along the bed of the
river. That they had searched all the
ground near there, and this was the only
trail to be discovered, and he was persuaded
that this would guide them aright,
provided they could keep it.
M. Boileau thanked him for his successful
services, and assured him that
there was no fears of losing it, for the
hounds of the pale face chief, their
brother, which were standing by the side
of our hero, would guide them on it. As
he said this, all eyes were turned with
wonder and admiration upon the noble
blood hounds, who seemed to be aware
that they were the objects of interest
and importance to the party, and looked
both grave and resolute.
A shout of joy burst from the lips of
all at the promise of M. Boileau, and
springing upon their horses, in a moment
all were in motion. Wahalla led the
way to the trail they had discovered.—
Charles and Le Beaux followed close
upon him, accompanied by the hounds.
As soon as they came upon the trail, and
took the scent, they uttered a long, loud
bay, that astonished the Delawares very
much, and no less delighted them. Then
they started off, following it closely, keeping
their noses to the ground. They
were instantly followed at a rapid pace
by the whole party.
As we stated before, the course pursued
by Red Hand and his followers,
when they left the village with Coquese,
was concealed as much as possible by
him. He had taken great pains to cover
all traces of his direction, and, if possible,
to confuse and mislead the Delawares
in the pursuit which he knew
would be made, on discovering that he
had fled and had taken Coquese with
him. In order, therefore, to accomplish
his purpose, he had selected from his
little band a few upon whose skill and
courage he could implicitly rely, and
ordered them to follow a different and
nearly opposite direction from that which
he took with his prisoner and the rest of
his party, and while he with his men
used the utmost caution to hide all signs
from the keen eyes of the Delaware
warriors, who would soon be upon him.
They went freely and boldly forward,
leaving very evident and perceptible
marks behind them of the course they
pursued.
But we must now go back to the former
part of the day which had been so
sad a day to our hero, and so disastrous
and unhappy to his beloved Coquese,
and see the manner in which Red Hand
had accomplished his daring, but foul
deed. It will be recollected that in the
morning when the whole body of warriors
divided themselves off into small
parties, that they might the better pursue
their search along the hills, Red Hand
had contrived to keep all of his followers
together, and also to have the lowest
part of the tract over which they were to
extend their hunt altogether to him and
his men. And this part, it will also be
recollected, lay considerably nearer the
village than any of the other paths which
were pursued by the other sportsmen.—
It was but a few minutes after the respective
bands left the rendezvous where
they had made their arrangements, and
to which spot they were to return at the
close of the day, when they had finished
the hunt preparatory to re-entering the
village, which they all proposed to do
together, when the different scouts, who
by instructions received beforehand from
Red Hand, came back to where he and
the remainder of his followers had concealed
themselves, having dogged the
progress and watched unobserved by the
Delawares the course they followed, and
having seen them fairly out of sight, and
plunged into the forest, in the excitement
of the chase, which had sufficiently
assured them so that they would not be
in danger of being missed or watched by
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them when they came back; and they
hastily, in answer to Red Hand's questions,
told him what they had observed,
that the parties were scattered in the
different directions chosen, and were so
much engaged in the hunt, that it were
safe to follow his plans.
“It is well,” said Red Hand, “no
time is to be lost; let every one mount
and follow me.” And immediately they
were on their way retracing the steps
which they had just come, and approaching
the village. At a little distance from
it, sufficiently distant, however, to render
it probable that they could not, or would
not, be observed by any of those that
remained at home in the village, they
turned aside from the path which would
have conducted them immediately into
the village, and took a direction which
carried them to a spot the other side
of the stream, which we have often
before spoken of as flowing close by
the spot where the little arbor of Coquese
lay hidden in the green branches
of the tall trees growing upon its pretty
banks. Here they halted, and quickly
concealed themselves in the underwood
that grew luxuriantly on every side of
the spot; and it was partly from this
reason that Red Hand had selected this
particular place, as being the best fitted
to hide such articles of property as they
valued, and designed to bear off with
them when they left the camp of the
unsuspecting Delawares. Hither they
had, in a quiet, secret manner, borne all
those articles two days before, and hidden
them, that everything might be in readiness
at the moment Red Hand should
carry out the rest of his plan, and that
nothing should for a moment delay
them and make them lose time, which
would be so precious in giving them the
start of their foes, for such, they well
knew, this act would render the Delawares.
As they opened the place which
held the concealed goods, and found
them all there and safe, they uttered a
low exclamation of delight.
In a few words the prompt chief gave
his directions to them, and selecting from
his band two of his most trusty and agile
followers, he crossed the stream in a
canoe, which they drew from its place of
concealment in a little cove, which was
shielded from view by the thick bushes
of the banks, and was but a short distance
below the spot where Coquese's
bower stood. He then gave them directions
to secrete themselves near the spot,
and hold themselves ready at a signal
which he would give them to rush forward,
enter the bower and make sure of
the young squaw, and he further ordered
them to cover her mouth with a piece of
cotton cloth he gave them, to prevent her
cries and screams from being heard, and
arousing the Indians who were left in
the village, or who might be lounging
through the woods. “But,” said he,
“use no further violence to her. Fail
not in doing what I have appointed you.
If you do,” said he “fail, or deceive me
in either point, by the powers of the
Black Spirit, I promise you I will bury
my tomahawk deep to its head in your
brains, and tear your bloody scalps from
your mangled bodies.” His eyes glared
like a serpent upon them, as he uttered
this injunction and threat. His shaggy
brows met in a dark frown, his lips were
drawn together, and he clenched his hard
fist; his whole expression being full of
stern resolution and determination, showed
them he was in earnest, and taught
them what they might expect, should
they dare to betray him, and they trembled
at the thought.
Red Hand was satisfied with the effect
his words produced upon them; and although
he knew his men, and knew he
might trust them in whatever he confided
to them, and that they would unhesitatingly
sacrifice everything in obeying
his commands, yet had the gentleness
and beauty, the simplicity and artless innocence
of Coquese, her kindness and
generosity to the sick and wounded, all
produced such an effect upon their hearts
during their stay at the village, that it
had caused their cruel and wily minds
even to love her. It was to guard against
their feelings of pity towards her distress,
and entreaties to them, that he had said
what we have just written.
Seeing them in their hiding-places and
ready, he now left them and cautiously
approached in the direction of the village.
He took his way slowly, looking
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continually about him, keeping himself under
cover of the trees and bushes, and anxiously
searching in every direction for
some one. He had at first thought of
waiting in ambush until Coquese should
of her own accord, come to visit her
bower. He knew this was her daily
custom, and it would have excited less
suspicion than any other course he could
pursue; but then he saw that in this way
he might lose much precious time; she
might wait until late in the afternoon ere
she chose to walk, even might not come
at all. These reflections led him to
adopt another, and different course. He
determined to wait for some of the children
of the village, whom he hoped to
meet in the woods, and tell them a feigned
story about our hero, and that he was
awaiting her at the bower, and send them
with his instruction, which he pretended
Charles gave them, to Coquese. He
had taken the precaution to disguise himself
so well, that it would be impossible
for a simple child to have known him,
even if a wise warrior could have penetrated
his disguise, which was no easy
matter, for he was a master in this art.
He looked long, and was fast losing patience,
and revolved in his mind the idea
of boldly rushing into the village with his
warriors, and carrying her off by force.
when at last his watchful eye saw a
young boy coming in the direction towards
him. Leaving his hiding-place,
he walked towards him in a careless
manner. The boy saw him and called
to him, and run up to him. Red Hand,
in a careless, indifferent tone, asked him
some questions about his sports, and
talked with him in a friendly way. He
then put his hand into his pouch, that he
carried with him, and drew forth a small
knife, which he gave to him, telling him
he was a good lad, and by and by, when
he grew up to be a man, he would become
a great warrior. In this way he
won the boy over to him, and prepared
him to do his errand. Then suddenly
striking his forehead with his hand, as if
he just recollected something which was
of importance, he exclaimed aloud,
“I like to have forgotten that I was to
do an errand for the pale face chief to
Coquese! Do you know Coquese, my
good little sanap?” said Red Hand to
him.
The boy replied that he did, and looking
somewhat surprised, he added, “who
does not know and love the Flower of
the Valley?”
“Will you, then, carry a message to
her from the pale face?”
The boy was delighted with the opportunity
to show his regard and love to
Coquese, and eagerly replied, “oh, yes!
I will run to her all the way; just tell
me what I shall say to her. What is it
you wish me to do?”
Red Hand then told him that the pale
face loved Coquese, and that he was a
brave and good chief, worthy to have the
beautiful and lovely Valley Flower in
his wigwam for his squaw. “And,
moreover,” said he, “Coquese loves the
pale face, and she will thank you, and
love you if you carry my message to her,
and do as I tell you.”
The boy listened attentively, and
seemed eager to run to Coquese with
this errand, which was going to make her
love him more, and which would make
her feel happy too, for so Red Hand told
him.
“Go to her, then,” said the wily
chief, “and wait till you find her alone,
so that nobody else can hear what you
say to her, and no one can see you, and
then tell her that the pale chief is waiting
to see her at her little bower, and asks
her to come and meet him before he goes
back to the hills again to hunt. Now be
careful, remember what I have told you,
and be sure you tell her where no one
else can hear what you say, or see you,
for if they should she would be unhappy,
and the pale face chief would be angry,
too, for perhaps they would not let her
come to him.”
The boy lost not a word of what Red
Hand said, and although he could not
understand why it was necessary to be
so secret in telling his message to Coquese,
or how it would make her unhappy,
or anger the pale face chief, who
seemed so kind, and who had given him
such a pretty, bright string of beads, and
patted him on the head, and spoken so
pleasantly to him; yet so strong was his
wish to please Coquese and our hero
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too,—for he it was that was meant by
the pale face chief, and the boy knew it,—
that he forgot his suspicions, and only
felt how happy it would make him to
serve them both, and how proud he
should be to hear them praise him, and
see them happy.
Red Hand, after he had sufficiently
charged him, to feel sure that he would
do as he told him, let him depart, for the
little fellow was impatient to go; and
watching him till he had disappeared behind
the trees from his sight, he turned
and with hasty steps approached the
canoe that he had left by the bank, a few
steps below the bower of Coquese,
drawing it close to the bank where some
tall grass was growing, that completely
hid it from view. He got into it, and laid
close down upon the bottom, keeping his
head alone raised above the side, and his
eyes turned up the stream in the direction
he expected to see her.
The boy ran on with his supposed
joyful tidings, to meet Coquese. He
soon came into the village, and then from
a fear of drawing attention to himself,—
for young as he was, he already displayed
some of that caution and cunning,
which so remarkably distinguishes the
North American Indian, and which seems
almost to take the nature of instinct with
them,—he changed his pace into a careless
walk. He went to M. Boileau's
lodge, looking all about as he went, to
see Coquese, but she was no where to
be seen. Happy for her would it have
been if she had continued undiscovered
by him. But after a few minutes waiting,
lingering about her father's lodge, to
his joy he saw her come out. She was
prepared to visit the lodge of a neighboring
chief, but seeing him, as was her
custom, she called to him and spoke
some kind words to him. As she looked
down into the little fellow's face, she
saw that it wore an unusual, important,
and meaning expression; and that he had
something he wished, but hardly dared
to tell her. Her curiosity became interested,
and she asked him what he wished
to say to her.
The little fellow looked up to her full
of affection, and then cautiously casting
his eyes around to see that he was unob
served, he told her his message. Coquese
received it with a good deal of
surprise at first, but as her thoughts
turned upon her lover, she dismissed the
suspicions that rose in her mind, and felt
delighted at this proof of his tenderness
and love towards her. She thanked the
boy warmly for his kindness, and told
him she should remember him, and
would give him a pretty pair of moccasins
as she came back; and without
stopping longer, or going back to her
father's lodge, she took her way to meet
Charles, full of sweet thoughts of love
and visions of happiness dancing before
her mind's eye. Gaily and swiftly she
tripped as on light foot over the soft
grassy turf, and in a few minutes entered
her little rustic arbor, where she expected
to find Charles awaiting her. But she
had no time to feel surprise or disappointment
at seeing it untenanted, for the
watchful, cunning eyes of Red Hand had
followed her, and as she entered he gave
the signal to his fellows that he had
agreed upon. They were waiting with
eager attention for it, and no sooner was
it sounded than they leaped from their
covert like a tiger on his prey.
The noise they made caused Coquese
to look up. They were beside her at
that instant, and seized her in their strong
arms. She uttered a wild scream of
fear and terror as she recognized in them
the followers of Red Hand. The truth
of her situation at once flashed upon her
mind, and, oh! what a moment of agony
and wretchedness was this to her! All
her bright, happy visions fled. The
future that had seemed so enchanting,
that she had painted to herself in such
lively, bright colors, the delight and
pleasure she had looked forward to in
passing her life with Charles, and watching
over his happiness, and receiving his
love, which she knew was so true, so
deep, so complete for her, all, all, gone in
a moment, and a fate, than which she
could conceive of none more bitter or
terrible, was open before her. She
would have tried the power of persuasion
and entreaty upon her captors, she
would have bribed them, if possible, to
release her, by promises of reward; anything
she would have given them for
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liberty. But this she was prevented from
doing, for, true to their promise to Red
Hand, they had taken away all possibility
of her tempting them, for they had
bound the fold of cotton cloth he gave
them for that purpose, over her mouth.
And had she been free it would have
been of no avail, for hardly a minute
elapsed before Red Hand was at the
opening.
He glared upon her with his fierce,
wild, snake-like eyes. A grim smile of
satisfaction and triumph sat upon his
bold, but revolting face. There was
such an expression of devilish cunning
and malice in his countenance, that you
could not see him without dreading him.
It developed too well the character he
bore, not to awaken distrust and hate.—
He lost no time, however, now, in boasting
or triumphing over her. He paid no
attention to the look of suffering and
heart-rending appeal she turned upon
him, nor to the signs that she made him
with her hands that she wished to speak
to him, for she had not lost her self presence
under these most trying circumstances.
True it was, that when she looked
up and saw the base ruffians beside her,
and felt their strong hands lay hold of
her, she screamed with fright, and came
nigh fainting, but then her clear mind
saw all at a glance. She saw that should
she faint, or lose her consciousness, all
was lost. Her only hope was that by
her entreaties and promises, which, if
she preserved courage and presence of
mind, she might offer them, she could
induce them to let her go. But the
instant Red Hand joined them, this last
feeble hope of prevailing upon them fled.
But like a brave spirit that she was,
although nothing could happen to utterly
overcome her, more than what now was
upon her, yet she resolved to make every
effort to appear calm, and watch all their
movements, and, if possible, to leave
some token behind her that should guide
her friends and apprise them of her
situation.
Such were the reflections that passed
in an instant through her mind, and she
acted nobly up to her determination.—
Red Hand, in a voice that commanded
obedience, ordered his followers to bear
her to the canoe, and all getting into it,
they crossed the stream without delay.
They bore her to the thicket where his
comrades were waiting for him, having
everything in readiness, and in haste
mounted their horses, Red Hand placing
her in front of him upon his powerful
steed, and then having given a fiendish
cheer of exultation, they gave the rein to
their horses, Red Hand taking the lead,
and at a fast gallop they left the village
every moment further behind, and made
the pursuit of their enemies more
difficult.
As we have said before, part of the
band took another route, but the great
body kept with their daring chief. They
rode in this way all day, choosing the
route which would best baffle their pursuers,
and be most difficult to follow.—
And Red Hand was no boy in this art.
His quick eye devoured every object
around him, and nothing which could
aid him in his purpose, was left undone,
or passed unseen.
They stopped about the middle of the
afternoon to breathe and rest their panting,
tired horses, and feed them, and at
the same time to refresh themselves. A
few minutes were allowed to this only,
and they were again on their horses, and
urging them to their utmost speed, scampered
along in the direction which took
them farthest from the village.
They kept on the route pointed out by
their chief, and on which he led the way,
until a late hour in the evening. They
had traveled now fourteen hours since
they left the village, and that too at the
highest speed of their agile and hardy
horses. They had come a distance of
nearly a hundred miles. It was a clear,
beautiful night. The stars were brightly
shining in their home of etherial blue.—
The moon was moving with queenly
majesty in her unvarying, ever constant
path in the traceless fields of heaven's
wide firmament, shedding her sweetest
and lovely light on the sleeping world,
over which she reigned by her Creator's
wise appointed rule. All nature was
hushed in sweet repose, and invited man
to rest and sleep;—but there was no
thought of sleep or rest in this little band
of Indian warriors. The fierce tumult
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of passions which stirred their minds,
forbade rest and banished all thoughts and
wishes for sleep.
And Coquese, although wearied and
much fatigued by the long and tiresome
ride, had no thought of sleep. Grief
and sorrow were busy in her heart, and
her excited imagination, like a busy
artist, painted in living colors that challenged
her attention and bound her gaze
to the future in all the horror and misery
that her thick coming fears could suggest.
But the wearied animals, more obedient
to nature's laws than their rebel
masters, sought rest and the renewing of
their exhausted strength in sleep. They
were completely tired out with their
mighty labors and protracted exertions,
and their circumstances alone forced
Red Hand to order a halt and make
preparations to pass the night in rest.—
He had selected a spot well suited for a
camp ground. A thick growth of trees
and underbrush by the side of a clear
stream offered them both protection and
concealment. The long, green grass
that grew on and around its banks
afforded abundance of nourishing food for
their horses.
In a few minutes from the time they
halted, they had finished their preparations
for passing the night here; the
horses were loosed to graze and rest themselves,
a hasty, rude shelter made from
green boughs, which they cut from the
trees, was prepared for Coquese, and a
bed of the same, arranged for her. Red
Hand opened his leather bag, containing a
supply of dried meat, and endeavored to
persuade her to eat, but she refused to
touch it. He uttered some jesting taunts
at her obstinacy, and coolly said that he
would wait until she was ready; he had
no wish to force her to eat.
His presence was repulsive and sickening
to her; she felt as if an evil spirit
oppressed her mind, while he stood near
her, and rejoiced at the relief she experienced
when he was gone. He had said
little to her on the route; his whole soul
was now bent upon effecting his escape;
but he now congratulated himself on the
success which he believed he had attained.
He calculated, and we can see with
what correctness, that the Delawares
would spend the whole day in the chase,
and would return at night, wearied and
fatigued, when it would be too dark for
them to track his trail with any chance
of success, or prospect of doing so with
certainty. And now he believed he had
gained a whole day the start of them,
and could easily baffle pursuit, and laughed
at the idea of being overtaken. He
expected, nay, he knew they would follow
him, but he believed that they could
not do so until the light of the next morning
should enable them to search and
distinguish his footsteps; and he had
taken such care to conceal them, that he
thought, with all their pains, and with
the advantage of daylight, it would be
no easy task, and would render their
pursuit both tardy and uncertain.
How all his calculations were happily
frustrated, and rendered idle by the unerring
instinct of our hero's hounds, that
guided the way of his foes with absolute
certainty, as well in the darkness of night
as in the broad sunlight, we have already
seen. His good success thus far
had turned against him, and was an advantage
to the friends of Coquese, that
it made him less careful, and the feeling
of security which he vainly indulged, led
him to loiter, and made him defer to a
later hour, the time of starting on the
next morning. And when at last, he did
leave, his course was more careless; riding
leisurely along, he indulged in jest,
and mocked at the dullness of his enemies,
who had been blinded and outwitted
by his cunning. He expected to
meet his friends in the course of a few
days, when he believed he would have
no reason to fear the anger of his deceived
foes, but would be able to meet
and conquer them in fight, should they
overtake him.
Swift as the cunning panther, or the
hungry wolf follow their prey, did the
Delawares, guided by the cheering bay
of the noble, and untiring hounds, whose
noses directed their course, follow after
him. Their anger and hostility was
kindled into a flame, by the injuries, and
daring wrongs which Red Hand, under
the guise of friendship, and while entertained
by them as their guests, had inflicted
upon them.
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M. Boileau, their wise and beloved
chief, had suffered the loss of His darling
child, by the cunning and devilish artifice
of Red Hand, and the help of his servile
followers. No other one was more dear
to the hearts of the warriors than M.
Boilcau. For no other would they so
readily lay down their lives, unless perchance,
for that one who was now a captive,
stolen from her home, and from their
very midst, by this daring, robber, villain
chief. Her benevolent and kind deeds
were the themes of their praise, and the
prompters of their love and gratitude.
There was scarcely one among them all,
who had not experienced the blessing of
her generous assistance, and who did not
owe to her a debt of gratitude and affection,
for the timely and kind relief which
she had at various times, and on many
occasions afforded them, and freely bestowed
upon them.
One who knows the character of the
North American Indian, will need no
further words to show him the fury, and
fierce hatred which fired the breasts of
the Delawares, and lent them wings to
follow this deadly foe. They forgot their
fatigue,—they remembered not that they
had gone without sleep for more than
twenty-four hours,—that a hasty supper
was the only food, since the morning before,
that had passed their lips; and now
as they came up to the spot which their
enemies had used as a camp for the past
night, and which the still burning embers
showed they had left but a short time
before, they would have continued to
push their patient and gallant horses forward
without resting, on the trail, but
M. Boileau, and his wary, trusty friend,
Le Beaux, knew better how to act, and
by their convincing words, checked the
heated, and fiery spirit of their friends.
They proposed to stop here a couple of
hours, to refresh their horses, which had
so nobly borne them on their forced, and
hurried pursuit, to rest themselves, and
put everything in readiness for instant
use, when they came up with their enemies.
In this way they would be able
to more completely surprise, and better
encounter them. Their horses would
be comparatively fresh, and fit to match
the horses which Red Hand and his war
riors rode, which had rested during the
night. But if they were to keep on in
the plight their animals were in now,
Red Hand could easily outrun, and for
the time, at least, escape them; and then,
too, he would be put upon his guard,
knowing they were so near him, and
would resort to artifices, which would
prolong the pursuit and render success
doubtful.
The wisdom of these views was at
once perceived and acknowledged by
their friends, although they hardly knew
how to restrain themselves, now that
they felt they were near, close upon the
heels of their foe. The excited and impetuous
feelings which filled our hero's
heart, led him to join the Delawares in
their wish to proceed. He could ill
brook delay, when all that was dearest
to him in life, was staked on their success,
and when he believed that success was
within reach of their efforts. But the
friendly and cheerful words of Le Beaux,
whom he relied upon with the most perfect
confidence, and whose knowledge
of Indian character, and the modes of Indian
warfare, were so thorough and perfect,
overcame his desire to go on, and
it was agreed by all to be the best counsel
to follow.
And now they halt on the same spot,
where a few hours before, Red Hand
and his warriors stopped and rested;
where they mocked at the mortification,
and laughed to scorn the vain, and ineffectual
anger, which they so mistakenly
believed the Delawares would experience
on discovering their flight, and the loss of
their adored maiden. They sat down
to rest themselves, and more carefully to
prepare their weapons, which should
deal death to the proud and deceitful
chief, who had so basely wronged them.
Their horses,—which were far superior
to those ridden by their enemy, and
which were selected from their drove
with great care, for their swiftness, and
powers of endurance,—were turned out
upon the grass-plot, to feed.
Although they had traveled with all
haste since they left the village, and had
come at a speed considerably faster than
Red Hand had ridden, the horses were
still full of mettle, and unbroken spirit, and
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the two short hours they were left to
graze and rest, reinvigorated and renewed
their strength. Le Beaux advised that
all eat a substantial luncheon, and then
try and get an hour's sleep, if possible.
He said they would be the gainers by it,
and that their arms would deal heavier
blows upon their accursed and devoted
enemies for every minute they slept
during that hour. He persuaded Charles
to stretch his limbs out upon the green
grass, under a spreading tree, and laying
down by his side, they both soon fell
asleep. A sentinel was to arouse them
when the time expired. Most of the
tribe followed their example, and at the
expiration of their time for rest they
were ready, refreshed by their short nap,
and eager to start.
Before doing so, however, a council
was held as to the method of attack they
should pursue on overtaking their foes.
The safety of Coquese was the first
object to be looked after, but not, now,
the only one. A feeling of revenge for
their wrongs and the insults offered them
burnt in their hearts, and could only be
quenched by the blood of their hated
enemies. Le Beaux proposed that Wahalla,
in whose bravery and skill they all
placed the utmost faith, with half a dozen
chosen warriors, should go ahead as
scouts, and when they had come up with
their enemies and observed their order
of march, or flight, should immediately
return and inform the rest. The hounds,
who were exceedingly well trained, and
would obey the slightest word or sign
from our hero, were to be kept back
with the main body, lest their noise
should alarm Red Hand's party, and
apprise them of their approach. And it
was by surprising them and dashing in
upon them, that the best chance for
the safety of Coquese lay. These
arrangements being concluded, they again
resumed their way, their hearts filled
with the hope of succouring speedily
their lost friend, and burning with the
wish of revenge upon their foes.
But this time they rode more cautiously,
and kept in close rank, watching
every object in their path, and prepared
for instant service. I almost forgot to
mention one little circumstance that hap
pened at the halting place. One of the
Delawares, who happened to stray to the
spot where Coquese had passed the
night, in throwing aside the branches
which had been cut and spread for her
couch, found a small slip of paper concealed
beneath them, and covered with
strange marks. He carried it at once to
M. Boileau, who uttered a cry of surprise
and joy, as he recognized the handwriting
of his dear child upon it. He
read these simple words, written with a
pencil:
“I am a prisoner in the hands of Red
Hand. He seized me at the bower, and
has hurried me along with his band on
horseback to this place. He now believes
himself safe from pursuit, and
ceases to hurry, or take the precautions
he observed yesterday. He has offered
me no violence thus far, but I can put no
trust in his word for the future. I am
well, but very much fatigued.” This
was signed, Coquese.
As soon as M. Boileau had read it he
clasped his hands, and in a thankful, but
suppressed voice exclaimed, “I thank
God my dear child is yet safe.”
Charles, to whom he gave the paper,
was overjoyed at this proof, that no violence
had been done her, and hope
had gained new life in his anxious breast
from this little, and apparently trifling
incident. He kissed it when by himself
and away from the eyes of his companions,
again and again, and folding it
up, he placed it upon his devoted heart,
exclaiming as he did so, in a resolute,
but tender voice, “Ah! my dear, dear
Coquese, if you are yet alive, (and God
protect you,) I will save you, or this
fond heart shall pour out its life's blood
in the attempt.”
A friendly, deep voice near him at the
same instant, responded, “and so will I,
too.”
But let us resume our story. It was
late in the afternoon, and still our friends
were proceeding onward, the marks of
their enemy growing more and more
fresh, and apprising them that they were
not far distant, when they saw Wahalla
and his little party approaching them.—
In a minute they had halted, and the
chiefs gathering about him in silence,
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[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
they were also determined to revenge
their wrongs, too. By these two feelings
all other thoughts were banished, and
excluded from a place in their minds.
As soon as they reached the opposite
bank, Wahalla directed his followers to
remain where they were, while he, unperceived
by his foes, should proceed
alone up the bank until he came opposite
to the place where Red Hand was making
his preparations to camp. Seeing
these preparations, and being convinced
that such was, indeed, his purpose, he
hastily rode back to his watchful band,
and told them what he had seen. He
then ordered them to dismount and tie
their horses in the thicket, and take their
arms and follow him. This they at
once proceeded to do, and came up to
the spot opposite to where Red Hand
pitched his camp. Here they concealed
themselves behind the trees, with their
rifles in their hands, and their deadly
tomahawks by their sides, ready at the
first signal to spring upon their foes.—
A few minutes of breathless silence
and deep anxiety now followed, during
which time the Delawares continued to
watch the movements of their enemy,
with the most anxious earnestness.
The other division were engaged on
their side in a similar manner. They
waited for some minutes after all was
ready. They continued to keep perfectly
still and quiet, waiting for the moment
when Red Hand should place Coquese
by herself, apart from his warriors, that
they might then carry her off, and bear
her out of the way of danger, before their
enemies were aware of their presence.
After dismounting, and ordering his
men to do the same,—which command
they quickly followed, and proceeded at
once to unsaddle, and unpack their horses,
preparatory to turning them loose,—Red
Hand opened his wallet, and as before,
offered to Coquese a portion of the dried
meat which it contained. She as before
refused the offer, and now he urged her
strongly. Charles and Le Beaux, who
with some eight warriors, had stolen to
the thicket close upon them to execute
the plan of removing Coquese, could
distinctly hear his words of entreaty, and
see his gestures of impatience and anger,
as she persisted in her refusal. At last,
losing his temper and patience, he turned
his angry, scowling eyes upon her, and
raised his hand in a threatening manner
over her. At the same time he growled
forth a fierce threat against her, in case
she would not obey him.
Charles shook from head to foot with
anger, as he saw Red Hand's cruel conduct
towards her. His blood boiled with
his swelling passion. He clenched his
teeth close together, and in a hoarse
whisper said, “the base, cowardly dog
is going to strike her. By all that's dear
to me, if he does, I'll tear his heart from
his living body, where he sits!”
Le Beaux touched him on the shoulder,
and made a motion to him to be silent;
whispering at the same time, “you
will spoil all, if he hears you. I think
the wretch would murder the girl, rather
than suffer her to escape, if he thought
that possible.”
This operated like a gag upon Charles;
he remained perfectly silent. The only
movement he made, was to turn round
and make a sign to his hounds, that were
crouching in silence behind him, to lie
close down. The sagacious animals understood
him, and immediately dropped
close to the ground, at his heels.
But Red Hand did not strike his captive,
as he raised his hand, and cast his
scowling looks upon her. She raised
her face to him, and her eyes flashed a
fire as bright as that which gleamed in
his own, and with a clear, steady voice,
and unflinching look, that quailed not before
that terrible frown,—that made his
bravest warriors tremble,—but, on the
contrary, sought his eye, she exclaimed,
“it is fit and worthy of Red Hand, to
strike a defenceless woman. He stole
her with the help of his brave warriors,
when the braves of her tribe were on
the hunting path, and ran away, lest he
should meet them. Oh! he is, indeed,
a brave chief to war with women. Oh!
yes, let him beat Coquese, for she cannot
strike him. Her arm is weak, and
he needs not fear.”
This was said in a bitterly sarcastic
manner, that completely disarmed, and
deeply mortified the chief. This taunt,
and slur upon his courage, was so
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apparently fully proved by the circumstances
she mentioned, that he did not know
what to say, or know how to answer
her. His face colored with shame and
vexation. But the next moment, throwing
down his wallet, and jumping to his
feet, he said, “ah! my pretty Flower,
and did you think that Red Hand was
such a fool as to wait for the Delaware
warriors to come home before he carried
off his dear little squaw? Red Hand is
cunning, he knows how to cheat the stupid
Delawares.”
This charge of dullness upon their
character, roused more fiercely the hate
of the Delaware warriors, who heard
every word of what passed, and grinding
their teeth together, they muttered from
between them, “the dog lies,—he shall
pay for his vain boast with his scalp.”
“But,” said Coquese again to him,
who appeared to be determined to punish
and torment him, “does Red Hand think
to impose upon Coquese with his idle
boast? He is mistaken. Did he not
steal away like a coward, from their
presence,—and did she not see him urge
his wearied horses in swift flight. He
is very brave, now; swelling boasts are
on his tongue, but should the Delawares
meet him, he will tremble. His tongue
will forget how to boast. His words
may deceive silly squaws, but they cannot
cheat the ears of a Delaware maiden.
She knows the brave warrior better,
he keeps not his boasts for woman's
ear.”
Red Hand, instead of answering her,
seized her by the arm, and led her to one
of the little bowers which the running
vines had formed, where they mingled
with the branches of the stately trees, and
to which they clung for support. “Let
Coquese remain here,” said he, and
stooping down to her, he muttered in a
whisper, “let her beware how she gives
Red Hand bitter words. Let her remember
he carries a sharp knife in his
girdle.”
As he spoke, his features changed, and
his little, round, black, piercing eyes
looked like balls of fire. His whole aspect
wore an unearthly, and fiendish
look. He seemed like a spirit hot from
the abodes of the damned, and ready to
do any act, however shocking or hellish
it might be.
Coquese turned away her head from
him; her courage almost forsook her, at
that look. He then joined his companions,
and left her to herself. They had
thrown aside their weapons, and sat in
careless case, and fancied security, at
this time, when the sharp, watchful eyes
of their deadliest, bitterest foes were close
by them, observing their every motion.
The spot to which Red Hand had
conducted Coquese was quite a distance
from the bank, where his companions
were thus lounging and feasting. Let
them feast, for it is the last meal they
will ever taste in this world. There
will be another feast spread on that
green, grassy bank, before the sun shall
rise again, and vultures and crows will
clap their wings and scream in honor of
the feast; and the hungry, sneaking wolf
will growl, and snarl, and fight for the
dainty food that shall be spread at the
fatal board.
But to resume the story. As soon as
Red Hand had joined his companions,
Charles and Le Beaux, with the faithful
warriors that were with them, stole
noiselessly and quickly to the spot where
Coquese sat. She did not hear or see
their approach. Her face was buried in
her hands, and now her woman heart
asserted its prerogative over her. Her
desperate courage and her pride, which
forbade her to suffer Red Hand to see
her tears, had supported her during the
trying scene she had just undergone.—
But now, that she was left alone, and
those fiendish eyes no longer watched
her, she gave way to her feelings, and
the big tears filled her eyes and flowed
in streams down her cheeks, while deep
sobs, that she strove in vain to repress,
rent her bosom, and seemed as if they
would break her very heart. She felt
she was alone, and in the power of that
cruel man. Rather than submit herself
to his loathed embrace, or suffer herself
to be dishonored by him, she chose to
die. She, even at that bitter moment,
when all those dark, brooding thoughts,
like a black cloud, overwhelmed her
crushed soul, and despair shut out the
last lingering ray of hope that had
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supported her heretofore, wished for death,
and felt that she could bid the grim king
of terrors welcome. The contrast between
the great, the almost heavenly
happiness, she had enjoyed but two days
before with her fond, devoted, idolized
lover, now served to send a deeper
gloom over her despairing soul. So
deep, so intense was her grief, so profound
and complete the absorption of all
her faculties in their great woe, that
Charles had reached her side and threw
his arms about her before she recovered
herself. But as she started, and in fear
looked to see what new danger threatened
her, she uttered a cry of delight,
and sprang to her feet.
Red Hand turned his head at the
sound. Amazement was in his face,
and he was too much surprised to move.
At the instant, quick as a flash, the Delaware
warriors sprung forward upon their
hated foes. Their terrible war-cry rung
loud and clear in the stillness of those
deep solitudes, and sounded like a knell
of death in the ears of the affrighted
Black Feet. M. Boileau at the head of
his brave followers, rushed from his
hiding place with the wild war whoop
of the tribe ringing out upon the still air.
The moment was one of fierce peril, and
death hung over the Black Feet band,
about to cut them down.
Ere they reached them Red Hand had
recovered himself, and sprung to his
feet. He saw at a glance that they were
lost, that they were completely surrounded
and surprised. But he resolved
to sell his life as dearly as possible. In
a voice of thunder, he shouted to his
warriors, “Take your arms, and fight to
the death! Escape is impossible! then
fight like the sons of your great fathers,
and die bravely.”
His voice recalled them to their senses.
They leaped to their feet and
seized the first weapons that came to
hand, determined to rally around their
chief, and fall with him. Red Hand
shouted his war-cry, raised his tomahawk
in the air, and watching the Delaware
that came towards him, warded off
his blow, and the next instant he buried
the deadly weapon deep in his brain.—
The Delaware fell dead at his feet. Red
Hand sprung over his dead body and
strode onward to the spot where Charles
stood supporting Coquese. Vengeance
was in his heart, and he would die contented
could he but slay the pale face
chief before the eyes of his mistress.
And this opposed his progress towards
our hero, and Charles did not at first see
him. He was endeavoring to soothe
and calm Coquese, and his face was
turned in the direction from which Red
Hand approached them. She uttered a
scream of terror as she beheld Red
Hand. So fiendish was the look he
wore, she dared not look upon him, but
turned her head away. Her scream
caused Charles to look up. It was just
in time for him to draw his heavy cutlass
and stand in attitude of defence. Red
Hand, with a scorn and a bound like a
tiger, sprung upon him. Charles, whose
hate equalled his own, and whose courage
could not be surpassed, was prepared
to receive him. With a strong
cut he beat aside the blow aimed at him,
and ere Red Hand could recover, he
dealt him a back blow, which inflicted a
severe wound upon his right arm, and
rendered it useless. His tomahawk
dropped from his hand, and uttering a
cry of blended pain, and rage, and disappointment,
he sought to grapple with
Charles in a close hug.
But just at that moment a new ally,
that he had forgotten, came to our hero's
assistance. His hounds, seeing their
master's danger, and hearing the cry of
Red Hand, bounded upon him with a
leap more sudden than his own. Their
strong teeth were buried in his throat,
and he fell beneath their united weight.
Quick as lightning they tore away his
throat, severing the windpipe and the
large arteries that lay on either side of
the neck, and ere Charles could call them
off, he was dead. Thus ended the life of
this treacherous and dreaded chief. He
was killed by Charles' hounds.
Coquese, who had recovered and
looked around, fearing the worst for her
lover, when she saw him safe, and his
bloody cutlass in his hand, uttered a cry
of joy and threw herself into his arms.
Charles pressed her fervently to his
heart. His feelings were too strong for
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utterance. He could not speak for several
minutes. When at last he did
speak, it was in a low, fervent exclamation
of gratitude for her safety. “God
be praised, you are now at last safe,
dearest Coquese!”
She looked up into his face. Tears
were streaming from her eyes. They
were not tears of grief or sorrow. No,
her heart was full; but they were happy
thoughts, and she could not help weeping
for very joy, so sudden and unexpected
had been her rescue from death,
and what she deemed even more dreadful
than death itself; and this at the
moment when her heart had yielded to
despair and the darkest gloom. No
wonder then that such great, such sudden
joy, overcame her equally as her extreme
of grief. The extremes of each
passion produce very similar results.
Charles had placed himself between
her and Red Hand's dead body. He
wished she might not see it, so horrible
was the spectacle his mangled corse presented.
But as he endeavored to lead
her away from the spot, her eye accidentally
fell upon the body. She shuddered
at the sight, and turned deadly pale.
Charles thought she was about to faint,
but she as quickly recovered, and in a
calm voice, said, “It is terrible to witness
the punishment of his crimes. Bad as
he was, his end has been fearful. Bad
as he assuredly was, I could not have
wished for him so awful, dreadful a
fate.”
“He was a cunning and deceitful foe,”
said Charles. “His fate is the fate he
would have doomed his enemies fit to
suffer, could he have carried out his
wishes; but God is just, and had determined
it otherwise.” So saying, Charles
led her some distance from the spot, and
seated her by the side of a large tree,
that grew close by the open plot, which
we have described as lying on the river's
bank, which was free from trees,
and covered only with a soft carpet of
waving grass and wild flowers.
The shouts and fierce cries of the
combatants, as they engaged hand to
hand in the deadly struggle, had grown
weaker and fainter, and were less often
repeated by the Black Feet party.
Coquese, who had, as soon as she recovered
from the surprise and fear
which the startling and dreadful events
of the few moments just past had caused
her, and when she had in such a fond,
affectionate way, (that delighted the
heart of our hero, and called forth all the
rich store of love that was treasured in
his heart towards her), loaded him with
her thanks, and words that spoke her
whole-souled love for him; with a cloud
of anxiety, which had for a moment been
banished from her brow, as she clung to
Charles, and thought only of his happy
safety, but which now again shadowed
her fair face, inquired in a tremulous
tone, if her father had not come with him
to rescue her, and if he was not now in
the midst of the terrible, desperate fight
which was maintained before their eyes,
and but a short distance from them?
Charles replied that he had indeed
come with them, and was there to punish
his enemies, who had so much
wronged him, and violated every right of
hospitality, while they continued his
guests. And he related to her how her
father's heart had been racked with grief,
and anguish, when the fearful truth could
no longer be hid from him, that his dear
child had been carried off by the wily
chief.
“Go, dearest Charles,” said she, “and
seek him, I beseech you. I fear he may
be wounded or killed in this battle?”
Charles wound his arm around her
waist, and moving closer to her side, in
an imploring voice, said, “Urge me not,
dearest love, to leave your side again.
Oh! if you could but know how deeply
I have suffered,—how sad, and dark, and
bitter the thoughts that filled my mind,
and almost drove me to despair, when I
felt, and could no longer doubt that you
were lost to me, you would not ask me
to leave you again. No, no,” said he,
“I cannot leave you till you are once
more safe at home.”
His feelings were growing more and
more tender, and he was about to ask
her why he should ever leave her more;
why she would not consent to be at
once, his own sweet bride, when she
stopped him by saying, “But there is no
longer any danger to me here, and my
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heart is filled with pain at the uncertainty
of my father's fate.”
Just at that moment the subject of
their thoughts and conversation was seen
leaving the spot where the battle yet
raged, and having descried them, was
approaching hastily, and joyfully towards
them. They both saw him at the same
instant, and uttered each an exclamation
of joyful surprise. Coquese sprang to
her feet, and the next moment was folded
in her father's arms, to his glad heart.
But we must now leave them, and go
back a few minutes to trace the scenes
which transpired between the Delawares
and their foes.
While Charles was protecting Coquese,
and in doing this, had met and defeated
their bold chief, in the way we
have related, although the Black Feet
were taken completely by surprise by
their enemies, yet did they, by no means,
fall an easy or unresisting prey to their
fierce attack. The confusion that at first
seized their chief, and also covered them
when the scream of Coquese revealed to
them the presence of their to be dreaded
enemies, was but for an instant. It
passed like a flash across his heroic, undaunted
spirit, and the determined purpose
of desperate revenge which should
cover his death, came as quickly. And
although the few Delaware braves, who
with Le Beaux had undertaken the duty
of securing the safety of Coquese, had
fallen upon their foes ere they could resist
the impetuous charge, and each had
stretched his victim in death upon the
ground, when they were just ready to
seize their weapons, with the single exception
of the unfortunate brave, who
had in his furious haste, forgotten to
guard his head from the blow of Red
Hand, not expecting to find him armed.
But Red Hand, more cautious habitually
than his followers, had not thrown aside
his tomahawk, which was a fatal weapon
in his hands. The hiding-place of M.
Boileau and his followers was some distance
farther from the scene of conflict
than that which sheltered Charles and
Le Beaux, with their few braves, and
two or three minutes elapsed after the
latter uttered their war-cry,—the signal
for a general attack,—ere they reached
the spot where the struggle was maintained.
During this interval, short as it
was, the survivors of the Black Feet
band had gained their war-clubs and
tomahawks, and getting in a close column,
prepared to resist their attack with
the courage which desperation gave them.
As when two hostile tigers, with burning
hate, and glaring eyes, lashing their
striped and spotted coats, that cover their
strong bodies, with their tails, till their
fury drives them headlong, and with wild,
terrific roars, that shake the ground beneath
their feet, and fill the desert air
with deafening echoes, spring like lightning
upon each other, inflicting deep
wounds with their strong claws and sharp
teeth, that drives them only to greater
fury, and maddens their passions; and
starting they seek, by wary bounds, and
quick leaps, to seize each the other at
some unguarded point, which shall advantage
them, and enable them to crush
each other beneath their successful spring,
until at last losing their caution, they
close in the death gripe, and struggling
for each other's life, they turn and roll
upon the ground, tearing and biting with
deadly aim, until one or the other is
stilled in death;—so rushed together, in
this fearful struggle, these hostile warriors,—
screaming, shouting, and uttering
the wild war-whoop, as they met with
uplifted weapons, and gave or received
the murderous blows, that were showered
thick and fast on either side. Their
weapons clashed in fearful strokes,—long
and well they fought. Their quick eyes
and agile bodies watched the meditated
blows, and with the agility of the panther,
they leaped aside, or parried them,
and in turn struck back upon their adversaries.
The fight was carried on hand to
hand, in close encounter. The war-club,
and the tomahawk, and the knife, were
the weapons they held in their hands.
None could be more effective, or bloody
in such a struggle. There the prowess,
and warlike skill, and unflinching courage
of the braves, were displayed to the best
advantage. To this courage and skill,
and to this alone, did any of that little
army owe their superiority over their
enemy. And this with as much certainty
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as did the prowess of the valiant knights,
that armed with sword and shield, and
coat of mail, with closed visor, entered
the lists; and on horse and on foot, met
their adversary, sure that their superior
prowess would gain him the victory.
It is the only mode of warfare that gives
any chance for the display of personal
skill, and personal bravery. Hand to
hand they meet, and the brave heart and
the strong arm wins the day. It is a
rude and savage manner, to be sure, but
still in many points similar to the feats of
chivalry of olden times, does the Indian
conduct his fight.
But we have wandered from the story.
The din and confused noise of the conflict
filled the air, startling the birds from
their repose in the branches of the trees,
and sending the fearful steps of the prowling
wild beasts of the forest in affrighted
haste to their secret dens. It seemed as
if so many demons from hell were let
loose, and now were striving with these
hideous sounds, and unearthly clamor,
to terrify the world.
But the forces were too unequal to
allow the conflict to be long continued.
The Delawares were superior in numbers,
and surpassed their enemy in
strength and skill, while they did not
yield to them in bravery. And then,
too, they had the advantage of being well
armed and prepared, while their foes
were but poorly supplied with arms,
having grasped in haste, and almost in
despair, the weapons first at hand, and
they, moreover, had been fallen upon in
surprise. Such advantages told with
quick and decided results in favor of the
attacking party, and terrible havoc
among their enemies.
Le Beaux had rushed among the foremost
in the attack, believing that Charles
was safe from danger, and that none of
the Black Feet could pass them to reach
him. But in this he was mistaken.—
The chief who had selected Red Hand
for his antagonist, was struck down by
that warrior at a single blow, and Red
Hand had leaped over his dead body, and,
as we have seen, rushed upon our hero at
once. Two of his band that stood by
him attempted to follow, but Le Beaux,
with the heavy hatchet he bore in his
hand, darted upon the nearest, and gave
him a mortal wound that felled him to
the earth. Then, without pausing to
finish the destruction he had insured,
pushed after the other, who had almost
come up with his chief. Seeing Le
Beaux close upon him, and that he could
not hope to avoid him, he turned boldly
about, and rushed upon him with a suddenness
of action that had well nigh
proved fatal to the brave scout.
Without attempting to parry the blow
which was aimed at him, Le Beaux
leaped aside just in time to save himself,
and the next instant, ere the Black Foot
brave recovered himself, (for he had
gathered his whole might in the blow,
which he meant should terminate the
existence of his pursuer, and the force
had carried him past his enemy,) struck
a severe blow at him, which inflicted a
deep and painful wound, though not a
fatal one. With a cry of rage and pain,
quick as a wild cat, he sprung again at
Le Beaux, to drive his knife to his heart.
But Le Beaux was as ready now as his
foe. He struck him a second blow,
which wounded his arm, and made him
drop the knife. But at the same instant
he grappled his foe by the throat with
the other hand, and dragged him to the
ground, and with the strength of despair,
tugged at his throat to strangle him. For
a few minutes they continued to struggle,
rolling over and pushing each other aside
with all their might, they both being athletic,
powerful men. But Le Beaux had
the use of both arms, while his adversary
could use but one. This enabled him to
free himself from the Black Foot's grasp,
and drawing his knife, he gave him a
death wound, that alone could make
him release his hold.
He feared that Charles would prove
unequal in a personal struggle with Red
Hand, and he had, while engaged with
his enemy, given a glance after him, and
saw that he was engaged with him, and
shouted to him to cheer him. It was on
this account he had been so ready to use
his knife, so anxious was he to assist
Charles. But when he sprung to his
feet he saw that our hero needed no help.
Red Hand was stretched bleeding upon
the ground, and the fierce hounds were
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over him. Seeing this, he rushed back
to where M. Boileau was continuing the
fight, and pushing the few surviving enemies
towards the river. A few, hoping
to escape, plunged into the water and
swam to the other bank. But no sooner
had they landed, than Wahalla, uttering
his war cry, with fury bounded upon
them with his party, and at once slew
them.
Not one of the Black Feet escaped.—
The Delawares were furious, and resolved
to kill them all, or take them
prisoners. But they would not suffer
themselves to be taken, but died to a
man, stoutly fighting. The Indians never
do anything by half. In love, and
hate, in whatever they undertake, they
go the fullest length, and push forward to
extremes. The fight lasted not more
than half an hour. The Delawares had
lost three of their brave comrades, and
many of them had received wounds,
none however that were fatal. As
Wahalla crossed the stream and joined
them, they sent up a shout of victory
that rent the air, and reverberated in
bounding echoes along the silent hills in
the distance. Thus closed this bloody
and terribly fated battle. They had
been revenged awfully, terribly revenged,
by the blood of their hated foes. Not
one was left to carry the sad tidings to
their homes, that should cause the
squaws of those fallen braves to wail and
lament in grief over the fallen husbands
and fathers. It was vengeance complete,
awful. And now they tore the
scalps from the fallen enemies, still reeking
in blood, and hung them to their
belts, the trophies of their victory.
M. Boileau, who had ceased fighting
before the struggle was at an end, and
had sought his daughter, remained with
her until the noise and cries ceased, and
all was over. Then with Le Beaux,
who had joined, and who had both congratulated
Coquese on her speedy release
from captivity, and had received from her
her warmest thanks for his assistance,
he sought out the wounded, and took
every means to alleviate their sufferings,
and administer to their relief. Their
fallen comrades were removed to the
bank of the river beyond them and out of
their sight. The horses, both their own
and those captured from their enemies,
were caught, and brought in, and mounting
them, they rode a short distance
down the bank of the river, that they
might leave behind the spectacle of the
battle field, and here they prepared to
pass the night. Fires were kindled,
supper prepared, the horses were taken
care of, and a hasty tent prepared for
Coquese.
After they had partaken of their meal,
the party returned to bury their dead
warriors. It was a calm, beautiful,
moonlight evening. The stars shone
with a sparkling twinkle. The air was
still, and far and wide, o'er highland and
plain, in those vast, unbroken forests, the
stillness and quiet of deep, perfect repose
reigned. Slowly, and with sorrowing
hearts, they took their way on foot to a
spot which had been chosen as the last
resting place on earth of their fallen
brothers, until they should awake to
range with perfect happiness and unmixed
joy the blessed hunting grounds
of the brave and bold warrior in their
future abode. Just on the bank of this
wild river rose a little eminence, that
commanded a pleasing, but limited view,
of this romantic spot. Here with their
faces pointed to the east, their arms, and
all their martial weapons, and hunting
implements by their side, they buried
those honored warriors, and as they
heaped the earth upon them, they broke
out into a low chant, at first bemoaning
the death of their brave companions, and
their own grievous loss in their death.—
But this was changed into a bolder,
louder strain, as they repeated and
numbered the virtues and bravery of
their companions. Thus it ran:
“They are gone, and dark night with
its sable pall hastens to cover them from
our sight. No longer shall their swift
feet join us as companions in the joyous
chase. With spirit voices their lifeless
bodies speak to us, and there is no war
on their speech. Where do you fly, oh
bold warriors? whose arms were clothed
with mighty strength, and whose feet
outstripped the fleet antelope. Far in
the happy valley of the blessed hunter's
realm I see the blooming flowers of
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sweet perfume are bending round thy
path, and ever fruitful and green trees
with their soft branches above them.—
Happy spirits greet you, and, in songs
more soft and sweet than the red-breasted
warblers, attend thy path. Ye are
blessed and happy, dear companions, and
will sleep quietly in your green graves.
We will sing your death song, oh! loved
brothers. Mighty were ye in the chase.
The swift panther did not escape you.
The strong bear did not overcome you.
The furious bison could not cause your
brave arms to falter. Never did you
fear him on the hunter's paths. Ah,
you were mighty hunters, and we love
you. Ye were kind to your faithful
squaws, and we praise you.
“The squaws whom ye took to your
bosoms, and whose busy hands spread
the sweet venison, and fat bear meat upon
your boards in your beloved lodges, will
weep tears of sorrow over you, and will
cherish your image in their affectionate
hearts. They will teach your young
children the story of their father's deeds,
and who will grow up like their brave
fathers.
“Rest ye, then, in peace; and on
swift steeds fly to the happy lands, for
ye leave no foes behind to fetter your
steps. They are all sent to await your
coming, and are ready to be your slaves.
The Great Spirit looked on them in
wrath, for they were wicked in their
hearts, and lies were hid beneath their
soft words. They were cunning, but
his wrath gave them into your hands.
He was pleased when the last faint death-cry
came in despair from their lips, and
ascended to his open ear.
“Long will we sing your greatness,
brave warriors, and strive to imitate your
proud deeds. Ye are gone,—the spirit
that hovered around you beckons you
on, leading your feet to the happy groves,
and their shadowy forms glide before
you on swift wings; their voices sink in
the breezes that waft you, and nought,
save the hollow echo of our own words
comes back to us from the hill-side.
Your graves are glorious with many triumphs,
and are crowned with many victories
over all your foes. We will lead
our people to them, and make them
known to all. They shall chant above
them in your praise, your many brave
deeds, and your bright virtues; and singing,
shall strew fresh flowers above you.
Farewell, dear brothers.”
As they ceased chanting, each in turn
advancing, laid clasters of wild flowers
they had brought with them, upon the
fresh graves, and turning their backs, in
sorrowful silence departed, and sought
their temporary camp. The funeral rites
were ended. Their sorrow sought not
to unburden its woe in words, or any exterior
signs; but yet was it not the less
heavy on their hearts.
Charles had gone with them, and Coquese
also,—all were present at these
sad rites, that consigned some of her
brave deliverers to their final home.—
When they returned, Coquese entered
her rude and hastily constructed tent.
Charles laid himself upon the grass at
the door, with his trusty hounds by his
side to guard his sleep.
Early in the morning they set out on
their way home, and after three days'
journey, at the close of the day, they
reached the village. Charles had ridden
by the side of Coquese, and her father
had been prevailed upon to sanction their
love. It needed not many words to gain
his assent, for he had already loved our
hero, as much as if he had in truth been
his own son. How different were the
feelings with which they retraced their
steps now, at a moderate and pleasant
pace, compared with those which pained
and excited them as they hurried over
the same ground but a short time before.
All was calm, and pleasant, and smiling;
then all was dark and uncertain.
It was at the close of the day, as they
came in sight of their homes. Their
watchful friends descried them while yet
some distance off, and in anxious expectation
came out to meet them. When
they saw Coquese riding on a horse, between
the pale face chief and her father,
they shouted for joy. As they alighted,
Leila, whose joy at seeing her daughter
was full, could not control her emotions;
springing to her, she clasped her to her
heart, exclaiming, “My dear, dear daughter,
how happy your sight makes me!”
They wept for some time in each others'
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arms, before their feelings grew calm.
But although there was great joy in
the lodge of M. Boileau, yet was there
also the sound of grief and lamentation in
the deserted lodges of the fallen warriors,
whose proud forms would never more
darken their doors, and whose kind
words were hushed in death. Their devoted
bosom companions mourned in
low, sad tones of grief, sitting by themselves.
They would not be comforted.
The dark cloud covered them, and hid
the light from their eyes. The Great
Spirit had veiled his face before them,
and they could not see his smile. They
refused food and drink. They uttered
no murmur or complaint,—deep, settled
sorrow held them silent and immovable.
Coquese visited, and in vain sought by
her kind words and offices, to win them
from their profound grief. She brought
food and implored them to eat, but in
vain. They had loved with all their
hearts, and now grief has filled their
minds to overflowing, and there is no
room left for consolation. For three
days did they thus remain in silent grief.
At the expiration of that time, they roused
themselves. The Great Spirit had
whispered hope and consolation. They
called their children, the pledges of their
lost husbands' affection to them, and
embraced them, resolved to live for them
from that time. They entered as usual,
upon their daily duties, and by no external
sign could you detect the sorrow
which, though subdued, was yet a heavy
burden to their grieving spirits.
And now, again, Charles and Coquese
lingered hour after hour, by themselves.
Again in that little bower where they
had passed so many happy days, and
the hours glided swiftly away on wings
of mutual happiness and love.
CHAPTER XVII.
The story of their love and mutual attachment
spread through the village, and
was heard with satisfaction and delight
by all of that good-hearted, affectionate
tribe, though many a young warrior had
looked with eyes of love upon the beautiful
Flower, that had been born and
brought up in their very midst, and
whose sweet disposition, like the balmy,
delicious fragrance of a rare-scented blossom,
had breathed its softening and loved
influence, in gentle words and kind acts,
over their truly brave and faithful hearts;
and they had long sought to win her by
daring deeds, the practice of their most
esteemed and honorable virtues, and by
the yet softer and winning arts of love, to
become the mistress of their wigwam.
Yet so generous and unselfish were their
natures,—so devoted were they to her
happiness, that they forgot all their rivalry,
and jealousy of love, in the lot
which was opened to her for future happiness,
in a marriage with the brave, and
honored pale face chief. And they all
in their hearts acknowledged, and felt his
superior claims to insure her happiness,
in the similarity of tastes and character,
which attracted and bound them to each
other. Thus happily was the course of
our devoted and tried lovers rendered
smooth, and all their troubles and the
great obstacles that had opposed them,
swept forever away. Now although occasional
sadness would sometimes cloud
the fair, clear brow of the beautiful daughter
of the forest, as she thought of the
days of her captivity, and the cruel
scenes connected with them; and as in
her daily walks around the peaceful village,
her eyes would rest in pity, and
her words of consolation, and promise,
and hope, in soft, kind tones, would fall
upon the ears of the widowed squaws,
whose brave husbands had sealed with
their life-blood their devotion to her,
yet could the presence, the voice, the
very thought of her adored, her idolized
Charles, in all the pride of blooming
manhood, with his thoughtful and intelligent
face, so beautiful, dispel all gloom
and sorrow from her heart, and all grief
from her anxious, troubled brow; and
thoughts, sweet thoughts would fly to
take possession of her soul, and the
bright, sweet smile of happiness would
light up the fires of her deep, dark eyes,
imparting such beauty, and angelic loveliness
to her charming person, that all
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were fascinated as they looked, and unconsciously
paid homage at the shrine
of such surpassing loveliness; while the
enraptured lover would sit and drink in
with fond admiration each grace and
sweet perfection of this dear being,
whose love was enshrined in the chosen
chambers of his faithful, loving heart.
A month glided swiftly away after the
sad tragedy, which closed the list of
Coquese's woes. To them, how short
did it seem. Their days sped away on
wings of love, satisfied, ardent, prosperous
love. Charles had become the guest
of M. Boileau, and was the acknowledged
and beloved suitor of their precious
child. The fair hands of his love
smoothed and spread the clothes of his
soft couch, and prepared for him the
dainties of the humble board. It was
the sweet notes of her rich, bird-like
voice that awoke him each morning's
dawn, to the blessed pleasures of another
day of life and love. It was from
her rosy lips that he quaffed the delicious
nectar that inspired his happy and
delightful dreams. And is it possible,
you will be ready to ask, that they could
have desired more than this to complete
their happiness? Was not their cup
full to running over? Day by day to
live in each other's presence, to wander
beneath swelling skies, and under the
sweet shade of the green trees, over the
verdant woods, or glide leisurely along
the smooth waters of their limpid
streams, in the fairy canoe of the
delighted Coquese; or at noon-tide's
heat, to seek the inviting shelter of that
little bower where they first met, where
they first loved, and which was endeared
to them as the confidant of their daily,
and oft-repeated vows of love, and eternal
constancy; the green spot that
would ever live in their memories,
clothed in the brightest garb of their
happy and romantic love. There, too,
had they not around them the best, the
most affectionate of friends, whose constancy
and devotion had stood the most
trying test, and had not fainted nor failed
them in the hour of adversity and gloom.
But all this, and you will acknowledge
that it was not little or meagre, could not
satisfy our hero. He longed and de
sired to call her wife, to have the
solemnized and acknowledged right to
call her his own dear bosom companion,
his wanting better half. He was impatient
to utter and listen to those vows
which should bind them forever to each
other in indissoluble bonds, that nought
but death could sever. He had not a
rising feeling, not the most feeble touch
of jealousy in his heart. He knew that
she was all his own, that no rites, no
outward forms and ceremonies could
make her more so. Her heart was given
joyfully and fully to him. Her tone gave
proof of its sincerity, its complete and
absorbing power over her heart in all her
acts, in all her words. It lent a fonder
cadence, and a sweeter music to her
loved voice. It gave a warmer glow to
her fair cheek, and a brighter fire to her
sparkling eyes. It hung a more irresistible
charm around the witching smiles
that played over her beautiful face. No,
it was not that he hoped, that he
believed, or desired that her love should
increase, but he felt that this last crowning
act, that should give her wholly to
him, in the eyes of all, would quiet all
his apprehensions of her safety, would
render it impossible for him ever to be
separated again from her.
With such feelings he had of late oft
urged the blushing girl to fix the day
when all their hearts' desires should be
given them, and crown the bliss of their
united fates and fortunes. She would at
such times remind him of the events that
had but just transpired, and speak of the
grief of the widowed squaws in the village,
whose sorrows were yet fresh and
heavy upon them, and which would
gush forth with new violence at this
exhibition of happiness, which would so
strongly and directly bring to their minds
the losses they had suffered, and which
could never be repaired, or made up to
them, and urged him for their sake to
wait a little longer. She did not affect
any of that false modesty, that mock hesitancy
and reluctance, which city maidens
think proper and becoming to both
avow and practice, and which is but a
downright insult to their lover, implying
doubt of him. No, she felt all that longing,
that burning desire, to become his
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lawful wife, that our hero expressed and
felt, to make her so, and her artless
words assured him this. But her sympathizing
heart was utterly destitute of
selfishness, and was considerate of the
feelings of others. But finally she
yielded to the passionate and warmly
urged prayer of her lover, and with the
approbation and expressed sanction of
her fond parents, Thursday of the next
coming week was chosen as the marriage
day.
It gave ample time for all preparation,
for a marriage with the Indian is by no
means such a mighty grand affair as it
often becomes among the white men.
There are no satins and silks to be fitted
like a bark to a tree, to the trembling
form of the fearful bride. No laces and
ribbons, scarfs and shawls, no embroidered
handkerchiefs, and beautiful
stitched garments to be made, which
often for months beforehand employ the
busy, nimble fingers of the skillful
seamstress and mantuamaker, and the
important offices of the refined milliner,
whose selections, and whose genius
plans the attire of the expecting, impatient
girl. Nor is there any occasion
for the service of the cake-making, candified,
sweet-scented confectioner, that
knows the most fashionable, and last
approved spices used for his cakes, or
the latest twist, and the most graceful
curves his candies should be wrought
into. No butler examines the sparkle,
or tastes the flavor of the merry grapejuice,
that is to enliven the marriage
feast, and gladden the hearts, not unfrequently
confuse and bewilder the little
brains of the fashionable guests. None
of this was necessary, and it was well
for the loving pair it was not, for then
had their hopes been darkened at once,
for these things thrive not at present at
the base of the Rocky Mountains.
But a simple feast, abundant, but humble
and modest, and the lovely charms
and graces nature gave to the warmhearted,
beautiful Coquese, as a bridal
garment, that all the milliners and artists
in the wide world could not equal, were
ornaments enough for this fair girl, and
at the appointed day she was ready to
stand by the side of her dear, and truly
loved Charles, and in the presence of the
village, publicly unite herself to him.—
Charles, with a joyful face and beating
heart, as he stood there and gazed upon
the fair girl, about to become his, thought
he never before beheld a female half so
lovely and beautiful. Her dark, silken
hair that hung in flowing curls around
her smooth and polished neck, was confined
at the top of the head by a wreath
of wild flowers of various bright glowing
colors, arranged and woven together by
her own inimitable taste. Her loose,
girdle-waisted, calico dress, that hung
from her polished shoulders, and displayed
to advantage the budding charms
of her fruitful and swelling bust, but half
hid by the light, silk scarf her lover gave
her, and which hung in graceful folds
from her shoulders; the beaded little
moccasin that covered her pretty foot,
and above all, the smile of love, and perfect
confidence, that shone in her eyes,
as they fondly were raised to his face,
completely entranced him, and he felt
proud to call her his own dear wife.
The ceremony, if it might be termed
such, was exceedingly brief. Standing
together, with her hand resting in his,
and the tribe gathered around them, she
first, in a clear, distinct voice, proclaimed
before them all, her love for the youth
who then held her hand, and promised
in the presence of her tribe, and of the
Great Spirit, whom she invoked as a
witness, to love him through life, and
faithfully to cherish him, and perform
the duties of an affectionate, loving wife.
When she ceased, Charles, in his turn,
placed his hand in hers, and in the same
manner, and with the same solemn invocation
of the Great Spirit, to witness the
act, promised before all the assembled
tribe, to watch over, protect and love this
dear maid that stood by his side, and
whose hand he now held, so long as he
should live. As the last words fell from
his tongue, he threw his arms around
her, drew her to his bosom, she clasped
at the same instant her arms around his
neck, and their lips met in a long, sweet
kiss, the first act of their union, the seal
of their mutual promises to each other,
and the outward token of their affection.
This closed the ceremony, and they
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were man and wife. The men and
women of the tribe gathered close around
them and commenced in low soft strains
to chant the virtues of the bridegroom,
his courage and daring on the war path,
his boldness and dexterity on the hunting
path, and the generosity and nobleness
of his character.
As they ceased, the women took up
the strain and sung the praises of the
bride. Her beauty, they said, was like
the rising morn, that blushes rosy in the
eastern sky. Her heart, true as the dove
to his mate, would never leave, or cease
to love her mate. Her busy, cunning
hands would spread the tempting board
for her loved husband, and her skillful
hand prepare the adorned moccasin for
his feet, and her sweet voice sing the
soothing songs of his victories and brave
deeds. As they finished, both together
joined in a low, more solemn and slow
measure, and invoked the blessings of
the Good Spirit to descend upon them,
and ever attend their steps. They asked
for them children who should grow up in
strength and beauty before them, their
pride, and their comfort. And after
exhausting the catalogue of blessings,
they ceased. And now the feast was
spread, and with many a look of love
and true affection between the young
men and their dusky loves, did they set
themselves down to the cheerful, joyous
repast.
At night they formed a bridal procession,
and escorted the new couple
through the village, stopping at the door
of each lodge, when both bride and bride-groom
received some present from the
family, together with their separate blessing.
After they had gone through the
village in this way, and called at each
lodge, loaded with presents, they returned
home, attended by the procession,
each member of which bore a blazing
pine torch in his hand. A shout of joy
was their parting good night, and our
hero and his wife entered their home.—
And here we must drop the curtain that
veils the sacred pleasures and confidence
of our happy pair, and forbids the intrusion
of curiosity.
THE END
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