CHAPTER XIV.
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And now he pours his choice of fear,
In secret on Matilda's ear;
“Consent, and all this dread array,
Like morning dream shall pass away;
Refuse, and by my duty press'd,
I give the word—thou know'st the rest.”
Scott.
The great luminary of this nether world had
upwards of an hour's journey to perform, ere he
could hide himself behind the edge of the western
horizon, from the view of the inhabitants
of Fort Du Quesne, when the lovely object of
its Governor's passion, was brought an unhappy
captive within its walls.
When the sound of the bugle announced the
arrival of Ranttell's party, the Governor, with a
feeling of some embarrassment, hastened to salute
the enchanter of his soul, whom he perceived
to be with them, and to conduct her unto his
residence. When he held out his hand to assist
her in dismounting, she for a moment, with an instinctive
shudder, shrunk from his touch; but instantly
recollecting that there was no possibility
of then avoiding it, without perhaps, subjecting
herself to greater rudeness, she silently accepted
his assistance, and suffered herself to be led, an
uncomplaining victim, to the lodging that had
been prepared for her.
This was a tolerably neat room of moderate
dimensions, on the second floor of the governor's
house, which was situated near that part of the
circumvallation which overlooked the
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Monongahela. It was in the northeastern angle of the
house, and had in view from its front windows,
the principal area, or parade ground, within the
stoccade. Besides the necessary furniture which,
although not splendid, was commodious and clean,
it contained a few books of a romantic and light
species of literature, arranged on some shelves
adjoining the door of a small dark closet, which
formed an appendage to the apartment.
“Miss Frazier,” said De Villiers on handing
her into this room, “I am sorry, to my very soul I
am sorry, that you should have compelled me
to take this step. But I felt that I could not
live without you, and I had no alternative. Endeavour
to make yourself comfortable in this
abode, such as it is, I wish to God it was a palace
for your sake.”
“Sir,” said she, comfort is now a matter of no
concern to me, for it is what I feel I cannot enjoy.
Alas! to enter a place under such circumstances,
would be the same as a dungeon.”
Here the energy which had sustained her during
her journey, forsook her, for the state in
which she had left her friends, rushed into her
remembrance, and she burst into tears.”
“Oh, my dear father and mother,” said she,
“what must you not feel at this moment! heaven
support you under this trial.”
“Be pacified, my lovely maiden,” said De Villiers,
in a soothing manner—for he really felt affected
at her sorrow. “Your feelings are too
tender. You are by far of too timid and apprehensive
a disposition. I assure you that you will
suffer no evil here, and shall also take care to remove
any uneasiness your friends may feel on
that account. The urgency of passion, irresistible
passion, for you, alone, constrained me to
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separate you from them. But, believe me, it was
not to make either you or them unhappy; and,
upon the honour of a soldier, I promise that any
thing short of parting with you, I shall submit to,
in order to make your residence with me agreeable.”
“Alas, then, I need expect no relief from misery,”
she replied, “for nothing short of a separation
from you, and restoration to my friends, can afford
such relief. Oh, restore me to them, and I
shall never cease to bless you, I shall never cease
to pray for your happiness!”
“What!” said he, “no—no—you know not
how I adore your loveliness, or you would not expect
me to part with it so soon. It would be folly
indeed, to throw that treasure out of my hand,
for which the whole world could not afford me an
equivalent. But the whole world, Miss Frazier,
cannot now deprive me of you. That blessed
consideration makes me ample amends for your
present displeasure. Oh, smile upon one who
doats on you, and be reconciled to yield to the
ardour of his affections, by becoming his wife, and
his whole future conduct, he pledges his salvation,
shall be regulated so as to make you happy.”
“Sir,” said she, recovering her full energy of
manner and tone—“never—never! You have
already had my answer on that subject; an answer
which no earthly consideration can ever induce
me to change. No, my heart would burst
to pieces ere my tongue should utter a promise to
be yours.”
“Well, my sweet tormentor, you would inflict
a pang into my soul, would you, by such a manifestation
of hatred for me? But, by heavens!
you are beautiful, and so long as I can behold
those fascinating features, I shall feel no pangs of
any kind! When I shall feel sorrow, I shall fly to
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you, and gaze upon you. The sight of your
charms will quicken me into joy, and to clasp
them to my enraptured bosom, will transport me
into bliss.” He paused—but she continued silent,
shuddering at his vehemence; and he soon
again continued:
“Maiden! You say you will never promise to
be mine. Be it so. I can, if I please, dispense
with that promise, and yet be happy. For know,
my enchantress, you are at this moment mine to all
intents and for all purposes, as completely and absolutely,
as if the priest had made you so. It is
for your own sake, my fair one, and not for mine,
that I wish the forms to be gone through. What
say you?—will you consult your own reputation,
your own purity, and the satisfaction of your
friends, and pronounce the vow which will make
me happy without making you wretched.”
“Never!”—she replied, in a tone of firmness
and decision—“never. If I am doomed to
wretchedness, no act of my own shall ever be,
with my knowledge, accessary to it. If I cannot
control the power of others over me, I can, at
least, control the meaning of the words that I
utter, and never shall I utter any which will entitle
you to exercise authority over me.”
“Say you so, obstinate, foolish girl?” he replied,
with considerable irritation. “But your obstinacy,
or if you prefer the phrase, your firmness
on this point, shall be tried. By heavens! if I
did not love you too sincerely to seize your
charms, and rifle your sweets without ceremony,
I would not delay my bliss one hour. But harsh,
inconsiderate as you are, your purity and satisfaction
of mind, are worth something in my estimation;
they are worth at least a few days postponement
of my happiness. It shall be, therefore,
postponed that it may be the sweeter when
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it comes; for, by the great God, I swear, it shall
come with your own consent, if I should shake
your very soul to its centre in order to extort that
consent from you! This is my determination,
seducing, obdurate girl! I shall now leave you to
reflect upon it. But your lovely hand shall first
impress rapture upon my lips.”
So saying, he forcibly kissed her hand, and
left the apartment. Maria threw herself upon the
bed, and burst into tears. The full sense of her
wretched situation, and still more wretched prospects,
rushed violently upon her mind, and she
poured forth the sorrows of her soul to her Maker,
from whom alone, if there was any deliverance
for her, could she expect it, by some miraculous
means to proceed. She prayed, fervently
prayed, that whatever might be the acuteness
of her personal sufferings, she should, at least, bear
them without sinning, and that if her distress
should occasion her destruction, her soul should
return to him from whom it had proceeded, as undefiled,
and as unoffending as she had received it.
This pious train of thought had the effect of
greatly tranquillizing her mind, and when, in about
fifteen minutes after the departure of De Villiers,
a squaw entered her apartment with some refreshments,
she prevailed on herself to partake slightly
of them, after which, committing herself to the
all-powerful protection of the God on whom she
relied, she locked her chamber door, and throwing
her harassed frame again upon the couch, endeavoured
to court repose.
But it was long before she obtained it. The
misfortunes of Charles Adderly, who loved her
so tenderly, and to whom the whole affections of
her soul were engaged, for sometime occupied
and agitated her mind, so entirely and intensely,
as almost to obliterate the recollection of her
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own. The awful fate which she feared he either
had suffered, or would be doomed to suffer, from
the cruelty of the savages, excited her mind, as
she reflected deeply upon it, to a species of intolerable
feeling, so nearly bordering upon despair,
that she could have wished herself annihilated,
to get rid of it. When she pictured to herself
the horrors of his destruction, amidst the
flames, gladly, gladly would she have rejoiced in
the possibility of becoming herself a substitute to
undergo the dreadful doom in his stead.
Then, again, when the terrors of her own situation
would recur to her, the possibility of being
condemned to the horrible embraces of a wretch
whose villany she execrated, occasioned her to
shudder, a cold sweat broke upon her frame, and
she thought that even Charles's worst fate must be
happiness, compared with hers.
“Oh, would to my God!” she mentally exclaimed,
“that sooner than permit such a catastrophe
to take place, he would strike me dead
with his thunder, or cause this building to take
fire and consume me amidst the conflagration.
Nature at length became wearied with the
poignancy of sorrow, and she sunk into a kind of
stupor which terminated, at last, in a slumber,
disturbed and troubled, indeed, but infinitely
more refreshing and invigorating in its effects
than she had any reason to expect.
She arose the next morning, rejoiced to find herself
restored to a degree of resolution and fortitude,
of which, the preceding evening, she had
been entirely destitute; and she now felt as if she
could courageously meet her fate, let its aspect
be ever so appalling.
The squaw that had the night before brought
refreshments to her, appeared some time after
she arose, with a request from the Governor that
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she would favour him with her company at breakfast,
which was waiting for her in a parlour below
stairs. This invitation she declined on the plea
of indisposition. The squaw retired, but in a
short time returned to prepare breakfast in her
apartment, and in a few minutes was followed by
De Villiers himself, who saluted her with great
politeness, hoped her indisposition was not of a
serious nature, and since she was unable to afford
him the pleasure of her presence at breakfast, below,
he would crave the liberty to enjoy it in her
own room.
“You are master here, sir,” said she, “and no
doubt, despotically enough disposed to make all
such matters bend to your will. My opposition
to your taking this liberty, would I am therefore
persuaded, be fruitless, and should not relieve me
of your presence, let me feel it as disagreeable as I
may.”
“Then my presence is still disagreeable to
you,” he observed; “well, let it be so, since
yours affords me delight, by the Holy Virgin! I
will enjoy it. But, my fair one, I wish you to join
me in this breakfast, for, by my faith, I did not
bring you here to starve you.”
“Sir,” said she, “on condition that you avoid
the subject so grating to my feelings, I shall partake
with you, but on no other.”
He bowed a complaisant assent, and she sat
down to table with him. But the meal was scarcely
over when he renewed the ungrateful subject.
“Oh! how happy, Miss Frazier,” he said,
looking tenderly at her, and drawing a deep sigh,
“should I be, if you were thus the voluntary and
permanent mistress of my table, and myself! Oh,
will you not consent to receive the hand of the
man who loves you beyond all the world?”
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“The reply, sir,” said she, “that I have so
decisively given to that question already, I think
might be sufficient to convince you of the inutility
of repeating it. That reply was made never to be
changed, and it never can be changed!”
“Other methods must then be tried,” said he
with fierceness; “for by heavens! I must have
you for my own, if there be energy in human power
to effect it!”
At this moment the sound of a trumpet was
heard. “It is these cursed Indians,” said he,
starting to his feet, “that are going to hold a
council concerning our English prisoners, a number
of whom they are resolved to burn. I have
been trying to persuade them from it, but it won't
do. They must be gratified; otherwise they'll go
off in dudgeon, and I cannot spare them at present,
lest the British under Dunbar should think proper
to make a trip this way. I must attend their counsel
now and save as many lives as I can.”
Maria, whose humanity shuddered at this intelligence,
and who that moment thought upon the
fate of Charles Adderly, which, for aught she knew,
might be dependent upon the decision of this very
council—caught the Governor's arm as he was going
away.
“Oh, for the love of heaven! Monsieur de
Villiers,” said she, “save these unfortunate men.
God will bless you for the deed.”
“Since it is your wish, my sweet one,” he replied,
“I shall do my utmost; but these savages
claim so much merit for their fighting the day before
yesterday, that I fear I shall make but little
of them, especially as they captured these men
themselves. So eager, Miss Frazier, are they
for burning their prisoners, that I am told a party
of them left the field of battle with one or two
captives whom they were resolved not to be
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baffled in sacrificing, and carried them southward,
lest, if they had brought them to the garrison, I
should have interfered to save them. But I perceive
the old Mingo prophet, Tonnaleuka, among
them. This promises well, as he is always averse
to burning prisoners, and he has more power over
them than I have. Between us, I think we sball
be able to save some of these Englishmen.”
“Oh! I beseech you to save them all, if you
can,” cried Maria.
“That is impossible,” he returned; “I have already
conceded that they should have at least
twelve at their disposal; they claimed this as a
reward for their conduct in the late battle, and I
could not well refuse them. The present counsel
is to determine how many more they shall have,
as well as to select the twelve for whom they
have already stipulated. If the Mingo prophet
assists me, I think, however, we shall be able to
save the remainder.”
“That prophet is a good man,” observed Maria;
“I know he will assist you, and may heaven
also assist you in the benevolent work.”
“Amen,” said De Villiers.” “Good morning,
my sweet girl. I will think of your wishes, and
if possible protect these men.”
Shortly after De Villiers departed, the sorrowful
Maria beheld from a window the wretched
captives, nearly forty in number, tied together, in
pairs, and surrounded by several hundred savages
who were dancing, singing, halloing, and exhibiting,
in every grotesque and frantic manner that
could be conceived, their triumph over the unfortunate
objects of their barbarous mirth. Her
heart for a moment rejoiced to see that Charles
Adderly was not among them; but it almost immediately
sunk within her, when she recollected
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that his destruction was perhaps on that very account,
the more certainly inevitable.
“For he, alas,” she sighed, “my unfortunate
Charles! He must be in the hands of those inveterate
savages who fled with their victims lest the
French should rescue them from their barbarity.
Ah! my Charles, to what an evil destiny have we
both been born!”
As these reflections passed through her mind,
she grew dizzy, the surrounding objects wavered
before her eyes, and she staggered back to her
couch; but there a flood of tears coming to her relief,
she soon became again calm and resigned,
and resumed her station at the window. Here
her heart warmed to behold Tonnaleuka. His
presence seemed, even under the circumstances in
which she beheld him, to throw a certain consciousness
of security around her, and an almost confident
hope that the poor captives who excited so
much of her sympathy, would escape uninjured.
He was earnestly talking to some of the Indian
chiefs, who appeared to listen to him with great
attention. At length De Villiers went forward to
him, and walking aside with him to some distance
from the groupe, they seemed to converse together
for about ten minutes with great earnestness. The
Governor then returned to the Indians, and giving
the word to march, a flourish of trumpets succeeded,
and the party, consisting almost altogether
of Indians and prisoners, proceeded out of the fortress.
Tonnaleuka remaining some distance behind,
took an opportunity, after the Governor had
disappeared, when he was unnoticed by the sentinel
who was looking after the procession, to make
an obeisance to Maria, who still remained at the
window. He then lifting his right hand to heaven,
and putting it three times on his right ear, thereby
intimated his assurance, that God would hear her
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prayers for protection, and afford her deliverance.
She motioned to him in token of understanding
his meaning, and he disappeared, leaving on her
mind a feeling of encouragement, of an indefinable,
but invigorating nature, as strong and cheering
as if it imparted an almost certain conviction
that she was under the immediate care of heaven,
and she felt a degree of tranquillity and fortitude
that she had not before experienced since her captivity.
In about two hours, she heard the trumpets
again sounding, and, in a short time, the captives
and their savage conquerors returned into the fort.
Maria perceived that the procession was not now
so numerous as when it left the fort; but this excited
no surprise in her mind, as the roving and
irregular habits of the Indians occasioned them
often to disappear suddenly and unaccountably
from scenes, in which it might be expected they
would feel the highest interest.
The prisoners being conducted to their quarters,
the Indians dispersed, and the greater
number of them instantly left the fort; and De
Villiers hastened to visit the lovely captive whom
he had immediately under his own custody.
“Miss Frazier,” said he, as he entered her
apartment; “I am heartily glad to get rid of these
savages, and once more enjoy the delight of your
presence. It is like changing the company of
fiends for that of an angel.”
“Ah! sir, tell me,” she returned, “Has any
thing been done for the poor Englishmen? Have
you secured their safety?”
“They are all safe, thank God!” he replied;
“except the twelve I mentioned to you who have
been selected by lot. I exerted myself greatly,
since I knew it would please you. They have
given up all the others to us as prisoners of war.”
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“And what—what!” she asked, with much
emotion, “is to become of these unfortunate
twelve?”
“Why I fear much that the savages will burn
them, according to their custom in such cases,”
replied De Villiers.
“And oh, Monsieur de Villiers,” said she, “is
there no way left to save them from such a cruel
fate? Have you not force enough, influence
enough, to protect them. Oh, think that these
men may have tender relatives—fathers, and mothers,
wives and children, whose hearts are at this
day in agony to ascertain their fate! Oh, think,
feel, if thou canst feel for the misery of others,
what will be their horror, their distraction, when
they hear that those so dear to them have come
to such a terrible end. Oh, do something to
save them, I conjure, thee if thou wouldst expect
salvation thyself!”
“Why, my sweet enchantress,” said he, “why
plead so strongly in behalf of men of whom thou
knowest nothing, and who neither know nor care
any thing about thee; and yet be so indifferent to
the prayers and entreaties of one who adores thee?
Why feel and tremble so much at the idea of mere
strangers being burned to death by a fire of wood,
and show so little compassion for one whose life
thou art barbarously consuming in the flames
kindled by thy own charms? Ah! why, cruel
girl, accuse the savages of barbarity to their
victims, who are their enemies, when thou art thyself
as barbarous, and hard-hearted to thy own
lover—to me, alas! who love you with a passion
too violent for me to bear long unrequited and
live.”
“Sir,” said she, “it is to no purpose that
you talk in this manner. Tell me, tell me, can
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you do any thing to save these unfortunate
men?”
“Tell me first, my angel,” returned he,
“can you, will you do any thing to save me from
a worse fate?”
Oh, my God,” she cried—looking up to heaven,
“direct me, merciful Power! what to say—
what to do!—Alas, sir,” she continued casting
her eyes upon De Villiers, “to what straits would
you drive me, say—say—for heaven's sake, can
you save these men?”
“If you give me your hand at the altar,” said
he, after a little apparent meditation, “as the
price of their lives, you shall have them, if I
should turn out my garrison to rescue them from
the stakes.”
“Oh, heavenly Father!” she exclaimed, “to
what a situation am I reduced! Alas, sir, I cannot,
I cannot—Oh, hear me—I would, ah! I think I
would give it to you to save these victims, but
alas, it is pledged, irrevocably pledged to another.”
“Your hand pledged to another!” exclaimed
De Villiers, rising from his seat in surprise, and
pacing the room in great irritation. “Your hand
pledged to another, and no doubt your heart too—
Miss Frazier, is it not so!”
“Alas, sir. I cannot deny it. But surely, surely,
if it be in your power, you will not let these unhappy
prisoners die.”
“Die!” he repeated, “yes—that they must.
But—but, perhaps, no,” said he, suddenly changing
his manner. “It is—that is, it may be still in
your power to save them. You are not married,
I hope?”
“No, sir.”
“Then, my lovely fair one, these men may yet
be safe. Let us make a bargain.—Let your hand
be mine, and their lives shall be yours.”
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“Alas, sir, have I not told you that my hand
is already pledged.”
“Merely pledged,” cried he, “what signifies
that? A mere verbal promise. The wind of the
mouth, which, when it passes into the air, is nothing.
Miss Frazier, you will surely not place
such a trifle, such a nonentity into competition
with the lives of twelve human beings.
Say the word, my sweetest, tenderest, loveliest of
women, utter that which humanity calls upon you
to utter, and they are safe.”
“Alas, sir!—Oh, what can I do? but it is impossible.
I cannot unsay what I have said. I
cannot forfeit my truth! No, no, rather than that,
let me first die the death allotted to these men!”
“Then these men whom you devote to the
flames shall die!” said he, and he hastened out of
the room in a paroxysm of rage.
In about twenty minutes the sound of trumpets
was heard, and a guard of soldiers appeared conducting
twelve prisoners across the court of the
fortress opposite Maria's window, at the distance
of about twenty yards from which De Villiers
gave the word, and the party halted, and fronted
towards the window. The prisoners with their
heads uncovered, then kneeled and looked up to
Maria, as if earnestly supplicating for some important
favour.
De Villiers left them in this situation, and hastened
to her apartment.
“Look,” said he, “hard-hearted girl, at those
poor men now under sentence to suffer, within one
hour, the most terrible of all deaths, burning at the
stake! Look at them on their knees imploring
thee to deliver them from a fast approaching and
cruel fate. I have told them that their destiny is
in thy hands, that if it pleaseth thee, I will defend
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them from the vengeance of the savages, and procure
a reversal of the condemnation that has been
passed against them. Wilt thou save them, or wilt
thou let them perish?”
Maria looked at the men. Their uniforms of
red, in times of prosperity the most brilliant and
imposing of all warlike colours, now stained and
tattered; their wobegone countenances and
wearied-out frames, their humble posture, their
hair uncovered and scattered to the winds,
to the imagination of Maria, bespoke misery,
hardship, and terror in the extreme. She burst
into tears as she beheld them; for she reflected
that these very men, had, perhaps, been once happy
in the enjoyment of domestic comforts, virtuous
endearments, and tender attachments; and
now, when on the very verge of terminating their
existence, of leaving all their joys and affections
behind them, and undergoing the most excruciating
species of destruction, she beheld them imploring
her, who had it in her power to save them by foregoing
her own happiness, not to consign them to
their awful doom from any selfish consultation of
her own wishes, but by gratifying a man who
besought her to become his wife, to deliver them
and restore them to safety. What was she to do?
Could she deny De Villiers, and have these poor
supplicants carried off to instant destruction; or
could she yield to his desires, and make herself
miserable, and, what was the worst of all alternatives,
be unfaithful to Charles Adderly?
De Villiers perceived her wavering, and he
urged her to a decision. “Five minutes, my
love,” said he, pulling out his watch—“Let five
minutes pass without promising to become my
wife, and these men shall be ordered away to the
stakes and the faggots already prepared for their
execution—”
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“Oh, barbarous man! have mercy, have mercy!”
she exclaimed. Her eyeballs swelled—her
lips quivered and grew pale, her limbs tottered under
her, and she fell backwards upon the floor.
“Godof heaven, I have killed her!” cried De Villiers.
He lifted her in his arms, placed her on the
bed, and calling loudly for assistance, the attending
squaw made her appearance. Some stimulants
were applied to Maria's temples, and she soon began
again to respire, and recover her sensibility.
She at length incoherently exclaimed:—
“Oh! tell me—they have not surely sent them
to the flames! The governor cannot be so barbarous!
Let them be saved—let them be saved!
Alas! I cannot bear to have them burned!”
De Villiers now made a signal out of the window,
for the troops and the prisoners to withdraw.
Then returning to Maria's bed-side, he watched
over her with great anxiety, until he saw the regular
chain of her thoughts properly restored,
which took place much sooner than he expected.
His desire to work upon her feelings, so as to extort
from her a consent to marry him, returned
with her recovery; and to her inquiry of what
had been done with the unfortunate prisoners, he
replied,
“They are, my love, respited until to-morrow
at noon, in order that you may have time to deliberate
leisurely, and decide upon their fate and
mine. And, oh! may I conjure you, Miss Frazier,
before that time, to resolve on saying the
word, which will save them from destruction, and
me from despair! I shall now leave you, that you
may enjoy repose. Give your commands to Halmanna,
this squaw, and she will supply you with
whatever the garrison can afford to make you
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comfortable.” So saying, he relieved Maria of
his presence by withdrawing from the apartment.
The shock she had sustained had thrown her
into a violent fever; and a certain wildness in her
expression and manner had become so apparent,
as to alarm Halmanna, who in consequence entertained
some thoughts of acquainting De Villiers
with the circumstance, in order that medical
aid might be procured, when she saw the
prophet Tonnaleuka entering the house. Halmanna,
who believed that if either earthly or spiritual
aid could assist Maria, the prophet was the
most likely person to afford it, answered Tonnaleuka's
inquiry after Miss Frazier, by expressing
a desire that he should visit her, as she was very
sick.
This being exactly what Tonnaleuka intended
to do, he did not require a second invitation; but
desiring the squaw to remain below stairs, and
not come near the apartment unless sent for,
while he remained with the young lady, he in a
few moments was in Maria's presence. The very
appearance of this venerable man, who had from
her infancy been her guide, her oracle, and her
friend, and the soothing, parental sound of his
voice, produced a powerful effect in allaying her
fever, which, having been occasioned altogether
by an over-wrought mental excitement, now obtained
its proper remedy in the application of
comfort, encouragement, and consolation.
“Oh, my father,” said she, as he advanced,
“your Maria has at length known misfortune—
she has suffered misery, she has felt despair—Oh,
art thou now come, as thou wert ever wont, to
administer peace and comfort to my soul?”
“My daughter, I am come for that purpose,”
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replied the prophet, sitting down beside her, “and
I thank our Great Father, it is in my power.
“My daughter, hear me! my words are comfort,
and they are truth. Thou hast this day been
greatly imposed upon by the wicked governor of
this fortress! The prisoners whom thou sawest,
are not condemned to suffer, nor are there any
now under such condemnation. Alas! those who
were condemned—twelve gallant soldiers, my
heart still bleeds for them—were meanly given up
by the Governor ere I could interpose in their
behalf, and in despite of all my exertions, they
were carried across the Alleghany river at noon
this day, and committed to the flames. Their
sufferings are by this time terminated, and the
tribes will, on this occasion, require no more victims.
“Hear me, my daughter. Those who were
sentenced to die, returned not back to the fort after
leaving it this morning. A band of Ottawas
went directly with them to the place of death,
and many of my red brothers who did return to
the fort, followed immediately after dismissal, to
view the sacrifice.
“Hear me farther. As I was amidst the English
prisoners, after the Indians had withdrawn,
assuring them of their safety, for they understood
not the language in which their fate was
decided, and therefore knew it not, the Governor
came among them. He ordered twelve of
them to be separated from the rest. He promised
them permission to return to their countrymen
under colonel Dunbar, if they would advance
into the middle of the fortress-yard, and
there kneel, uncovered, before a young lady who
should appear at the window of his residence,
and obtain in that humble posture, her consent to
their enlargement. He informed them, that while
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making their supplications, they should not speak,
as the lady did not understand English; (for his
whole scheme was a system of falsehood,) but
that he himself should convey to her the purport
of their request, and report the lady's answer.
He has since informed them that your answer
will not be given till to-morrow noon. In the
meantime, the men are duped by his artifice to
expect liberty which he will not grant, as you
have been deceived into the belief that they were
petitioning to be rescued from a danger which
they neither dreaded, nor have any reason to
dread.
“Therefore, my daughter, hear my advice.
Persevere in your refusal to become this man's
wife. Powerful as he is, the Great Spirit is
more powerful than he, and will frustrate all
his designs against you, because he loves virtue,
and you are virtuous, and because he hates vice,
and this man is vicious. Before many days, I
trust that the Great Spirit will raise up a deliverer
for you, and disappoint the tyrant in his designs.
“My daughter, treasure this my advice in your
heart, and fear neither the cunning nor the force
of the tempter.”
“Father, you have indeed comforted me,”
she replied. “You have restored life to my soul.
For myself, I now fear nothing, since thou, whose
words have never yet deceived me, hast bade me
not fear. But, Oh, father! forgive my weakness,
when I say I am still wretched, since there
is one whom thou knowest to be dear to me, in
danger. Alas! I need not name him. Canst
thou tell me aught of him?”
“My daughter,” said the prophet, “I know
thy heart is distressed on account of that youth.
I have discovered the path his captors have
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caused him to tread, and hope too, that the Great
Spirit will extend to him a share of that mercy
with which he is ever ready to aid the virtuous
and that he will rescue him whose misfortunes
you lament, from the dangers that surround him.
“My daughter, I again recommend you to be
of good cheer in all these matters. Inform not
the Governor that you know his perfidy. It would
only exasperate him, and induce him to have recourse
to other stratagems which might involve
you in fresh troubles. Require time to deliberate,
ere you give an answer to his demands. A
little delay may bring you deliverance. But never,
never, on any account, answer him according to
his wishes. For, my daughter, you know him
to be wicked. Uniting your fate with him, would
be, therefore, to join in his wickedness. But I need
not counsel you thus, since I know that your virtue
is firm, and your heart constant.”
“Oh, father,” said she, seizing the prophet's
hand and kissing it, while she moistened it with
tears of gratitude and joy, “thou hast ever
been to me the source of wisdom and the inspirer
of virtue. Next to my heavenly Preserver,
I owe to thee the chief blessings of my life.
Whilst thou watchest over my safety, methinks
that no evil can befal me. Oh, father, wilt thou
watch over that of Charles Adderly? Alas, what
would protection be to me if he meets with destruction!”
“My daughter, hear me—all that is in my power
to do for that young man, is now doing; and when
I say I doubt not of his safety, why should you
doubt of it? Why should you tremble, when I say to
you, be of good cheer on his account as well as
your own? Our great Father, on whom you
must never forget to place your principal dependence,
will never fail you. He will, as the
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oracles of your religion say, `make all things work
together for the good of those who love him.'
“My child, that military parade at which the
Governor is now employed, will soon be over.
He will then, no doubt, return to you. I must,
therefore, withdraw. May the Great Being on
whom you depend, protect you, and keep you
firm!”
He now departed—but before leaving the house,
he laid upon Halmanna his commands that she
should inform no one of his visit to the sick lady.
“Thanks to Maneto,” said he, “she is now
free from her fever. But a worse complaint will
seize thee, Halmanna, if thou disobeyest my directions.”
“Far be it from me,” replied Halmanna trembling,
“to disobey the prophet of Maneto.”
“Then may Maneto bless thee,” said Tonnaleuka,
and waving his awful wand over her head,
he disappeared.
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McHenry, James, 1785-1845 [1823], The wilderness, or, Braddock's times: a tale of the west, volume 2 (E. Bliss and E. White, New York) [word count] [eaf269v2].
