University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
AN INTERESTING INCIDENT.

The only human visitants, that had ever interrupted
the profound solitude of the Willoughby
family, were warriors and hunters belonging
to a neighbouring tribe of friendly Indians.
These untutored children of nature found a constant
welcome at this seat of hospitality, from
which they never departed without receiving refreshment,
and some trifling token of its owner's
bounty. Gratitude is not exclusively the virtue
of christians, although a christian virtue. Many
of these savages possessed it in an eminent degree.
The hospitality of “One Hand” became
proverbial among them, and the best of their
game was generally selected as a present for
their host.

It was some time before George could become
reconciled to the presence of these red intruders.
He never saw an Indian but he thought of his father's
mutilated limb, and felt his little spirit rising
in open rebellion against the doctrine of charity

inculcated by his father. How very evident it is,
that “love thy enemies” must be a divine precept,
when it is so opposite and so repugnant to our depraved
natures.

To his sister alone he would give vent to his
feelings on this occasion, and console himself
with the hope of soon becoming a man, and possessing
that wonderful sword whose almost magic
virtues he had so often heard his father extol.

“Don't think of it, George! These are not
the bad men who deprived papa of his hand.
You must not be angry with every body for the
fault of one. If you and I were to quarrel,
would you never be friends with me again? Say,
George, suppose we were to be so wicked as to
fight, and I was even to bite off your little finger,
would you never forgive me?”

“Yes,” exclaimed her brother, “I would forgive
you any thing, even if you broke my arm.
But to cut off the hand, and the right hand too,
of so good and so useful a man as my father—I
don't feel that I can forgive that, Amelia. And
if these are not the same men, I am sure they are
exactly like them, and would be as cruel. The
picture of the strange chief over the fire-place, is
an exact likeness of Tecumseh.”

“Come, come, George, the great book our
father reads to us, instructs us to judge no one
rashly, but to love all, even our enemies. But
these poor Indians, who have never been taught to
read, are not our enemies now, even if they once
were. Besides, the misfortune we lament occurred
in open war; and I have heard you say that
in a fair fight”—She knew what key to touch.

“Yes, I know, Amelia; I won't be angry
with them any more. I am sure it is wrong, else

my father and you would not tell me so. But if
they make war again, when I am big, and have
Washington's sword—”

Amelia arrested the threat by placing her hand
on his lips. “I don't love to hear you talk
on that subject, George; whenever a word is
mentioned about Indians, about war, and about
that terrible sword, your cheeks grow so red,
and your eyes look so fierce, and you seem so
cross, that I hardly know you. Come, my brother,
be goodnatured, and let us finish our lesson.”

In this manner would affection and reason ever
smooth whatever was rough, and soften all that
was hard in the temper of George. By slow degrees
this very natural antipathy wore off, till a
cool acquaintance grew into friendship and intimacy,
when an incident occurred, not very trivial
in its nature, nor entirely unimportant in its
consequences.

It was a mild day in March. The ice of the
lake was not entirely broken up, nor the snow
dissolved from the hills.

Several of George's red acquaintances, (among
whom was Logan, a chief of distinction, with
his only son) had stopped at the Grove, on their
return from a hunting excursion. On the margin
of the lake was a huge rock, at the foot of which
they had kindled a fire, and were seated around
it on stones, regaling themselves with venison
and rabbit, broiled on the coals, and bread and
cider brought by Amelia from the house.

The son of Logan was playing with George
on the ice. This young Indian was about twelve
years old, hale and active, with regular features
and graceful form. He had already distinguished

himself in the chase, and exhibited tokens of
future greatness in the hostile field: he was the
pride of his father, and a great favorite among
the young warriors of his tribe. His long black
hair, which shone like the glossy plumage of the
raven, hung loose upon his shoulders. A cap of
variegated feathers adorned his head; his red
hunting-frock was fastened by a belt of wampum,
curiously embroidered with porcupine quills;
bracelets of party-colored shells ornamented
his wrists and ancles, and his mockasons were
trimmed with the teeth of a catamount he had
slain. As he flew after George on the ice, he
resembled the feathered Mercury of the Greeks.

At some distance from the shore the ice was
thin and frequently open, of which the boys had
been carefully cautioned. But, in the ardor of
pursuit, they ventured too far, and one of these
treacherous openings lay in the direct line of a
race unrivalled by the wind for swiftness.
George, who was on his skates, providentially
saw the threatening danger, avoided it by a
timely curve, and endeavored to warn his friend.
But the speed of the young savage could neither
be arrested nor his course diverted; he flew past
George like lightning, and disappeared beneath
the ice.

Amelia was at that moment accepting from one
of her grateful guests, an ornament for her neck,
ingeniously woven from the scarlet feathers of
the flamingo. It dropped from her hand, while
with a shrick of terror she pointed to the fatal
spot. The Indians sent forth a yell of horror,
and darted upon the ice.

George knew that there was not an instant to
be lost by seeking assistance from the shore—

his play-fellow must perish, or be saved on the
moment. He had once risen to the surface, but
beyond his reach; in a moment he re-appeared
at a still greater distance. It was the crisis of
his fate; with a desperate plunge George caught
him by the hair, by which he sustained him with
one hand, while he seized hold of the ice with
the other. The ice gave way, and both were
descending for ever, as Logan caught George
by the wrist, and saved them both from a watery
grave.

By this time the whole family had been alarmed,
and were hastening to the spot, when they met
the dripping youths returning in safety with the
Indians. No words can describe the different
sensations which agitated each one of the now
happy group. In the genuine language of nature
Logan poured out his thanks to the heroic boy
who had risked his own life to save a poor Indian's;
while George expressed his gratitude to
Logan for preserving them both. Congratulations
were mutually interchanged by all. Amelia,
however, was insensible to every thing but
her brother; she had seen him plunge into the
water, and could scarcely realize his safety.
With a kind of frantic rapture she now clasped
him in her arms, and sobbed aloud on his bosom.

“Noble boy!” exclaimed his enraptured father.
“You have realized my hopes. Doubly
precious to me is that life which has thus been
voluntarily jeopardized to save a fellow being;
yet, dear as it is and ever will be to my heart,
I had rather see it sacrificed to duty, than meanly
preserved by shrinking from its performance.”

George had acted, perhaps, more from an impulse
of instinct, than from any definite idea of

duty: he knew not precisely how much he had
risked, but he was sure that he had gained more
than an equivalent. The commendations he received
from all, were very grateful to his feelings;
but this undisguised approbation of his
father, so warmly expressed, filled his young
bosom with a tumult of delight. In the fulness
of his joy he embraced the grateful object of his
perilous achievement, and called him his brother;
and then whispered his sister—“Yes,
Amelia, this is better than fighting.”

This little adventure created a chain of friendship
too strong to be broken. Never were red
and white so harmoniously mingled, and the
union was too perfect for time to weaken. The
story was circulated with avidity, and celebrated
in the rude songs of the natives. Logan had always
been a faithful friend to the whites, and a
warm advocate with his countrymen in the cause
of American freedom. The strong tie of gratitude
was now interwoven with this zealous attachment.
Alone and single-handed, he now
would have contended with a host in defence of
his friends.

The son was not backward in evincing his
sense of the obligation he was under to his generous
preserver. His visits became more frequent
and regular, and any service in his power was
at George's command. He taught him to shoot
the bow with an accuracy that he had conceived
impossible, and to draw an arrow from his quiver
with the grace of Diana; to make canoes of
the bark of trees, and ornament them with a
thousand ingenious devices; to throw the hatchet
with remarkable precision, and sound the war-whoop
with considerable effect. In short, the

society of the young Indian soon became so essential
to the happiness of George, that his impatience
would chide the lingering weeks of his
red brother's absence. His studies were not neglected;
but so well did he profit from young
Logan's lessons, that, at the age of ten, George
Washington Willoughby had become quite an
accomplished savage.