 | CHAPTER XVII. The prairie |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
—“Methought, I heard a voice—”
Shakspeare.
The water-courses were at their height, and the
boat went down the swift current like a bird. The
passage proved prosperous and speedy. In less than
a third of the time, that would have been necessary
by the favour of those rapid rivers. Issuing from
one stream into another, as the veins of the human
body communicate with the larger channels of life,
they soon entered the grand artery of the western
waters, and landed safely at the very door of the
father of Inez.
The joy of Don Augustin, and the embarrassment
of the worthy father Ignatius, may easily be imagined.
The former wept and returned thanks to Heaven;
the latter returned thanks and did not weep. The
mild provincials were too happy to raise any questions
on the character of so joyful a restoration, and,
by a sort of general consent, it soon came to be an
admitted opinion that the bride of Middleton had
been kidnapped by a villain, and that she was restored
to her friends by human agency. There were,
as respects this belief, certainly a few sceptics, but
then they enjoyed their doubts in private, with that
species of sublimated and solitary gratification that a
miser finds in gazing at his growing but useless hoards.
In order to give the worthy priest something to
employ his mind, Middleton made him the instrument
of uniting Paul and Ellen. The former consented
to the ceremony, because he found that all his
friends laid great stress on the matter; but shortly
after he led his bride into the plains of Kentucky,
under the pretence of paying certain customary visits
to sundry members of the family of Hover. While
there he took occasion to have the marriage properly
solemnized by a justice of the peace of his acquaintance,
in whose ability to forge the nuptial chain he
had much more faith than in that of all the gownsmen
within the pale of Rome. Ellen, who appeared conscious
that some extraordinary preventives might prove
necessary to keep one of so erratic a temper as her
partner within the proper matrimonial boundaries,
raised no objections to these double knots, and therefore
all parties were content.
The local importance Middleton had acquired, by
his union with the daughter of so affluent a proprietor
as Don Augustin, united to his personal merit, attracted
the attention of the government. He was soon
employed in various situations of responsibility and
confidence, which both served to elevate his character
in the public estimation, and to afford the means
of patronage. The bee-hunter was among the first
of those to whom he saw fit to extend his favour. It
was far from difficult to find situations suited to the
abilities of Paul, in the state of society that existed
three-and-twenty years ago in those regions. The
efforts of Middleton and Inez, in behalf of her husband,
were warmly and sagaciously seconded by Ellen,
and they succeeded, in process of time, in working a
great and beneficial change in his character. He soon
became a landholder, then a prosperous cultivator of
the soil, and shortly after a town-officer. By that
progressive change in fortune, which in the republic
is often seen to be so singularly accompanied by a
corresponding improvement in knowledge and self-respect,
he went on from step to step, until his wife
enjoyed the maternal delight of seeing her children
placed far beyond the danger of returning to that state
from which both their parents had issued. Paul is
actually at this moment a member of the lower
branch of the legislature of the State where he has
long resided; and he is even notorious for making
speeches that have a tendency to put that deliberative
body in a good humour, and which, as they are based
on great practical knowledge suited to the condition
of the country, possess a merit that is much wanted
in many more subtle and fine-spun theories, that are
daily heard in similar assemblies to issue from the
lips of certain instinctive politicians. But all these
happy fruits were the results of much care and of a
long period of time. Middleton, who fills, with a
credit better suited to the difference in their educations,
a seat in a far higher branch of legislative
most of the intelligence, necessary to compose our
legend. In addition to what he has related of Paul,
and of his own continued happiness, he has added a
short narrative of what took place in a subsequent
visit to the prairies, with which, as we conceive it a
suitable termination to what has gone before, we
shall judge it wise to conclude our present labours.
In the autumn of the year, that succeeded the season,
in which the preceding events occurred, the
young man, still in the military service of the country,
found himself on the waters of the Missouri, at a
point not far remote from the Pawnee towns. Released
from any immediate calls of duty, and strongly
urged to the measure by Paul, who was in his company,
he determined to take horse and cross the
country to visit the partisan, and to inquire into the
fate of his friend the trapper. As his train was suited to
his functions and rank, the journey was effected, with
the usual privations and hardships that are the accompaniments
of all travelling in a wild, but without
any of those dangers and alarms that marked his
former passage through the same regions. When
within a proper distance, he despatched an Indian
runner, belonging to a friendly tribe, to announce
the approach of himself and party, continuing his
route at a deliberate pace, in order that the intelligence
might, as was customary, precede his arrival.
To the surprise of the travellers their message was
unanswered. Hour succeeded hour, and mile after
mile was passed, without bringing either the signs of
an honourable reception, or of the more simple assurances
of a friendly welcome. At length the cavalcade,
at whose head rode Middleton and Paul, descended
from the elevated plain, on which they had
long been journeying, to a luxuriant bottom, that
brought them to the level of the village of the Loups.
The sun was beginning to fall, and a sheet of golden
light was spread over the placid plain, lending to its
human imagination is apt to conceive, forms the embellishment
of still more imposing scenes. The verdure
of the year yet remained, and herds of horses
and mules were grazing peacefully in the vast natural
pasture, under the keeping of vigilant Pawnee boys.
Paul pointed out among them the well-known form
of Asinus, sleek, fat, and apparently luxuriating in
the fulness of content, as he stood with reclining ears
and closed eye-lids, seemingly musing on the exquisite
nature of his present indolent enjoyment.
The route of the party led them at no great distance
from one of those watchful youths, who was
charged with a trust so heavy as the principal wealth
of his tribe. He heard the trampling of the horses,
and cast his eye aside, but instead of manifesting
either curiosity or alarm, his look was instantly returned
whence it had been withdrawn, to the spot
where the village was known to stand.
“There is something remarkable in all this,” muttered
Middleton, half offended at what he conceived
to be not only a slight to his rank, but offensive to
himself, personally; “yonder boy has heard of our
approach, or he would not fail to notify his tribe, and
yet he scarcely deigns to favour us with a glance.
Look to your arms, men; it may be necessary to let
these savages feel our strength.”
“Therein, Captain, I think you're in an error,” returned
Paul; “if honesty is to be met on the prairies
at all, you will find it in our old friend Hard-Heart;
neither is an Indian to be judged of by the rules of
a white. See! we are not altogether slighted, for
here comes a party at last to meet us, though it is a
little pitiful as to show and numbers.”
Paul was right in both particulars. A groupe of
horsemen were at length seen wheeling round a little
copse and advancing across the plain directly towards
them. The advance of this party was slow
and dignified. As it drew nigh, the Partisan of the
the younger warriors of his tribe. They were all
unarmed, nor did they even wear about their persons
any of those ornaments or feathers, which are considered
as much to be testimonials of respect to the
guest an Indian receives, as an evidence of his own
rank and importance.
The meeting was friendly, though a little restrained
on both sides. Middleton jealous of his own consideration
no less than of the authority of his government,
suspected some undue influence on the part
of the agents of the Canadas, and as he was determined
to maintain the authority, of which he was the representative,
he felt himself constrained to manifest a
hauteur, that he was actually far from feeling. It was
not so easy to penetrate the motives of the Pawnees.
Calm, dignified and yet far from repulsive, they set
an example of courtesy, blended with reserve, that
many a diplomatist of the most polished court might
have strove in vain to imitate.
In this manner the two parties continued their
course to the town. Middleton had time during the
remainder of the ride to revolve in his mind all the
probable reasons which his ingenuity could suggest,
for this strange reception. Although he was accompanied
by a regular interpreter, the chiefs made their
salutations in a manner that dispensed with his services.
Twenty times the captain turned his glance
on his former friend, endeavouring to read the expression
of his rigid features. But every effort and all
conjectures proved equally futile. The eye of Hard-Heart
was fixed, composed, and a little anxious; but
as to every other emotion impenetrable. He neither
spoke himself nor seemed willing to invite his visiters
to speak; it was therefore necessary for Middleton to
adopt the patient manners of his companions and to
await the issue for the explanation.
When they entered the town, its inhabitants were
seen collected in an open space, where they were
rank. The whole formed a large circle, in the centre
of which, were perhaps a dozen of the principal chiefs.
Hard-Heart waved his hand as he approached and as
the mass of bodies opened he rode through, followed
by all his companions. Here they dismounted, and
as the beasts were led apart, the strangers found
themselves environed by a thousand grave, composed,
but solicitous faces.
Middleton gazed about him in growing concern,
for no cry, no song, no shout welcomed him among
a people from whom he had so lately parted with
regret. His uneasiness, not to say apprehensions was
shared by all his followers. Determination and stern
resolution began to assume the place of anxiety in
every eye, as each man silently felt for his arms and
assured himself, that his several weapons were in a
state for instant and desperate service. But there
was no answering symptom of hostility on the part
of their hosts. Hard-Heart beckoned for Middleton
and Paul to follow, leading the way towards the cluster
of forms, that occupied the centre of the circle. Here
the visiters found a solution of all the movements,
which had given them so much reason for apprehension.
The trapper was placed on a rude seat, which had
been made with studied care, to support his frame in
an upright and easy attitude. The first glance of the
eye told his former friends, that the old man was at
length called upon to pay the last tribute of nature.
His eye was glazed and apparently as devoid of sight
as of expression. His features were a little more
sunken and strongly marked than formerly; but there,
all change, so far as exterior was concerned, might be
said to have ceased. His approaching end was not
to be ascribed to any positive disease, but had been
a gradual and mild decay of the physical powers.
Life, it is true, still lingered in his system, but it was
as though at times entirely ready to depart, and then
reluctant to give up the possession of a tenement, that
had never been undermined by vice or corrupted by
disease. It would have been no violent fancy to have
imagined, that the spirit fluttered about the placid
lips of the old woodsman, reluctant to depart from
a shell, that had so long given it an honest and an
honourable shelter.
His body was so placed as to let the light of the
setting sun fall full upon the solemn features. His
head was bare, the long, thin locks of gray fluttering
lightly in the evening breeze. His rifle lay upon his
knee, and the other accoutrements of the chase were
placed at his side within reach of his hand. Between
his feet lay the figure of a hound, with its head crouching
to the earth as if it slumbered, and so perfectly
easy and natural was its position, that a second glance
was necessary to tell Middleton, he saw only the skin
of Hector, stuffed by Indian tenderness and ingenuity
in a manner to represent the living animal. His own
dog was playing at a distance with the child of Tachechana
and Mahtoree. The mother herself stood at
hand, holding in her arms a second offspring, that
might boast of a parentage no less honourable, than
that which belonged to the son of Hard-Heart. Le
Balafré, was seated nigh the dying trapper, with every
mark about his person, that the hour of his own departure
was not far distant. The rest of those immediately
in the centre were aged men, who had apparently
drawn near, in order to observe the manner,
in which a just and fearless warrior would depart on
the greatest of his journeys.
The old man was reaping the rewards of a life so
remarkable for its temperance and activity in a tranquil
and placid death. His vigour had in a manner
endured to the very last. Decay, when it did occur,
was rapid, but free from pain. He had hunted with
the tribe in the spring, and even throughout most of
the summer, when his limbs suddenly refused to perform
took possession of all his faculties, and the Pawnees
believed, that they were going to lose, in this
unexpected manner, a sage and counsellor, whom they
had begun both to love and respect. But as we have
already said, the immortal occupant seemed unwilling
to desert its tenement. The lamp of life flickered
without becoming extinguished. On the morning of
the day, on which Middleton arrived, there was a
general reviving of the powers of the whole man.
His tongue was again heard in wholesome maxims,
and his eye from time to time recognized the persons
of his friends. It merely proved to be a brief and
final intercourse with the world on the part of one,
who had already been considered, as to mental communion,
to have taken his leave of it forever.
When he had placed his guests in front of the dying
man, Hard-Heart, after a pause, that proceeded as
much from sorrow as decorum, leaned a little forward
and demanded—
“Does my father hear the words of his son?”
“Speak,” returned the trapper, in tones that issued
from his inmost chest, but which were rendered awfully
distinct by the death-like stillness, that reigned
in the place. “I am about to depart from the village
of the Loups, and shortly shall be beyond the reach
of your voice.”
“Let the wise chief have no cares for his journey,”
continued Hard-Heart with an earnest solicitude, that
led him to forget, for the moment, that others were
waiting to address his adopted parent; “a hundred
Loups shall clear his path from briars.”
“Pawnee, I die as I have lived, a Christian man,”
resumed the trapper with a force of voice, that had
the same startling effect on his hearers, as is produced
by the trumpet, when its blast rises suddenly and
freely on the air after its obstructed sounds have long
been heard struggling in the distance; “as I came
into life, so will I leave it. Horses and arms are not
of my people. He knows my colour and according
to my gifts will he judge my deeds.”
“My father will tell my young men, how many
Mingoes he has struck and what acts of valour and
justice he has done, that they may know how to imitate
him.”
“A boastful tongue is not heard in the heaven of a
white man!” solemnly returned the old man. “What
I have done He has seen. His eyes are always open.
That, which has been well done, will he remember;
wherein I have been wrong will he not forget to
chastise, though he will do the same in mercy. No,
my son; a Pale-face may not sing his own praises,
and hope to have them acceptable before his God!”
A little disappointed, the young partisan stepped
modestly back, making way for the recent comers to
approach. Middleton took one of the meagre hands
of the trapper and struggling to command his voice,
he succeeded in announcing his presence. The old
man listened like one whose thoughts were dwelling
on a very different subject, but when the other had
succeeded in making him understand, that he was
present, an expression of joyful recognition passed
over his faded features—
“I hope you have not so soon forgotten those,
whom you so materially served!” Middleton concluded.
“It would pain me to think my hold on
your memory was so light.”
“Little that I have ever seen is forgotten,” returned
the trapper; “I am at the close of many weary
days, but there is not one among them all, that I could
wish to overlook. I remember you with the whole of
your company; ay, and your gran'ther, that went before
you. I am glad, that you have come back upon
these plains, for I had need of one, who speaks the English,
since little faith can be put in the traders of these
regions. Will you do a favour, lad, to an old and
dying man?”
“Name it,” said Middleton; “it shall be done.”
“It is a far journey to send such trifles,” resumed
the old man, who spoke at short intervals as strength
and breath permitted; “A far and weary journey is
the same; but kindnesses and friendships are things
not to be forgotten. There is a settlement among
the Otsego hills—”
“I know the place,” interrupted Middleton, observing
that he spoke with increasing difficulty; “proceed
to tell me, what you would have done.”
“Take then this rifle, and pouch and horn, and
send them to the person, whose name is graven on
the plates of the stock. A trader cut the letters with
his knife, for it is long, that I have intended to send
him such a token of my love!”
“It shall be so. Is there more that you could wish?”
“Little else have I to bestow. My traps I give to
my Indian son; for honestly and kindly has he kept
his faith. Let him stand before me.”
Middleton explained to the chief, what the trapper
had said, and relinquished his own place to the other.
“Pawnee,” continued the old man, always changing
his language to suit the person he addressed, and not
unfrequently according to the ideas he expressed, “it
is a custom of my people for the father to leave his
blessing with the son, before he shuts his eyes forever.
This blessing I give to you; take it, for the prayers
of a Christian man will never make the path of a just
warrior, to the blessed prairies, either longer or more
tangled. May the God of a white man look on your
deeds with friendly eyes, and may you never commit
an act, that shall cause him to darken his face. I know
not whether we shall ever meet again. There are
many traditions concerning the place of Good Spirits.
It is not for one like me, old and experienced though
I am, to set up my opinions against a nation's. You
believe in the blessed prairies, and I have faith in the
sayings of my fathers. If both are true, our parting
will be final; but if it should prove, that the same
stand together, Pawnee, before the face of your Wahcondah,
who will then be no other than my God.
There is much to be said in favour of both religions,
for each seems suited to its own people, and no doubt
it was so intended. I fear, I have not altogether followed
the gifts of my colour, inasmuch as I find it a
little painful to give up for ever the use of the rifle
and the comforts of the chase. But then the fault
has been my own, seeing that it could not have been
His. Ay, Hector,” he continued, leaning forward a
little, and feeling for the ears of the hound, “our
parting has come at last, dog, and it will be a long
hunt. You have been an honest, and a bold, and a
faithful hound. Pawnee, you cannot slay the pup on
my grave, for where a Christian dog falls, there he
lies forever, but you can be kind to him, after I am
gone for the love you bear his master.”
“The words of my father, are in my ears,” returned
the young partisan, making a grave and respectful
gesture of assent.
“Do you hear, what the chief has promised, dog?”
demanded the trapper, making an effort to attract the
notice of the insensible effigy of his hound. Receiving
no answering look, nor hearing any friendly whine,
the old man felt for the mouth and endeavoured to
force his hand between the cold lips. The truth
then flashed upon him, although he was far from perceiving
the whole extent of the deception. Falling
back in his seat, he hung his head, like one who felt
a severe and unexpected shock. Profiting by this
momentary forgetfulness two young Indians removed
the skin with the same delicacy of feeling, that had
induced them to attempt the pious fraud.
“The dog is dead!” muttered the trapper, after a
pause of many minutes; “a hound has his time as
well as a man; and well has he filled his days! Captain,”
he added, making an effort to wave his hand
for Middleton, “I am glad you have come; for
of their colour, these Indians are not the men, to lay
the head of a white man in his grave. I have been
thinking too, of this dog at my feet; it will not do to
set forth the opinion, that a Christian can expect to
meet his hound again; still there can be little harm
in placing what is left of so faithful a servant nigh
the bones of his master.”
“None in the least; it shall be as you desire.”
“I'm glad, you think with me in this matter. In order
then to save labour, lay the pup at my feet, or for
that matter put him side by side. A hunter need never
be ashamed to be found in company with his dog!”
“I charge myself with your wish.”
The old man then made a long, and apparently a
musing pause. At times he raised his eyes wistfully
as if he would again address Middleton, but some innate
feeling appeared always to suppress his words.
The other, who observed his hesitation, enquired in a
way most likely to encourage him to proceed, whether
there was aught else, that he could wish to have done.
“I am without kith or kin in the wide world!” the
trapper answered; “when I am gone, there will be
an end of my race. We have never been chiefs, but
honest and useful in our way, I hope it cannot be
denied, we have always proved ourselves. My father
lies buried near the sea, and the bones of his
son will whiten on the prairies—”
“Name the spot, and your remains shall be placed
by the side of your father,” interrupted Middleton.
“Not so, not so, Captain. Let me sleep, where
I have lived, beyond the din of the settlements. Still
I see no need, why the grave of an honest man should
be hid, like a Red-skin in his ambushment. I paid a
man in the settlements to make and put a graven
stone at the head of my father's resting place. It
was of the value of twelve beaver-skins, and cunningly
and curiously was it carved! Then it told to
all comers that the body of such a Christian lay beneath;
years, and of his honesty. When we had done with
the Frenchers in the old war, I made a journey to the
spot, in order to see that all was rightly performed,
and glad I am to say the workman had not forgotten
his faith.”
“And such a stone you would have at your grave?”
“I! no, no, I have no son, but Hard-Heart, and it
is little, that an Indian knows of White fashions and
usages. Besides I am his debtor, already, seeing it is
so little I have done, since I have lived in his tribe.
The rifle might bring the value of such a thing—but
then I know, it will give the boy pleasure to hang the
piece in his hall, for many is the deer and the bird
that he has seen it destroy. No, no, the gun must be
sent to him, whose name is graven on the lock!”
“But there is one, who would gladly prove his affection
in the way you wish; he, who owes you not
only his own deliverance from so many dangers, but
who inherits a heavy debt of gratitude from his ancestors.
The stone shall be put at the head of your grave.”
The old man extended his emaciated hand, and
gave the other a squeeze of thanks.
“I thought, you might be willing to do it, but I was
backward in asking the favour,” he said, “seeing that
you are not of my kin. Put no boastful words on
the same, but just the name, the age and the time of
the death, with something from the holy book; no
more, no more. My name will then not be altogether
lost on 'arth; I need no more.”
Middleton intimated his assent, and then followed
a pause, that was only broken by distant and broken
sentences from the dying man. He appeared now
to have closed his accounts with the world, and to
await merely for the final summons to quit it. Middleton
and Hard-Heart placed themselves on the
opposite sides of his seat and watched with melancholy
solicitude the variations of his countenance.
For two hours there was no very sensible alteration.
was that of a calm and dignified repose. From time
to time he spoke, uttering some brief sentence in the
way of advice, or asking some simple questions concerning
those in whose fortunes he still took a friendly
interest. During the whole of that solemn and anxious
period each individual of the tribe kept his place
in the most self-restrained patience. When the old
man spoke, all bent their heads to listen; and when
his words were uttered, they seemed to ponder on
their wisdom and usefulness.
As the flame drew nigher to the socket, his voice
was hushed, and there were moments, when his attendants
doubted whether he still belonged to the
living. Middleton, who watched each wavering
expression of his weather-beaten visage, with the interest
of a keen observer of human nature, softened
by the tenderness of personal regard, fancied he could
read the workings of the old man's soul in the
strong lineaments of his countenance. Perhaps what
the enlightened soldier took for the delusion of mistaken
opinion did actually occur, for who has returned
from that unknown world to explain by what forms
and in what manner, he was introduced into its awful
precincts! Without pretending to explain what must
ever be a mystery to the quick, we shall simply relate
facts as they occurred.
The trapper had remained nearly motionless for an
hour. His eyes, alone, had occasionally opened and
shut. When opened, his gaze seemed fastened on the
clouds, which hung around the western horizon, reflecting
the bright colours, and giving form and loveliness
to the glorious tints of an American sunset.
The hour—the calm beauty of the season—the occasion,
all conspired to fill the spectators with solemn
awe. Suddenly, while musing on the remarkable position,
in which he was placed, Middleton felt the hand,
which he held, grasp his own with incredible power,
and the old man supported on either side by his friends,
about him, as if to invite all in presence to listen,
(the lingering remnant of human frailty,) and then
with a fine military elevation of his head, and with a
voice, that might be heard in every part of that numerous
assembly, he pronounced the emphatic word—
“Here!”
A movement so entirely unexpected, and the air
of grandeur and humility, which were so remarkably
united in the mien of the trapper, together with the
clear and uncommon force of his utterance, produced
a short period of confusion in the faculties of all present.
When Middleton and Hard-Heart, who had
each involuntarily extended a hand to support the
form of the old man, turned to him again, they found,
that the subject of their interest was removed forever
beyond the necessity of their care. They mournfully
placed the body in its seat, and Le Balafré arose
to announce the termination of the scene to the tribe.
The voice of the old Indian seemed a sort of echo
from that invisible word, to which the meek spirit
of the trapper had just departed.
“A valiant, a just and a wise warrior has gone on
the path, which will lead him to the blessed grounds
of his people!” he said. “When the voice of the
Wahcondah called him, he was ready to answer. Go,
my children; remember the just chief of the Pale-faces
and clear your own tracks from briars!”
The grave was made beneath the shade of some
noble oaks. It has been carefully watched to the
present hour by the Pawnees of the Loup, and is
often shown to the traveller and the trader as a spot
where a just White-man sleeps. In due time the
stone was placed at its head, with the simple inscription,
which the trapper had himself requested. The
only liberty, taken by Middleton, was to add,—“May
no wanton hand ever disturb his remains!”
| CHAPTER XVII. The prairie | |