 | The wigwam and the cabin |  |
THE TWO CAMPS.
A LEGEND OF THE OLD NORTH STATE.
1. CHAPTER I.
And forest nurtured—a bold, hardy race,
Fearless and frank, unfettered, with big souls
In hour of danger.”
It is frequently the case, in the experience of the professional
novelist or tale-writer, that his neighbour comes in to his assistance
when he least seeks, and, perhaps, least desires any succour.
The worthy person, man or woman, however,—probably some excellent
octogenarian whose claims to be heard are based chiefly upon
the fact that he himself no longer possesses the faculty of hearing,—has
some famous incident, some wonderful fact, of which he
has been the eye-witness, or of which he has heard from his great-grandmother,
which he fancies is the very thing to be woven into
song or story. Such is the strong possession which the matter
takes of his brain, that, if the novelist whom he seeks to benefit
does not live within trumpet-distance, he gives him the narrative by
means of post, some three sheets of stiff foolscap, for which the
hapless tale-writer, whose works are selling in cheap editions at
twelve or twenty cents, pays a sum of one dollar sixty-two postage.
Now, it so happens, to increase the evil, that, in ninety-nine cases
in the hundred, the fact thus laboriously stated is not worth a
straw—consisting of some simple deed of violence, some mere
murder, a downright blow with gun-butt or cudgel over the skull,
or a hidden thrust, three inches deep, with dirk or bowie knife,
into the abdomen, or at random among the lower ribs. The man
and stops by the way—and still stops by the way! The thing is
fact, no doubt. The narrator saw it himself, or his brother saw
it, or—more solemn, if not more certain testimony still—his grandmother
saw it, long before he had eyes to see at all. The circumstance
is attested by a cloud of witnesses—a truth solemnly
sworn to—and yet, for the purposes of the tale-writer, of no manner
of value. This assertion may somewhat conflict with the
received opinions of many, who, accustomed to find deeds of violence
recorded in almost every work of fiction, from the time of
Homer to the present day, have rushed to the conclusion that this
is all, and overlook that labour of the artist, by which an ordinary
event is made to assume the character of novelty; in other
words, to become an extraordinary event. The least difficult
thing in the world, on the part of the writer of fiction, is to find
the assassin and the bludgeon; the art is to make them appear in
the right place, strike at the right time, and so adapt one fact to
another, as to create mystery, awaken curiosity, inspire doubt as
to the result, and bring about the catastrophe, by processes which
shall be equally natural and unexpected. All that class of sagacious
persons, therefore, who fancy they have found a mare's
nest, when, in fact, they are only gazing at a goose's, are respectfully
counselled that no fact—no tradition—is of any importance to
the artist, unless it embodies certain peculiar characteristics of its
own, or unless it illustrates some history about which curiosity
has already been awakened. A mere brutality, in which John
beats and bruises Ben, and Ben in turn shoots John, putting eleven
slugs, or thereabouts, between his collar-bone and vertebræ—
or, maybe, stabs him under his left pap, or any where you please,
is just as easily conceived by the novelist, without the help of
history. Nay, for that matter, he would perhaps rather not have
any precise facts in his way, in such cases, as then he will be
able to regard the picturesque in the choice of his weapon, and to
put the wounds in such parts of the body, as will better bear the
examination of all persons. I deem it right to throw out this hint,
just at this moment, as well for the benefit of my order as for
my own protection. The times are hard, and the post-office requires
all its dues in hard money. Literary men are not proverbially
and to be required to make advances for commodities of which
they have on hand, at all times, the greatest abundance, is an injustice
which, it is to be hoped, that this little intimation will
somewhat lessen. We take for granted, therefore, that our professional
brethren will concur with us in saying to the public,
that we are all sufficiently provided with “disastrous chances”
for some time to come—that our “moving accidents by flood and
field” are particularly numerous, and of “hair-breadth 'scapes”
we have enough to last a century. Murders, and such matters,
as they are among the most ordinary events of the day, are decidedly
vulgar; and, for mere cudgelling and bruises, the taste
of the belles-lettres reader, rendered delicate by the monthly
magazines, has voted them equally gross and unnatural.
But, if the character of the materials usually tendered to the
novelist by the incident-mongers, is thus ordinarily worthless as
we describe it, we sometimes are fortunate in finding an individual,
here and there, in the deep forests,—a sort of recluse, hale
and lusty, but white-headed,—who unfolds from his own budget
of experience a rare chronicle, on which we delight to linger.
Such an one breathes life into his deeds. We see them as we
listen to his words. In lieu of the dead body of the fact, we have
its living spirit—subtle, active, breathing and burning, and fresh
in all the provocations and associations of life. Of this sort
was the admirable characteristic narrative of Horse-Shoe Robinson,
which we owe to Kennedy, and for which he was indebted
to the venerable hero of the story. When we say that the subject
of the sketch which follows was drawn from not dissimilar
sources, we must beg our readers not to understand us as inviting
any reference to that able and national story—with which it
is by no means our policy or wish to invite or provoke comparison.
2. CHAPTER II.
There are probably some old persons still living upon the upper
dividing line between North and South Carolina, who still remember
the form and features of the venerable Daniel Nelson.
The old man was still living so late as 1817. At that period he
removed to Mississippi, where, we believe, he died in less than
three months after his change of residence. An old tree does not
bear transplanting easily, and does not long survive it. Daniel
Nelson came from Virginia when a youth. He was one of the
first who settled on the southern borders of North Carolina, or,
at least in that neighbourhood where he afterwards passed the
greatest portion of his days.
At that time the country was not only a forest, but one thickly
settled with Indians. It constituted the favourite hunting-grounds
for several of their tribes. But this circumstance did not discourage
young Nelson. He was then a stalwart youth, broad-chested,
tall, with a fiery eye, and an almost equally fiery soul—certainly
with a very fearless one. His companions, who were few in
number, were like himself. The spirit of old Daniel Boone was
a more common one than is supposed. Adventure gladdened and
excited their hearts,—danger only seemed to provoke their determination,—and
mere hardship was something which their frames
appeared to covet. It was as refreshing to them as drink. Having
seen the country, and struck down some of its game,—tasted
of its bear-meat and buffalo, its deer and turkey,—all, at that
time, in the greatest abundance,—they returned for the one thing
most needful to a brave forester in a new country,—a good, brisk,
fearless wife, who, like the damsel in Scripture, would go whither-soever
went the husband to whom her affections were surrendered.
They had no fear, these bold young hunters, to make a home and
rear an infant family in regions so remote from the secure walks
of civilization. They had met and made an acquaintance and a
sort of friendship with the Indians, and, in the superior vigour of
perhaps had come to form a too contemptuous estimate of the savage.
But they were not beguiled by him into too much confidence.
Their log houses were so constructed as to be fortresses
upon occasion, and they lived not so far removed from one another,
but that the leaguer of one would be sure, in twenty-four
hours, to bring the others to his assistance. Besides, with a stock
of bear-meat and venison always on hand, sufficient for a winter,
either of these fortresses might, upon common calculations, be
maintained for several weeks against any single band of the Indians,
in the small numbers in which they were wont to range together
in those neighbourhoods. In this way these bold pioneers
took possession of the soil, and paved the way for still mightier
generations. Though wandering, and somewhat averse to the tedious
labours of the farm, they were still not wholly unmindful
of its duties; and their open lands grew larger every season, and
increasing comforts annually spoke for the increasing civilization
of the settlers. Corn was in plenty in proportion to the bearmeat,
and the squatters almost grew indifferent to those first apprehensions,
which had made them watch the approaches of the
most friendly Indian as if he had been an enemy. At the end of
five years, in which they had suffered no hurt and but little annoyance
of any sort from their wild neighbours, it would seem as
if this confidence in the security of their situation was not without
sufficient justification.
But, just then, circumstances seemed to threaten an interruption
of this goodly state of things. The Indians were becoming
discontented. Other tribes, more frequently in contact with the
larger settlements of the whites,—wronged by them in trade, or
demoralized by drink,—complained of their sufferings and injuries,
or, as is more probable, were greedy to obtain their treasures,
in bulk, which they were permitted to see, but denied to enjoy, or
only in limited quantity. Their appetites and complaints were
transmitted, by inevitable sympathies, to their brethren of the interior,
and our worthy settlers upon the Haw, were rendered anxious
at signs which warned them of a change in the peaceful relations
which had hitherto existed in all the intercourse between
the differing races. We need not dwell upon or describe these
people are already sufficiently familiar. They were easily understood
by our little colony, and by none more quickly than
Daniel Nelson. They rendered him anxious, it is true, but not
apprehensive; and, like a good husband, while he strove not to
frighten his wife by what he said, he deemed it necessary to prepare
her mind for the worst that might occur. This task over,
he felt somewhat relieved, though, when he took his little girl,
now five years old, upon his knee that evening, and looked upon
his infant boy in the lap of his mother, he felt his anxieties very
much increase; and that very night he resumed a practice which
he had latterly abandoned, but which had been adopted as a
measure of strict precaution, from the very first establishment of
their little settlement. As soon as supper was over, he resumed
his rifle, thrust his couteau de chasse into his belt, and, taking his
horn about his neck, and calling up his trusty dog, Clinch, he
proceeded to scour the woods immediately around his habitation.
This task, performed with the stealthy caution of the hunter, occupied
some time, and, as the night was clear, a bright starlight,
the weather moderate, and his own mood restless, he determined
to strike through the forest to the settlement of Jacob Ransom,
about four miles off, in order to prompt him, and, through him,
others of the neighbourhood, to the continued exercise of a caution
which he now thought necessary. The rest of this night's adventure
we propose to let him tell in his own words, as he has been
heard to relate it a thousand times in his old age, at a period of
life when, with one foot in his grave, to suppose him guilty of
falsehood, or of telling that which he did not himself fervently believe,
would be, among all those who knew him, to suppose the
most impossible and extravagant thing in the world.
3. CHAPTER III.
“Well, my friends,” said the veteran, then seventy, drawing
his figure up to its fullest height, and extending his right arm,
while his left still grasped the muzzle of his ancient rifle, which
he swayed from side to side, the butt resting on the floor—“Well,
my friends, seeing that the night was cl'ar, and there was no
wind, and feeling as how I didn't want for sleep, I called to Clinch
and took the path for Jake Ransom's. I knew that Jake was a
sleepy sort of chap, and if the redskins caught any body napping,
he'd, most likely, be the man. But I confess, 'twarn't so much
for his sake, as for the sake of all,—of my own as well as the
rest;—for, when I thought how soon, if we warn't all together in
the business, I might see, without being able to put in, the long
yellow hair of Betsy and the babies twirling on the thumbs of
some painted devil of the tribe,—I can't tell you how I felt, but
it warn't like a human, though I shivered mightily like one,—
'twas wolfish, as if the hair was turned in and rubbing agin the
very heart within me. I said my prayers, where I stood, looking
up at the stars, and thinking that, after all, all was in the hands
and the marcy of God. This sort o' thinking quieted me, and I
went ahead pretty free, for I knew the track jest as well by night
as by day, though I didn't go so quick, for I was all the time on
the look-out for the enemy. Now, after we reached a place in
the woods where there was a gully and a mighty bad crossing,
there were two roads to get to Jake's—one by the hollows, and
one jest across the hills. I don't know why, but I didn't give
myself time to think, and struck right across the hill, though that
was rather the longest way.
“Howsomedever, on I went, and Clinch pretty close behind me.
The dog was a good dog, with a mighty keen nose to hunt, but
jest then he didn't seem to have the notion for it. The hill was
a sizeable one, a good stretch to foot, and I began to remember,
after awhile, that I had been in the woods from blessed dawn;
didn't go for'ad; but I was more than half way, and wasn't
guine to turn back till I had said my say to Jake. Well, when I
got to the top of the hill, I stopped, and rubbed my eyes. I had
cause to rub 'em, for what should I see at a distance but a great
fire. At first I was afeard lest it was Jake's house, but I considered,
the next moment, that he lived to the left, and this fire was
cl'ar to the right, and it did seem to me as if 'twas more near to
my own. Here was something to scare a body. But I couldn't
stay there looking, and it warn't now a time to go to Jake's; so
I turned off, and, though Clinch was mighty onwilling, I bolted on
the road to the fire. I say road, but there was no road; but the
trees warn't over-thick, and the land was too poor for undergrowth;
so we got on pretty well, considering. But, what with the tire I
had had, and the scare I felt, it seemed as if I didn't get for'ad a
bit. There was the fire still burning as bright and almost as far
off as ever. When I saw this I stopt and looked at Clinch, and
he stopped and looked at me, but neither of us had any thing
to say. Well, after a moment's thinking, it seemed as if I
shouldn't be much of a man to give up when I had got so far, so
I pushed on. We crossed more than one little hill, then down
and through the hollow, and then up the hill again. At last we
got upon a small mountain the Indians called Nolleehatchie, and
then it seemed as if the fire had come to a stop, for it was now
burning bright, on a little hill below me, and not two hundred
yards in front. It was a regular camp fire, pretty big, and there
was more than a dozen Indians sitting round it. `Well,' says I
to myself, `it's come upon us mighty sudden, and what's to be
done? Not a soul in the settlement knows it but myself, and
nobody's on the watch. They'll be sculped, every human of
them, in their very beds, or, moutbe, waken up in the blaze, to be
shot with arrows as they run.' I was in a cold sweat to think of
it. I didn't know what to think and what to do. I looked round
to Clinch, and the strangest thing of all was to see him sitting
quiet on his haunches, looking at me, and at the stars, and not at
the fire jest before him. Now, Clinch was a famous fine hunting
dog, and jest as good on an Indian trail as any other. He know'd
my ways, and what I wanted, and would give tongue, or keep it
he shouldn't bark, but, dang it!—he didn't even seem to see.
Now, there warn't a dog in all the settlement so quick and keen
to show sense as Clinch, even when he didn't say a word;—and
to see him looking as if he didn't know and didn't care what was
a-going on, with his eyes sot in his head and glazed over with
sleep, was, as I may say, very onnatural, jest at that time, in a
dog of any onderstanding. So I looked at him, half angry, and
when he saw me looking at him, he jest stretched himself off, put
his nose on his legs, and went to sleep in 'arnest. I had half a
mind to lay my knife-handle over his head, but I considered better
of it, and though it did seem the strangest thing in the world
that he shouldn't even try to get to the fire, for warm sake, yet I
recollected that dog natur', like human natur', can't stand every
thing, and he hadn't such good reason as I had, to know that the
Indians were no longer friendly to us. Well, there I stood, a
pretty considerable chance, looking, and wondering, and onbeknowing
what to do. I was mighty beflustered. But at last I felt
ashamed to be so oncertain, and then again it was a needcessity
that we should know the worst one time or another, so I determined
to push for'ad. I was no slouch of a hunter, as you may suppose;
so, as I was nearing the camp, I begun sneaking; and,
taking it sometimes on hands and knees, and sometimes flat to the
ground, where there was neither tree nor bush to cover me, I
went ahead, Clinch keeping close behind me, and not showing any
notion of what I was after. It was a slow business, because it
was a ticklish business; but I was a leetle too anxious to be altogether
so careful as a good sneak ought to be, and I went on
rather faster than I would advise any young man to go in a time
of war, when the inimy is in the neighbourhood. Well, as I went,
there was the fire, getting larger and larger every minute, and
there were the Indians round it, getting plainer and plainer.
There was so much smoke that there was no making out, at any
distance, any but their figures, and these, every now and then,
would be so wrapt in the smoke that not more than half of them
could be seen at the same moment. At last I stopped, jest at a
place where I thought I could make out all that I wanted. There
was a sizeable rock before me, and I leaned my elbows on it to look.
were some bushes betwixt us, and what with the bushes and the
smoke, it was several minutes before I could separate man from
man, and see what they were all adoing, and when I did, it was
only for a moment at a time, when a puff of smoke would wrap
them all, and make it as difficult as ever. But when I did contrive
to see clearly, the sight was one to worry me to the core,
for, in the midst of the redskins, I could see a white one, and that
white one a woman. There was no mistake. There were the
Indians, some with their backs, and some with their faces to me;
and there, a little a-one side, but still among them, was a woman.
When the smoke bloke off, I could see her white face, bright
like any star, shining out of the clouds, and looking so pale and
ghastly that my blood cruddled in my veins to think lest she might
be dead from fright. But it couldn't be so, for she was sitting up
and looking about her. But the Indians were motionless. They
jest sat or lay as when I first saw them—doing nothing—saying
nothing, but jest as motionless as the stone under my elbow. I
couldn't stand looking where I was, so I began creeping again,
getting nigher and nigher, until it seemed to me as if I ought to
be able to read every face. But what with the paint and smoke,
I couldn't make out a single Indian. Their figures seemed plain
enough in their buffalo-skins and blankets, but their faces seemed
always in the dark. But it wasn't so with the woman. I could
make her out clearly. She was very young; I reckon not more
than fifteen, and it seemed to me as if I knew her looks very well.
She was very handsome, and her hair was loosed upon her back.
My heart felt strange to see her. I was weak as any child. It
seemed as if I could die for the gal, and yet I hadn't strength enough
to raise my rifle to my shoulder. The weakness kept on me the
more I looked; for every moment seemed to make the poor child
more and more dear to me. But the strangest thing of all was
to see how motionless was every Indian in the camp. Not a word
was spoken—not a limb or finger stirred. There they sat, or lay,
round about the fire, like so many effigies, looking at the gal, and
she looking at them. I never was in such a fix of fear and weakness
in my life. What was I to do? I had got so nigh that I
could have stuck my knife, with a jerk, into the heart of any one
where I was, I cried like a child. But my crying didn't make
'em look about 'em. It only brought my poor dog Clinch leaping
upon me, and whining, as if he wanted to give me consolation.
Hardly knowing what I did, I tried to set him upon the camp,
but the poor fellow didn't seem to understand me; and in my
desperation, for it was a sort of madness growing out of my scare,
I jumped headlong for'ad, jest where I saw the party sitting, willing
to lose my life rather than suffer from such a strange sort of
misery.
4. CHAPTER IV.
“Will you believe me! there were no Indians, no young woman,
no fire! I stood up in the very place where I had seen the
blaze and the smoke, and there was nothing! I looked for'ad
and about me—there was no sign of fire any where. Where I
stood was covered with dry leaves, the same as the rest of the
forest. I was stupefied. I was like a man roused out of sleep
by a strange dream, and seeing nothing. All was dark and silent.
The stars were overhead, but that was all the light I had. I was
more scared than ever, and, as it's a good rule when a man feels
that he can do nothing himself, to look to the great God who can
do every thing, I kneeled down and said my prayers—the second
time that night that I had done the same thing, and the second
time, I reckon, that I had ever done so in the woods. After that
I felt stronger. I felt sure that this sign hadn't been shown to me
for nothing; and while I was turning about, looking and thinking
to turn on the back track for home, Clinch began to prick up his
ears and waken up. I clapped him on his back, and got my
knife ready. It might be a painter that stirred him, for he could
scent that beast a great distance. But, as he showed no fright,
only a sort of quickening, I knew there was nothing to fear. In
a moment he started off, and went boldly ahead. I followed him,
but hadn't gone twenty steps down the hill and into the hollow,
when I heard something like a groan. This quickened me, and
keeping up with the dog, he led me to the foot of the hollow,
where was a sort of pond. Clinch ran right for it, and another
groan set me in the same direction. When I got up to the dog,
he was on the butt-end of an old tree that had fallen, I reckon,
before my time, and was half buried in the water. I jumped on
it, and walked a few steps for'ad, when, what should I see but a
human, half across the log, with his legs hanging in the water,
and his head down. I called Clinch back out of my way, and
went to the spot. The groans were pretty constant. I stooped
knew it was an Indian. The head was clammy with blood, so
that my fingers stuck, and when I attempted to turn it, to look at
the face, the groan was deeper than ever; but 'twarn't a time
to suck one's fingers. I took him up, clapped my shoulders to it,
and, fixing my feet firmly on the old tree, which was rather slippery,
I brought the poor fellow out without much trouble. Though
tall, he was not heavy, and was only a boy of fourteen or fifteen.
The wonder was how a lad like that should get into such a fix.
Well, I brought him out and laid him on the dry leaves. His
groans stopped, and I thought he was dead, but I felt his heart,
and it was still warm, and I thought, though I couldn't be sure,
there was a beat under my fingers. What to do was the next
question. It was now pretty late in the night. I had been all
day a-foot, and, though still willing to go, yet the thought of such
a weight on my shoulders made me stagger. But 'twouldn't do
to leave him where he was to perish. I thought, if so be I had a
son in such a fix, what would I think of the stranger who should
go home and wait till daylight to give him help! No, darn my
splinters, said I,—though I had just done my prayers,—if I leave
the lad—and, tightening my girth, I give my whole soul to it, and
hoisted him on my shoulders. My cabin, I reckoned, was good
three miles off. You can guess what trouble I had, and what a
tire under my load, before I got home and laid the poor fellow
down by the fire. I then called up Betsy, and we both set to
work to see if we could stir up the life that was in him. She cut
away his hair, and I washed the blood from his head, which was
chopped to the bone, either with a knife or hatchet. It was a God's
blessing it hadn't gone into his brain, for it was fairly enough
aimed for it, jest above the ear. When we come to open his
clothes, we found another wound in his side. This was done
with a knife, and, I suppose, was pretty deep. He had lost blood
enough, for all his clothes were stiff with it. We knew nothing
much of doctoring, but we had some rum in the cabin, and after
washing his wounds clean with it, and pouring some down his
throat, he began to groan more freely, and by that we knew he
was coming to a nateral feeling. We rubbed his body down with
warm cloths, and after a little while, seeing that he made some
to do him good, and having done every thing that we thought could
help him, we wrapped him up warmly before the fire, and I
stretched myself off beside him. 'Twould be a long story to tell,
step by step, how he got on. It's enough to say that he didn't
die that bout. We got him on his legs in a short time, doing little
or nothing for him more than we did at first. The lad was a
good lad, though, at first, when he first came to his senses, he was
mighty shy, wouldn't look steadily in our faces, and, I do believe,
if he could have got out of the cabin, would have done so as soon
as he could stagger. But he was too weak to try that, and, meanwhile,
when he saw our kindness, he was softened. By little and
little, he got to play with my little Lucy, who was not quite six
years old; and, after a while, he seemed to be never better pleased
than when they played together. The child, too, after her
first fright, leaned to the lad, and was jest as willing to play with
him as if he had been a cl`ar white like herself. He could say
a few words of English from the beginning, and learnt quickly;
but, though he talked tolerable free for an Indian, yet I could
never get him to tell me how he was wounded, or by whom. His
brow blackened when I spoke of it, and his lips would be shut together,
as if he was ready to fight sooner than to speak. Well,
I didn't push him to know, for I was pretty sure the head of the
truth will be sure to come some time or other, if you once have
it by the tail, provided you don't jerk it off by straining too hard
upon it.
5. CHAPTER V.
“I suppose the lad had been with us a matter of six weeks, getting
better every day, but so slowly that he had not, at the end of
that time, been able to leave the picket. Meanwhile, our troubles
with the Indians were increasing. As yet, there had been no
bloodshed in our quarter, but we heard of murders and sculpings
on every side, and we took for granted that we must have our
turn. We made our preparations, repaired the pickets, laid in
ammunition, and took turns for scouting nightly. At length, the
signs of Indians got to be thick in our parts, though we could see
none. Jake Ransom had come upon one of their camps after
they had left it; and we had reason to apprehend every thing, inasmuch
as the outlyers didn't show themselves, as they used to
do, but prowled about the cabins and went from place to place,
only by night, or by close skulking in the thickets. One evening
after this, I went out as usual to go the rounds, taking Clinch
with me, but I hadn't got far from the gate, when the dog stopped
and gave a low bark;—then I knew there was mischief, so I
turned round quietly, without making any show of scare, and got
back safely, though not a minute too soon. They trailed me to
the gate the moment after I had got it fastened, and were pretty
mad, I reckon, when they found their plan had failed for surprising
me. But for the keen nose of poor Clinch, with all my skill
in scouting,—and it was not small even in that early day,—
they'd 'a had me, and all that was mine, before the sun could
open his eyes to see what they were after. Finding they had
failed in their ambush, they made the woods ring with the war-whoop,
which was a sign that they were guine to give us a
regular siege. At the sound of the whoop, we could see the eyes
of the Indian boy brighten, and his ears prick up, jest like a
hound's when he first gets scent of the deer, or hears the horn of
the hunter. I looked closely at the lad, and was dub'ous what to
do. He moutbe only an enemy in the camp, and while I was
children within. I did not tell you that I had picked up his bow
and arrows near the little lake where I had found him, and his
hunting-knife was sticking in his belt when I brought him home.
Whether to take these away from him, was the question. Suppose
I did, a billet of wood would answer pretty near as well.
I thought the matter over while I watched him. Thought runs
mighty quick in time of danger! Well, after turning it over on
every side, I concluded 'twas better to trust him jest as if he had
been a sure friend. I couldn't think, after all we had done for
him, that he'd be false, so I said to him—`Lenatewá!'—'twas so
he called himself—`those are your people!' `Yes!' he answered
slowly, and lifting himself up as if he had been a lord—he
was a stately-looking lad, and carried himself like the son of a
Micco,[1] as he was—`Yes, they are the people of Lenatewá—
must he go to them?' and he made the motion of going out. But
I stopped him. I was not willing to lose the security which I
had from his being a sort of prisoner. `No,' said I; `no, Lenatewá,
not to-night. To-morrow will do. To-morrow you can
tell them I am a friend, not an enemy, and they should not
come to burn my wigwam.' `Brother—friend!' said the lad,
advancing with a sort of freedom and taking my hand. He then
went to my wife, and did the same thing,—not regarding she was
a woman,—`Brother—friend!' I watched him closely, watched
his eye and his motions, and I said to Betsy, `The lad is true;
don't be afeard!' But we passed a weary night. Every now
and then we could hear the whoop of the Indians. From the loop-holes
we could see the light of three fires on different sides, by
which we knew that they were prepared to cut off any help that
might come to us from the rest of the settlement. But I didn't
give in or despair. I worked at one thing or another all night,
and though Lenatewá gave me no help, yet he sat quietly, or laid
himself down before the fire, as if he had nothing in the world to
do in the business. Next morning by daylight, I found him already
dressed in the same bloody clothes which he had on when I
found him. He had thrown aside all that I gave him, and though
much stained with blood and dirt, he had fixed them about him
with a good deal of care and neatness, as if preparing to see company.
I must tell you that an Indian of good family always has
a nateral sort of grace and dignity which I never saw in a white
man. He was busily engaged looking through one of the loop-holes,
and though I could distinguish nothing, yet it was cl'ar
that he saw something to interest him mightily. I soon found out
that, in spite of all my watchfulness, he had contrived to have some
sort of correspondence and communication with those outside.
This was a wonder to me then, for I did not recollect his bow and
arrows. It seems that he had shot an arrow through one of the
loop-holes, to the end of which he had fastened a tuft of his own
hair. The effect of this was considerable, and to this it was owing
that, for a few hours afterwards, we saw not an Indian. The
arrow was shot at the very peep of day. What they were about,
in the meantime, I can only guess, and the guess was only easy,
after I had known all that was to happen. That they were in
council what to do was cl'ar enough. I was not to know that the
council was like to end in cutting some of their own throats instead
of ours. But when we did see the enemy fairly, they came
out of the woods in two parties, not actually separated, but not
moving together. It seemed as if there was some strife among
them. Their whole number could not be less than forty, and
some eight or ten of these walked apart under the lead of a chief,
a stout, dark-looking fellow, one-half of whose face was painted
black as midnight, with a red circle round both his eyes. The
other party was headed by an old white-headed chief, who couldn't
ha'been less than sixty years—a pretty fellow, you may be sure,
at his time of life, to be looking after sculps of women and children.
While I was kneeling at my loop-hole looking at them,
Lenatewá came to me, and touching me on the arm, pointed to
the old chief, saying—`Micco Lenatewá Glucco,' by which I
guessed he was the father or grandfather of the lad. `Well,' I
said, seeing that the best plan was to get their confidence and
friendship if possible,—`Well, lad, go to your father and tell him
what Daniel Nelson has done for you, and let's have peace. We
can fight, boy, as you see; we have plenty of arms and provisions;
pick off your father, the king, and that other chief, who has so
devilled himself up with paint.' `Shoot!' said the lad quickly,
pointing to the chief of whom I had last spoken. `Ah! he is
your enemy then?' The lad nodded his head, and pointed to the
wound on his temple, and that in his side. I now began to see
the true state of the case. `No,' said I; `no, Lenatewá, I will
shoot none. I am for peace. I would do good to the Indians,
and be their friend. Go to your father and tell him so. Go, and
make him be my friend.' The youth caught my hand, placed it on
the top of his head, and exclaimed, `Good!' I then attended him
down to the gate, but, before he left the cabin, he stopped and put
his hand on the head of little Lucy,—and I felt glad, for it seemed
to say, `you shan't be hurt—not a hair of your head!' I let him
out, fastened up, and then hastened to the loop-hole.
6. CHAPTER VI.
“And now came a sight to tarrify. As soon as the Indians
saw the young prince, they set up a general cry. I couldn't tell
whether it was of joy, or what. He went for'ad boldly, though
he was still quite weak, and the king at the head of his party advanced
to meet him. The other and smaller party, headed by
the black chief, whom young Lenatewá had told me to shoot, came
forward also, but very slowly, and it seemed as if they were
doubtful whether to come or go. Their leader looked pretty
much beflustered. But they hadn't time for much study, for, after
the young prince had met his father, and a few words had
passed between them, I saw the finger of Lenatewá point to the
black chief. At this, he lifted up his clenched fists, and worked
his body as if he was talking angrily. Then, sudden, the war-whoop
sounded from the king's party, and the other troop of Indians
began to run, the black chief at their head; but he had not
got twenty steps when a dozen arrows went into him, and he tumbled
for'a'ds, and grappled with the earth. It was all over with
him. His party was scattered on all sides, but were not pursued.
It seemed that all the arrows had been aimed at the one person,
and when he sprawled, there was an end to it: the whole affair
was over in five minutes.
7. CHAPTER VII.
“It was a fortunate affair for us. Lenatewá soon brought the
old Micco to terms of peace. For that matter, he had only consented
to take up the red stick because it was reported by the
black chief—who was the uncle of the young Micco, and had
good reasons for getting him out of the way—that he had been
murdered by the whites. This driv' the old man to desperation,
and brought him down upon us. When he knew the whole truth,
and saw what friends we had been to his son, there was no end
to his thanks and promises. He swore to be my friend while the
sun shone, while the waters run, and while the mountains stood,
and I believe, if the good old man had been spared so long, he
would have been true to his oath. But, while he lived, he kept
it, and so did his son when he succeeded him as Micco Glucco-Year
after year went by, and though there was frequent war between
the Indians and the whites, yet Lenatewá kept it from our
doors. He himself was at war several times with our people, but
never with our settlement. He put his totem on our trees, and
the Indians knew that they were sacred. But, after a space of
eleven years, there was a change. The young prince seemed to
have forgotten our friendship. We now never saw him among
us, and, unfortunately, some of our young men—the young men
of our own settlement—murdered three young warriors of the
Ripparee tribe, who were found on horses stolen from us. I was
very sorry when I heard it, and began to fear the consequences;
and they came upon us when we least looked for it. I had every
reason to think that Lenatewá would still keep the warfare from
my little family, but I did not remember that he was the prince
of a tribe only, and not of the nation. This was a national warfare,
in which the whole Cherokee people were in arms. Many
persons, living still, remember that terrible war, and how the
Carolinians humbled them at last; but there's no telling how
much blood was shed in that war, how many sculps taken, how
Our settlement had become so large and scattered that
we had to build a sizeable blockhouse, which we stored, and to
which we could retreat whenever it was necessary. We took
possession of it on hearing from our scouts that Indian trails had
been seen, and there we put the women and children, under a
strong guard. By day we tended our farms, and only went to
our families at night. We had kept them in this fix for five
weeks or thereabouts, and there was no attack. The Indian signs
disappeared, and we all thought the storm had blown over, and
began to hope and to believe that the old friendship of Lenatewá
had saved us. With this thinking, we began to be less watchful.
The men would stay all night at the farms, and sometimes, in the
day, would carry with them the women, and sometimes some even
the children. I cautioned them agin this, but they mocked me,
and said I was gitting old and scary. I told them, `Wait and
see who'll scare first.' But, I confess, not seeing any Indians in
all my scouting, I began to feel and think like the rest, and to
grow careless. I let Betsy go now and then with me to the farm,
though she kept it from me that she had gone there more than
once with Lucy, without any man protector. Still, as it was only
a short mile and a half from the block, and we could hear of no
Indians, it did not seem so venturesome a thing. One day we
heard of some very large b'ars among the thickets—a famous
range for them, about four miles from the settlement; and a party
of us, Simon Lorris, Hugh Darling, Jake Ransom, William
Harkless, and myself, taking our dogs, set off on the hunt. We
started the b'ar with a rush, and I got the first shot at a mighty big
she b'ar, the largest I had ever seen—lamed the critter slightly,
and dashed into the thickets after her! The others pushed, in another
direction, after the rest, leaving me to finish my work as I
could.
“I had two dogs with me, Clap and Claw, but they were young
things, and couldn't be trusted much in a close brush with a b'ar.
Old Clinch was dead, or he'd ha' made other guess-work with the
varmint. But, hot after the b'ar, I didn't think of the quality of
the dogs till I found myself in a fair wrestle with the brute. I
don't brag, my friends, but that was a fight. I tell you my
body, and I thought I was doubled up enough to be laid down
without more handling. But my heart was strong when I thought
of Betsy and the children, and I got my knife, with hard jugging
—though I couldn't use my arm above my elbow—through the
old critter's hide, and in among her ribs. That only seemed to
make her hug closer, and I reckon I was clean gone, if it hadn't
been that she blowed out before me. I had worked a pretty deep
window in her waist, and then life run out plentiful. Her nose
dropped agin my breast, and then her paws; and when the strain
was gone, I fell down like a sick child, and she fell on top of me.
But she warn't in a humour to do more mischief. She roughed me
once or twice more with her paws, but that was only because she
was at her last kick. There I lay a matter of half an hour, with
the dead b'ar alongside o' me. I was almost as little able to
move as she, and I vomited as if I had taken physic. When I
come to myself and got up, there was no sound of the hunters.
There I was with the two dogs and the b'ar, all alone, and the
sun already long past the turn. My horse, which I had fastened
outside of the thicket, had slipped his bridle, and, I reckoned, had
either strayed off grazing, or had pushed back directly for the
block. These things didn't make me feel much better. But,
though my stomach didn't feel altogether right, and my ribs were
as sore as if I had been sweating under a coating of hickory, I
felt that there was no use and no time to stand there grunting.
But I made out to skin and to cut up the b'ar, and a noble mountain
of fat she made. I took the skin with me, and, covering the
flesh with bark, I whistled off the dogs, after they had eat to fill,
and pushed after my horse. I followed his track for some time,
till I grew fairly tired. He had gone off in a scare and at a full
gallop, and, instead of going home, had dashed down the lower
side of the thicket, then gone aside, to round some of the hills, and
thrown himself out of the track, it moutbe seven miles or more.
When I found this, I saw there was no use to hunt him that day
and afoot, and I had no more to do but turn about, and push as
fast as I could for the block. But this was work enough. By
this time the sun was pretty low, and there was now a good seven
miles, work it how I could, before me. But I was getting over
stomach was better, and my heart braver; and, as I was in no
hurry, having the whole night before me, and knowing the way
by night as well as by light, I began to feel cheerful enough, all
things considering. I pushed on slowly, stopping every now and
then for rest, and recovering my strength this way. I had some
parched meal and sugar in my pouch which I ate, and it helped
me mightily. It was my only dinner that day. The evening
got to be very still. I wondered I had seen and heard nothing of
Jake Ransom and the rest, but I didn't feel at all oneasy about
them, thinking that, like all other hunters, they would naterally
follow the game to any distance. But, jest when I was thinking
about them, I heard a gun, then another, and after that all got to
be as quiet as ever. I looked to my own rifle and felt for my
knife, and put forward a little more briskly. I suppose I had
walked an hour after this, when it came on close dark, and I was
still four good miles from the block. The night was cloudy,
there were no stars, and the feeling in the air was damp and oncomfortable.
I began to wish I was safe home, and felt queerish,
almost as bad as I did when the b'ar was 'bracing me; but it
warn't so much the body-sickness as the heart-sickness. I felt as
if something was going wrong. Jest as this feeling was most worrisome,
I stumbled over a human. My blood cruddled, when,
feeling about, I put my hand on his head, and found the sculp
was gone. Then I knew there was mischief. I couldn't make
out who 'twas that was under me, but I reckoned 'twas one of
the hunters. There was nothing to be done but to push for'ad.
I didn't feel any more tire. I felt ready for fight, and when I
thought of our wives and children in the block, and what might
become of them, I got wolfish, though the Lord only knows what
I was minded to do. I can't say I had any raal sensible thoughts
of what was to be done in the business. I didn't trust myself to
think whether the Indians had been to the block yet or no; though
ugly notions came across me when I remembered how we let the
women and children go about to the farms. I was in a complete
fever and agy. I scorched one time and shivered another, but I
pushed on, for there was now no more feeling of tire in my limbs
than if they were made of steel. By this time I had reached
now eleven years gone, that turned out to be a deception, and
it was nateral enough that the thing should come fresh into my
mind, jest at that moment. While I was thinking over the wonder,
and asking myself, as I had done over and often before, what it
possibly could mean, I reached the top of one of the hills, from
which I could see, in daylight, the whole country for a matter of
ten miles or more on every side. What was my surprise, do you
reckon, when there, jest on the very same hill opposite where I
had seen that apparition of a camp, I saw another, and this time
it was a raal one. There was a rousing blaze, and though the
woods and undergrowth were thicker on this than on the other
side, from which I had seen it before, yet I could make out that
there were several figures, and them Indians. It sort o' made
me easier to see the enemy before, and then I could better tell
what I had to do. I was to spy out the camp, see what the red-devils
were thinking to do, and what they had already done. I
was a little better scout and hunter this time than when I made
the same sort o' search before, and I reckoned that I could get
nigh enough to see all that was going on, without stirring up any
dust among 'em. But I had to keep the dogs back. I couldn't
tie 'em up, for they'd howl; so I stripped my hunting-shirt and
put it down for one to guard, and I gave my cap and horn
to another. I knew they'd never leave 'em, for I had l'arned
'em all that sort of business—to watch as well as to fetch and
carry. I then said a sort of short running prayer, and took the
trail. I had to work for'ad slowly. If I had gone on this time
as I did in that first camp transaction, I'd ha' lost my sculp to
a sartainty. Well, to shorten a long business, I tell you that I
got nigh enough, without scare or surprise, to see all that I cared
to see, and a great deal more than I wished to see; and now, for
the first time, I saw the meaning of that sight which I had, eleven
years before, of the camp that come to nothing. I saw that first
sight over again, the Indians round the fire, a young woman in
the middle, and that young woman my own daughter, my child,
my poor, dear Lucy!
8. CHAPTER VIII.
“That was a sight for a father. I can't tell you—and I won't
try—how I felt. But I lay there, resting upon my hands and
knees, jest as if I had been turned into stone with looking. I lay
so for a good half hour, I reckon, without stirring a limb; and you
could only tell that life was in me, by seeing the big drops that
squeezed out of my eyes now and then, and by a sort of shivering
that shook me as you sometimes see the canebrake shaking with
the gust of the pond inside. I tried to pray to God for help, but I
couldn't pray, and as for thinking, that was jest as impossible.
But I could do nothing by looking, and, for that matter, it was
pretty cla'r to me, as I stood, with no help—by myself—one rifle
only and knife—I couldn't do much by moving. I could have
lifted the gun, and in a twinkle- tumbled the best fellow in the
gang, but what good was that guine to do me? I was never fond
of blood-spilling, and if I could have been made sure of my
daughter, I'd ha' been willing that the red devils should have had
leave to live for ever. What was I to do? Go to the block?
Who know'd if it warn't taken, with every soul in it? And
where else was I to look for help? Nowhere, nowhere but to
God! I groaned—I groaned so loud that I was dreadful 'feared
that they'd hear me; but they were too busy among themselves,
eating supper, and poor Lucy in the midst, not eating, but so pale,
and looking so miserable—jest as I had seen her, when she was
only a child—in the same fix, though 'twas only an appearance
—eleven years ago! Well, at last, I turned off. As I couldn't
say what to do, I was too miserable to look, and I went down to
the bottom of the hill and rolled about on the ground, pulling the
hair out of my head and groaning, as if that was to do me any
good. Before I knew where I was, there was a hand on my
shoulder. I jumped up to my feet, and flung my rifle over my
head, meaning to bring the butt down upon the stranger—but his
voice stopped me.
“ `Brother,' said he, `me Lenatewá!'
“The way he talked, his soft tones, made me know that the
young prince meant to be friendly, and I gave him my hand; but
the tears gushed out as I did so, and I cried out like a man struck
in the very heart, while I pointed to the hill—`My child, my
child!'
“ `Be man!' said he, `come!' pulling me away.
“ `But, will you save her, Lenatewá?'
“He did not answer instantly, but led me to the little lake, and
pointed to the old tree over which I had borne his lifeless body so
many years ago. By that I knew he meant to tell me, he had not
forgotten what I had done for him; and would do for me all he
could. But this did not satisfy me. I must know how and when
it was to be done, and what was his hope; for I could see from
his caution, and leading me away from the camp, that he did not
command the party, and had no power over them. He then asked
me, if I had not seen the paint of the warriors in the camp. But I
had seen nothing but the fix of my child. He then described the
paint to me, which was his way of showing me that the party on
the hill were his deadly enemies. The paint about their eyes
was that of the great chief, his uncle, who had tried to murder
him years ago, and who had been shot, in my sight, by the party
of his father. The young chief, now in command of the band on
the hill was the son of his uncle, and sworn to revenge the death
of his father upon him, Lenatewá. This he made me onderstand
in a few minutes. And he gave me farther to onderstand, that
there was no way of getting my child from them onless by cunning.
He had but two followers with him, and they were even
then busy in making preparations. But of these preparations he
either would not or could not give me any account; and I had to
wait on him with all the patience I could muster; and no easy
trial it was, for an Indian is the most cool and slow-moving creature
in the world, unless he's actually fighting, and then he's
about the quickest. After awhile, Lenatewá led me round the
hill. We fetched a pretty smart reach, and before I knew where
I was, he led me into a hollow that I had never seen before. Here,
to my surprise, there were no less than twelve or fourteen horses
fastened, that these red devils had stolen from the settlement that
young prince told me.
“ `Him soon move,' said he, pointing to one on the outside,
which a close examination showed me to be my own—`Him soon
move,'—and these words gave me a notion of his plan. But he
did not allow me to have any hand in it—not jest then, at least.
Bidding me keep a watch on the fire above, for the hollow in which
we stood was at the foot of the very hill the Indians had made
their camp on—though the stretch was a long one between—he
pushed for'ad like a shadow, and so slily, so silently, that, though I
thought myself a good deal of a scout before, I saw then that I warn't
fit to hold a splinter to him. In a little time he had unhitched my
horse, and quietly led him farther down the hollow, half round
the hill, and then up the opposite hill. There was very little
noise, the wind was from the camp, and, though they didn't show
any alarm, I was never more scary in my life. I followed Lenatewá,
and found where he had fastened my nag. He had placed
him several hundred yards from the Indians, on his way to the
block; and, where we now stood, owing to the bend of the hollow,
the camp of the Indians was between us and where they had
hitched the stolen horses. When I saw this, I began to guess
something of his plan. Meantime, one after the other, his two
followers came up, and made a long report to him in their own
language. This done, he told me that three of my hunting companions
had been sculped, the other, who was Hugh Darling, had
got off cl'ar, though fired upon twice, and had alarmed the block,
and that my daughter had been made prisoner at the farm to
which she had gone without any company. This made me a little
easier, and Lenatewá then told me what he meant to do. In
course, I had to do something myself towards it. Off he went,
with his two men, leaving me to myself. When I thought they
had got pretty fairly round the hill, I started back for the camp,
trying my best, you may be sure, to move as slily as Lenatewá.
I got within twenty-five yards, I reckon, when I thought it better
to lie by quietly and wait. I could see every head in the huddle,
and my poor child among them, looking whiter than a sheet, beside
their ugly painted skins. Well, I hadn't long to wait, when
there was such an uproar among the stolen horses in the hollow
and whickering, you never heard the like. Now, you must know,
that a stolen horse, to an Indian, is jest as precious as a sweet-heart
to a white man; and when the rumpus reached the camp,
there was a rush of every man among them, for his critter.
Every redskin, but one, went over the hill after the horses, and he
jumped up with the rest, but didn't move off. He stood over poor
Lucy with his tomahawk, shaking it above her head, as if guine
to strike every minute. She, poor child—I could see her as plain
as the fire-light, for she sat jest on one side of it—her hands were
clasped together. She was praying, for she must have looked
every minute to be knocked on the head. You may depend, I
found it very hard to keep in. I was a'most biling over, the more
when I saw the red devil making his flourishes, every now and
then, close to the child's ears, with his bloody we'pon. But it
was a needcessity to keep in till the sounds died off pretty much,
so as not to give them any scare this side, till they had dashed
ahead pretty far 'pon the other. I don't know that I waited quite
as long as I ought to, but I waited as long as my feelings would
let me, and then I dropped the sight of my rifle as close as I could
fix it on the breast of the Indian that had the keeping of my child.
I took aim, but I felt I was a little tremorsome, and I stopped. I
know'd I had but one shoot, and if I didn't onbutton him in that
one, it would be a bad shoot for poor Lucy. I didn't fear to hit
her, and I was pretty sure I'd hit him. But it must be a dead
shot to do good, for I know'd if I only hurt him, that he'd sink the
tomahawk in her head with what strength he had left him. I
brought myself to it again, and this time I felt strong. I could
jest hear a little of the hubbub of men and horses afar off. I knew
it was the time, and, resting the side of the muzzle against a tree,
I give him the whole blessing of the bullet. I didn't stop to ask
what luck, but run in, with a sort o' cry, to do the finishing with
the knife. But the thing was done a'ready. The beast was on
his back, and I only had to use the knife in cutting the vines that
fastened the child to the sapling behind her. The brave gal
didn't scream or faint. She could only say, `Oh, my father!'
and I could only say, `Oh! my child!' And what a precious
hug followed; but it was only for a minute. We had no time to
left the critter, and if the good old nag ever used his four shanks
to any purpose, he did that night. I reckon it was a joyful surprise
to poor Betsy when we broke into the block. She had given
it out for sartin that she'd never see me or the child again, with
a nateral sculp on our heads.
9. CHAPTER IX.
“There's no need to tell you the whole story of this war between
our people and the redskins. It's enough that I tell you
of what happened to us, and our share in it. Of the great affair,
and all the fights and burnings, you'll find enough in the printed
books and newspapers. What I tell you, though you can't find it
in any books, is jest as true, for all that. Of our share in it, the
worst has already been told you. The young chief, Oloschottee
—for that was his name—the cousin and the enemy of Lenatewá,
had command of the Indians that were to surprise our settlements;
and though he didn't altogether do what he expected and intended,
he worked us quite enough of mischief as it was. He soon put
fire to all our farms to draw us out of the block, but finding that
wouldn't do, he left us; for an Indian gets pretty soon tired of a
long siege where there is neither rum nor blood to git drunk on.
His force was too small to trouble us in the block, and so he
drawed off his warriors, and we saw no more of him until the
peace. That followed pretty soon after General Middleton gave
the nation that licking at Echotee,—a licking, I reckon, that they'll
remember long after my day. At that affair Lenatewá got an
ugly bullet in his throat, and if it hadn't been for one of his men,
he'd ha' got a bag'net in his breast. They made a narrow run
with him, head foremost down the hill, with a whole swad of the
mounted men from the low country at their heels. It was some
time after the peace before he got better of his hurt, though the
Indians are naterally more skilful in cures than white men. By
this time we had all gone home to our farms, and had planted and
rebuilt, and begun to forget our troubles, when who should pop
into our cabin one day, but Lenatewá. He had got quite well
of his hurts. He was a monstrous fine-looking fellow, tall and
handsome, and he was dressed in his very best. He wore pantaloons,
like one of us, and his hunting shirt was a raally fine blue,
with a white fringe. He wore no paint, and was quite nice and
he stayed with us three days. Then he went, and was gone for
a matter of two weeks, when he came back and stayed with us
another three days. And so, off and on, he came to visit us, until
Betsy said to me one day, `Daniel, that Indian, Lenatewá,
comes here after Lucy. Leave a woman to guess these things.'
After she told me, I recollected that the young prince was quite
watchful of Lucy, and would follow her out into the garden, and
leave us, to walk with her. But then, again, I thought—`What
if he is favourable to my daughter? The fellow's a good fellow;
and a raal, noble-hearted Indian, that's sober, is jest as good, to
my thinking, as any white man in the land.` But Betsy wouldn't
hear to it. `Her daughter never should marry a savage, and a
heathen, and a redskin, while her head was hot:'—and while her
head was so hot, what was I to do? All I could say was this
only, `Don't kick, Betsy, till you're spurred. 'Twill be time
enough to give the young Chief his answer when he asks the
question; and it won't do for us to treat him rudely, when we
consider how much we owe him.' But she was of the mind that
the boot was on the other leg,—that it was he and not us that
owed the debt; and all that I could do couldn't keep her from
showing the lad a sour face of it whenever he came. But he didn't
seem much to mind this, since I was civil and kind to him. Lucy
too, though her mother warned her against him, always treated
him civilly as I told her; though she naterally would do so, for
she couldn't so easily forget that dreadful night when she was a
prisoner in the camp of the enimy, not knowing what to expect,
with an Indian tomahawk over her head, and saved, in great part,
by the cunning and courage of this same Lenatewá. The girl
treated him kindly, and I was not sorry she did so. She walked
and talked with him jest as if they had been brother and sister,
and he was jest as polite to her as if he had been a born Frenchman.
“You may be sure, it was no pleasant sight to my wife to see
them two go out to walk. `Daniel Nelson,' said she, `do you see
and keep an eye on those people. There's no knowing what may
happen. I do believe that Lucy has a liking for that redskin,
and should they run!'—`Psho!' said I,—but that wouldn't do for
'Twarn't a business that I was overfond of, you may reckon, but
I was a rough man and didn't know much of woman natur'. I left
the judgment of such things to my wife, and did pretty much what
she told me. Whenever they went out to walk, I followed them,
rifle in hand; but it was only to please Betsy, for if I had seen
the lad running off with the girl, I'm pretty sure, I'd never ha'
been the man to draw trigger upon him. As I said before, Lenatewá
was jest as good a husband as she could have had. But,
poor fellow, the affair was never to come to that. One day, after
he had been with us almost a week, he spoke softly to Lucy,
and she got up, got her bonnet and went out with him. I didn't
see them when they started, for I happened to be in the upper
story,—a place where we didn't so much live, but where we used
to go for shelter and defence whenever any Indians came about
us. `Daniel,' said my wife, and I knew by the quickness and
sharpness of her voice what 'twas she had to tell me. But jest
then I was busy, and, moreover, I didn't altogether like the sort
of business upon which she wanted me to go. The sneaking after
an enimy, in raal warfare, is an onpleasant sort of thing enough;
but this sneaking after one that you think your friend is worse than
running in a fair fight, and always gave me a sheepish feeling
after it. Besides, I didn't fear Lenatewá, and I didn't fear my
daughter. It's true, the girl treated him kindly and sweetly, but
that was owing to the nateral sweetness of her temper, and because
she felt how much sarvice he had been to her and all of
us. So, instead of going out after them, I thought I'd give them
a look through one of the loop-holes. Well, there they went,
walking among the trees, not far from the picket, and no time out
of sight. As I looked at them, I thought to myself, `Would n't
they make a handsome couple!' Both of them were tall and well
made. As for Lucy, there wasn't, for figure, a finer set girl in
all the settlement, and her face was a match for her figure. And
then she was so easy in her motion, so graceful, and walked, or
sate, or danced,—jest, for all the world, as if she was born only
to do the particular thing she was doing. As for Lenatewá, he
was a lad among a thousand. Now, a young Indian warrior,
when he don't drink, is about the noblest-looking creature, as he
so proud, so stately, always as if he was doing a great action—
as if he knew the whole world was looking at him. Lenatewa
was pretty much the handsomest and noblest Indian I had ever
seen; and then, I know'd him to be raally so noble. As they
walked together, their heads a little bent downwards, and Lucy's
pretty low, the thought flashed across me that, jest then, he was
telling her all about his feelings; and perhaps, said I to myself,
the girl thinks about it pretty much as I do. Moutbe now, she
likes him better than any body she has ever seen, and what more
nateral? Then I thought, if there is any picture in this life more
sweet and beautiful than two young people jest beginning to feel
love for one another, and walking together in the innocence of
their hearts, under the shady trees,—I've never seen it! I laid
the rifle on my lap, and sat down on the floor and watched 'em
through the loop until I felt the water in my eyes. They walked
backwards and for'ads, not a hundred yards off, and I could see
all their motions, though I couldn't hear their words. An Indian
don't use his hands much generally, but I could see that Lenatewá
was using his,—not a great deal, but as if he felt every
word he was saying. Then I began to think, what was I to do,
if so be he was raally offering to marry Lucy, and she willing!
How was I to do? what was I to say?—how could I refuse him
when I was willing? how could I say `yes,' when Betsy said
`no!'
“Well, in the midst of this thinking, what should I hear but a
loud cry from the child, then a loud yell,—a regular war-whoop,
—sounded right in front, as if it came from Lenatewá himself.
I looked up quickly, for, in thinking, I had lost sight of them, and
was only looking at my rifle; I looked out, and there, in the
twinkle of an eye, there was another sight. I saw my daughter
flat upon the ground, lying like one dead, and Lenatewá staggering
back as if he was mortally hurt; while, pressing fast upon
him, was an Indian warrior, with his tomahawk uplifted, and striking—once,
twice, three times—hard and heavy, right upon the
face and forehead of the young prince. From the black paint on
his face, and the red ring about his eyes, and from his figure and
the eagle feathers in his head, I soon guessed it was Oloschottee,
for an Indian never forgets that sort of obligation. Of
course, I didn't stand quiet to see an old friend, like Lenatewá
tumbled in that way, without warning, like a bullock; and there
was my own daughter lying flat, and I wasn't to know that he
hadn't struck her too. It was only one motion for me to draw
sight upon the savage, and another to pull trigger; and I reckon
he dropped jest as soon as the young Chief. I gave one whoop
for all the world as if I was an Indian myself, and run out to the
spot; but Lenatewá had got his discharge from further service.
He warn't exactly dead, but his sense was swimming. He
couldn't say much, and that warn't at all to the purpose. I
could hear him, now and then, making a sort of singing noise,
but that was soon swallowed up in a gurgle and a gasp, and it
was all over. My bullet was quicker in its working than Oloschottee's
hatchet; he was stone dead before I got to him. As for
poor Lucy, she was not hurt, either by bullet or hatchet; but
she had a hurt in the heart, whether from the scare she had, or
because she had more feeling for the young prince than we reckoned,
there's no telling. She warn't much given to smiling after
that. But, whether she loved Lenatewá, we couldn't know, and
I never was the man to ask her. It's sartain she never married,
and she had about as many chances, and good ones, too, as any
girl in our settlement. You've seen her—some among you—
and warn't she a beauty—though I say it myself—the very
flower of the forest!”
| The wigwam and the cabin | |