University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

It was about an hour after nightfall, that,
everything having become quiet, we formed
a pleasant circle before a bright fire, in
the dwelling of Mrs. Huntly, to hear the
tale of Evaline Mortimer. Throughout
the day, all had been too busy in entertaining
guests to attend to private affairs;
but now the transient visiters had departed,
and none were by to listen save those
most deeply interested. Evaline, in the
course of the day, had managed to steal
away for an hour, during which she had
opened her “treasure-box,” as she termed
it, wherein she had found a parchment in
the hand-writing of Great Medicine, whose
contents she had eagerly devoured, and
the substance of which, together with what
she knew of herself, she was now about
to lay before us.

“Come,” said Madame Mortimer, after
some trifling conversation had passed:
“Come, dear Evaline, now for the romance
of your life! We are all eager for
the story.”

“And when I have told it,” said Evaline
in reply, smiling sweetly, “I shall
have told a tale to which no mortal ear
has ever before listened, and a portion of
which has been unknown to myself till
within the last few hours. I have examined
the record of Great Medicine, and
find much therein I did not know before;
but still, with all the knowledge gained
therefrom, I should have remained ignorant
of the most important period of my
history—important to me at least—but for
this providential meeting with my dear
mother and sister, the former of whom
can perhaps put the connecting link between
what I know and my birth.

“As the scroll of Great Medicine is in
a language to you unintelligible, and as
the narration on the whole is rather disconnected,
I will, with your permission,
omit a translation, and tell the story in my
own way,” and thus in a more direct form
bring to bear all the knowledge I have regarding
myself and those with whom my
fortune has been linked.

“My earliest impressions are of Great
Medicine, and the Indians with whom he
was associated. Of his early history I
could never learn anything authentic. It
was current with the tribe, that he had
come from afar, had formerly been a great
chief, and was now the sole remnant of
his race. Some twelve or fifteen years
prior to the period I speak of—or say a
little more than thirty years ago—he had
appeared among the various tribes then
located in one of the more eastern territories,
and had brought with him three
white missionaries of the Moravian school,
who at once set to work to convert the
savages to the Christian faith. The influence
of the old man—for even then Great
Medicine was well advanced in years—
tended much to allay the vindictive feelings
which the savages were disposed to
manifest toward his white friends, and to
which they were secretly urged on by
British agents—this, as you will bear in
mind, being the period of the commencement
of hostilities between America and
Great Britain. The result of the matter
was, that several of the Indians became
converts to the true faith, renounced the
barbarisms of their ancestors, and threw
down their war implements to take them
up no more. These converts were of various
tribes, and were subsequently by
each tribe denounced as imposters and
coward squaws, and persecuted in many
cases even to the death—so that the survivors
were obliged to abandon their homes
and seek safety in flight. These fugitives,
by an arrangement of Great Medicine, all
gathered together, and in solemn conclave
formed themselves into a tribe, of which
he was appointed chief—or rather Great
Medicine—for the title of chief was by
them abolished. A mode of worship was
then established, of which several songs,
composed by the missionaries, formed a
striking feature, and made the ceremonies
more impressive than they might other
wise have been.”

“And these songs,” interrupted I,
“were the same you once translated to
me?”

“The same,” answered the sweet narrator,
“with the exception of what they
may have gained or lost by the peculiar
dialect finally adopted by the new-formed
tribe. The ceremonies of this tribe,” she
continued, “were not all established at
once, and may now differ somewhat from
those of the time in question, though the
same I believe in the main features.

“As the Indian, by nature and association,
is peculiarly fitted to believe in the
marvellous, it is not surprising that some
portion of this reverence for the supernatural
should have clung to those of the new
faith; and in consequence of this, Great
Medicine was supposed to be invested with
powers beyond the mere mortal. Whether
or no he believed this of himself, I am unable
to say; but certain it is, he took care
the rest should think so; and ever excluding
himself from the tribe, except when
his presence was absolutely necessary, he
succeeded by his peculiarities, eccentricities,
strange incantations and the like, in
drawing around himself a vail of mystery
which none ever presumed to penetrate.
On the whole, he was a very strange being;
and though all loved, all feared him;
and none ever knew for a certainty who
he was or whence he came. If one presumed
to question him, it was only for once.
The silent look he received from that small,
dark eye, was enough. It thrilled and
overawed him, and he turned away resolved
never to question again. Even I, whom
he ever treated with affectionate care—
who was constantly admitted to his presence
when all others were excluded—who
had the advantage of being with him in
his most meditative and communicative
moods—even I, was never made wiser
than my companions. As I have said once
before, he ever remained an enigma without
a solution. Like the rest, I loved and
I feared him—with this difference, perhaps—that
the former with me was the
stronger of the two passions. But to return
from this slight digression.

“The tribe organized under the control
of Great Medicine, for a time flourished
well, and constantly increased by new
converts from the neighboring tribes. But
this nearly proved its overthrow. The
savages at last became jealous, and declared
if this state of things continued,
their villages would become depopulated.
They swore revenge, and took it, and most
dire revenge it was. They made a descent
upon their harmless friends, and
with ruthless hands slew their own relatives,
and took the missionaries captives,
whom they afterward put to the tortures.
It was a terrible massacre—a massacre
without resistance on the part of the victims,
whose peculiar tenets of religion
forbade them to fight even in defense of
their lives. At one fell swoop nearly all
were cut off. None, upon whom the bloodthirsty
assailants laid hands, were spared.
Women and children—the infant at the
breast—the promising youth and tender
maiden—the man in the prime of life and
the hoary-headed veteran: all were alike
victims—all shared one common fate—all
found a bloody grave.”

“What a terrible scene!” exclaimed
Madame Mortimer, shuddering.

“Terrible! terrible!” echoed Lilian
and Eva.

“And how many do you suppose perished?”
asked Mrs. Huntly.

“I cannot say,” answered Evaline.
“All I know is, that only a few escaped—
some half a dozen I believe—among whom
was Great Medicine. They fled fast and
far, to another part of the wilderness, but
still firm in that faith by which they had
been so sorely tried. When hundreds of
miles had been placed between them and
their fierce enemies, they paused in their
flight, and selecting a pleasant spot, erected
a few huts, and continued their devotion
as before. Here they were visited by
other tribes, who, knowing nothing of
their history, and struck with their peculiarities
and mode of worship; treated them
with great respect and reverence, and
called them the Wahsochee—equivalent
to the English word Mysterious—by which
name and the title of their founder they
have ever since been known.

“Here Providence again favored them,
and their numbers increased very rapidly.
Their fame spread far and wide over the
vast wilderness, and bold warriors from
distant tribes came to see them, many of
whom remained, converts to their faith

In this manner the Wahsochee village
again became populous; and the different
tribes, though at deadly enmity with one
another, all concurred in respecting and
leaving them unmolested. As those who
joined them were among the most intelligent
of their race, and as these were from
a great many nations, the language of each
was gradually introduced, until, besides a
dialect of their own, the tribe had the advantage
of understanding that of almost
every other of note.

“Thus for several years all went on
prosperous, and their number had augmented
from six to an hundred and fifty,
when that fatal malady, the small-pox broke
out and swept off four-fifths of the nation.
From this awful blow they never fully recovered—at
least, never to be what they
were before—for many who were on the
point of joining them, were deterred by
what they declared to be the angry frown
of the Great Spirit; and although other
tribes were scourged in like manner, still
the more superstitious contended that the
Wahsochee religion could not be good, or
the Great Spirit would not have been angry
with them, even though he were with their
neighbors.

“This latter affliction occurred some two
years prior to my being brought among
them, of which mysterious event I shall
now proceed to speak, as I find it recorded
by Great Medicine himself.”

“Permit me a word, Evaline, before
you proceed farther!” said I, interrupting
her. “Since you have briefly given the
history of the Mysterious Tribe, may I inquire
why it was, on our first acquaintance,
you so strongly insisted I should question
you not concerning yourself or companions?”

“In the first place,” she answered,
“Great Medicine had expressly declared
(and his word was law with us) that nothing
of our history must be told to strangers,
whose desire to know, as a general
thing would proceed from idle curiosity,
to gratify which would avail us nothing.
In the second place, of my early history I
was ignorant—at least of that which referred
to my parentage—and to be questioned,
ever caused me the most painful
embarrassment; besides, of what I did
know, I had promised the old man to
reveal nothing. I knew I was not of the
Indian race; but to admit this would lead
to a thousand other inquiries, which could
not be answered, and which I felt a stranger
had no right to make. Are you answered?”

“Fully and satisfactorily. Go on with
your story!”

“The location of the tribe, at the period
of which I now speak,” proceeded Evaline,
“was near the Des Moines river, in
the southern part of that territory since
known as Iowa. While the tribe remained
here, it was customary for Great Medicine
to make a journey to St. Louis, as often as
once a year, to trade his furs, skins, embroidered
moccasins and the like, for powder,
lead, beads, blankets, and whatever else
he fancied the tribe might need. On his
return from one of these excursions, (so he
gives the story,) and when some ten miles
above St. Louis, having fallen behind his
party, he was overtaken by a fierce-looking
horseman, who bore in his arms a little
girl some two or three years of age, and who
at once accosting him in a very gruff manner,
demanded whither he was going. This
horseman, he says, was a very villainous-looking
white man, who wore a long flowing
beard, had a black, fiery eye, was short
in stature, and heavy set.

“On hearing the reply of Great Medicine,
the former drew a pistol and dismounted,
ordering him to do the same.
Once, he writes, he would have shot and
scalped the bold intruder without a word;
but now he had no such thoughts; and he
obeyed him in silence, wondering what
was to come next.

“`Here is a brat,' said the stranger,
pointing to the child now crouching at his
feet, `which I wish out of the way, and
am too much of a coward to effect my desires.
Take her, it is your calling, and
here is gold.'

“`You are mistaken in me,' replied
Great Medicine, `if you suppose I will aid
your base ends. I would not kill that innocent
little creature to own the world.'

“`By—!' replied the other, making
use of an oath; `and you an Indian and
say this! What in the name of—ails
the child, that all fear to harm her? She
must die though; and if you will not undertake
the job, why, then there is no other

alternative;' and he placed his pistol to
her head.

“`Stay!' cried the old man, beseechingly;
`I will not harm her myself; but
if you wish to rid yourself of her, I will
consent to place her far from civilization,
and adopt her into my tribe.'

“`But she is a child of consequence,'
pursued the other, `the daughter of one
who is a great chief in his own country, and
stands between me and fortune. Should
she return—'

“`There is no likelihood of that,' interrupted
the other, `as I shall take her some
hundreds of miles into the wilderness.'

“`But her father, who knows nothing
of my design, and to whom I must report
her lost or dead, may institute search.
How do I know she may not be found?'

“`That I think impossible,' rejoined the
old man.

“`But this will make all sure,' continued
the dark stranger again pointing the
pistol at her head.

“`Nay, hold!' cried the other in alarm,
`If you dare to murder her, I will make
her spirit haunt you forever!'

“`You make her spirit haunt me!
Umph! what are you but a deerepid old
Indian? By heavens! I have a mind to
murder you both. But I hate murder;
for in fact one never feels safe afterward.
Do you believe in a God, old man?—for
you talk as one the world denominates
Christian.'

“`I do believe in a God,' answered
Great Medicine; `and if you dare to harm
this child, His just retribution shall follow
you even to the remotest bounds of earth
and time.'

“The other paused, reflected, and then
added:

“`I would not have her blood upon my
soul, for I have sin enough there already.
You think there is no danger of her being
discovered?'

“`Not the least.'

“`And you say you believe in a God?'

“`I do.'

“`You hope for salvation, as men term
it?'

“`I do.'

“`Then swear, by your hopes of salvation,
to keep her among the Indians as
long as you live—to adopt her into your
tribe, and never to mortal ear to reveal a
word concerning this interview, or how
she came in your possession—that you
will never attempt to trace out her parentage,
nor make any inquiries concerning
her—swear this, and she is yours. Refuse,
and her death and yours is the penalty.'

“`I swear to all,' answered Great Medicine.

“`Enough! take her and speed thee to
the wilderness; while I will away and report
her dead—murdered by the Indians,'
he added, with a grim smile. Then leaping
upon his horse, he muttered as he
turned away: `All is safe, I think, for we
shall soon be over the water;' and the
next moment both horse and rider were
lost in the forest.

“`This child,' writes Great Medicine,
`behold in yourself, Prairie Flower! and
this is all I know of your early history!

“Strange!” said Madam Mortimer, musingly.
“Here is more mystery—I do not
understand it. Who could have been this
horseman? and what the meaning of his
words? As you were stolen away on the
night succeeding my desertion by your father,
I had ever supposed—or hoped,
rather—you had been taken away by him,
and with him, wherever he went; and this
hope proved my only comfort in affliction.
But now I do not know what to think. This
horseman could not have been your father,
for the description is not at all like him.
The latter was tall—dark complexioned, it
is true—but with fine features and handsome
person. And then he referred to
your father, as knowing nothing of this
dark transaction, and termed him a great
chief in his country, and said you were
standing between him and fortune. What
could he have meant by this last? Your
father had no fortune to my knowledge,
and mine was so fixed he could not get it.
Ha! a thought strikes me. He was an
exile from his native land—though for
what he would never tell me—would never
speak of his early history. It is possible
he may have been a personage of consequence,
banished for some state intrigue,
and again restored. It may be he had
news of this when he came to declare his
intention of leaving me. And now I remember,
he once intimated that he would

some day be independent of me, though I
did not know what was meant. This must
be it!” she continued, as if soliloquizing;
“this must be it! and this stranger, some
fiend in human form, plotting to succeed
him in wealth and station. Oh! the
wickedness of all mankind! But I forget,
my friends, you do not know of
what I speak, as I have never told you my
history.”

“Nay, madam,” returned I, “we know
more than you think.”

“Indeed! and how?”

Lilian blushed, and I became embarrassed—for
I felt I had, in my heedlessness,
said a word too much.

“Pardon me!” I returned, “and do not
blame my informant! I must own I have
heard the tale before. But you will not
regret it, perhaps, when I say, that to this
very knowledge, you are partially, if not
entirely, indebted for the presence of your
long lost daughter.”

“I blame no one,” she answered solemnly;
“for all, in the hands of God, has
worked for my good. I understand it
all,” she added, glancing at Lilian and
Eva. “These tell-tale blushes reveal the
truth. Eva told Lilian in confidence, and
love wrung from her the secret. I am
glad it is so. You are all my friends, and
the tale by rights belongs to you. I might
never have told it myself, unless on an occasion
like this—for I do not care to have
the cold, idle world speculating and jesting
on the secrets of what has long been an
unhappy, if not wretched heart. In my
younger days, I was headstrong and rash,
and did many a wrong, as I have since felt
to my cost—and might have done more,
perhaps, but for my dear daughter Eva's
sake. Ay! for her, I may say, I lived;
for had she been taken from me, the grave
ere this had covered a broken heart.”

Her last words were said in a trembling
voice and with deep emotion.

“God bless you, mother!” exclaimed
Eva, in a tone which brought tears to the
eyes of all present.

“He has blessed me, my child—blessed
me beyond my deserts. Had I been what
I should have been, perchance your father
had never left me, my daughters. But
enough of this. 'Tis past now—gone beyond
recall—and the result is before us.
But go on, dear Evaline—go on with your
story!”

“Were I to tell the whole,” resumed
the latter, “it would take me hours—nay,
days—but that I shall not attempt to-night,
only so far as relates to my earliest years
and earliest impressions. In future I will
give you more, little by little, until you
get the whole.

“As I have said previously, my earliest
recollections are of Great Medicine and
his tribe. I remember his dark, keen eye,
and of his gazing upon me for hours, when
none were by, and he thought I did not
notice him. But I was older in thought
than he was aware of; and I used to wonder
at this singularity, when he believed
I wondered at nothing. I remember many
and many a time of kneeling down to a
spring of clear water, gazing at my features,
and wondering why I was so different
from my companions. I saw, even
then, that my features were fairer and of
an entirely different cast; and this, to my
young fancy, seemed most strange, as I
believed myself of the same race as those
around me. Great Medicine I then thought
my father—for so he bade me call him,
and so I did. As I grew older, this contrast—this
difference in person—struck
me more and more, and at last I made
bold to interrogate the old man concerning
it.

“Never shall I forget his look, as I, in
childish simplicity, asked the question.
He started, as if stung by a serpent, and
his small black eyes fastened upon mine as
though to read my very soul. Never had
I feared him till then. There was a wild
fascination in that gaze, which thrilled and
overawed me, and made my own seek the
ground. Never shall I forget his words,
as he advanced and took my hand. It
was not so much what he said, as his
impressive manner of saying it.

“`Child,' he replied, `you seek to know
too much, and the knowledge you seek
would render you in future years the most
unhappy of mortals. Something I feel
you must now know—and this it is: You
are not of my race; you are a pale-face;
I am your guardian. Seek to know no
more, for all is dark beyond. Be one of
us, and be happy in ignorance. Breathe
this I have told you to no mortal ear! and

never, never question me again. You
promise, girl?” he added.

“`I do.'

“`Enough! Go!'

“I left his presence a changed being,
though he knew it not; for his strange
language and manner had roused that eternal
thirst for knowledge, which he had
thought and sought to allay. I questioned
him no more; but his singular words I
pondered in secret.

“`There is mystery here,' I would repeat
to myself; but I took care to repeat
it to no other human being.

“To detail my strange conjectures from
that time forth, would be to lay bare the
secret workings of an ever active spirit.
I shall not attempt it, but leave it to your
imagination.

“About this period, a few missionaries
set up a temporary station near our locality,
for the double purpose of making converts
to their faith and imparting knowledge
to the unenlightened Indians, by
teaching them to read and write. At the
request of Great Medicine, three of their
number came and took up their abode with
us, for the latter purpose. I was at once
placed under their instruction, as were all
the younger members of the village. On
my first appearance before them, they
seemed surprised, and questioned me regarding
my name and parentage—at the
same time expressing their belief I was
not an Indian—or, at the most, only a half-breed.
I replied, that as to myself they
might conjecture what they pleased, but
that I was not then at liberty to answer
any questions, and there the subject
dropped.

“A year's tuition and close application
made quite a scholar, and I could now
read and write the English language quite
fluently, as could several of the more intelligent
of my companions. At the close
of the period mentioned, our teachers, after
presenting each of their pupils with a
Bible, and distributing among us several
other religious books, departed to another
section of country. Soon after this, Great
Medicine proposed that we should adopt a
more roving life, as in this manner he
thought greater good might be effected.
Accordingly we began moving from one
quarter to another, trying to subdue the
wild passions of the Indians of the different
tribes we met. In this of course we
were not in general successful—though
our exemplary model of life ever appeared
to make a favorable impression on their
savage hearts, and win their respect. In
course of time we became personally
known in every section of the broad West,
and were allowed to come and depart as
we saw proper. Whenever we heard of a
battle about to be fought between two nations,
we would generally follow one party
or the other, that we might be on the
ground to succor the wounded. If we
gained tidings of a strong party about to
assault a weaker, we would manage, if
possible, to warn the latter. Or, in the
event of the forces being equal, if we
knew of a surprise one tribe had planned
for another, it was ever our design to warn
the unwary. Whites as well as Indians
received from us the same warnings—
though how our information was obtained,
generally remained a mystery to those not
in the secret. And moreover, great caution
was required by the informant in these
cases, to avoid exposing himself to the
aggressors, who, in the heat of passion,
would be likely to seek revenge. On
many of these errands of mercy—for I
think I may so term them—have I been
sent, when I knew a single error would
cost me my life. But I believed I was
doing my duty, put my trust in a Power
above, and faltered not in my purpose. I
was never detected but once to my knowledge;
and in this instance, fortunately
for me, I had rendered the tribe aggrieved
the same service as that for which they
brought me to trial before their council.
This being proved, it was finally decided
the obligation on their part canceled the
aggression on mine, and I was allowed to
go free, with a very significant intimation,
however, that if caught in the second
offence, my sentence would be death.

“But as I do not intend to enter into
detail to-night, and as I already feel somewhat
fatigued, I will drop my narrative
here, and, as I said before, give you from
time to time the most striking incidents of
my life, as they occur to my recollection.
I have briefly told you all I know of my
early history, and by your leave will so
end the story.”