University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The feelings in the breasts of Algernon and Ella, as they reluctantly
moved onward, captives to a savage, blood-thirsty foe, are impossible to be
described. To what awful end had fate destined them? and in what place
were they to drain the last bitter dregs of wo? How much anguish of
heart, how much racking of soul and how much bodily suffering was to be
their portion, ere death, almost their only hope, would set them free? True,
they might be rescued by friends—such things had been done—but the probability
thereof was as ten to one against them; and when they perceived
the care with which the renegade sought to destroy all vestiges of their
course, their last gleam of hope became nearly extinguished.

We have previously stated that Ella was left unbound; but wherefore,
would perhaps be hard to conjecture; unless we suppose that the renegade—
feeling for her that selfish affection which pervades the breasts of all beings,
however base or criminal, to a greater or less degree—fancied it would be
adding unnecessary cruelty to bind her delicate hands. Whatever the
cause, matters but little; but the fact itself was of considerable importance to
Ella, who took advantage of her freedom, in passing the bushes before noticed,
to snatch a leaf unperceived, whereon, by great adroitness, she managed
to trace with a pin a few almost illegible characters; and also, in ascending
the bank, which she was allowed to do in her own way, to throw down
with her foot the stone, break the twig at the same instant, and pin the leaf
to it, in the faint hope that an old hunter might follow on the trail, who, if
he came to the spot, would hardly fail to notice it.

The freedom thus given to Ella, and the deference shown her by the renegade
and his allies—who appeared to treat her with the same respect they
would have done the wife of their chief—were in striking contrast with their
manners toward Algernon, on whom they seemed disposed to vent their scorn
by petty insults. Believing that his doom was sealed, he became apparently
resigned to his fate, nor seemed to notice, save with stoical indifference,
any thing that took place around him. This quiet, inoffensive manner, was
far from pleasing to Girty, who would much rather have seen him chafing
under his bondage, and manifesting a desire to escape its toil. But if this
was the outward appearance, not so was the inward feelings of our hero.
He knew his fate—unless he could effect an escape, of which he had little

hope—and he nerved himself to meet and seem to his captors careless of it;
but his soul was already on the rack of torture. This was not for himself
alone; for Algernon was a brave man, and in reality feared not death;
though, like many another brave man, had no desire to die at his time of life,
especially with all the tortures of the stake, which he knew, from Girty's
remark, would be his assignment;—but his soul was harrowed at the thought
of Ella—her awful doom—and what she might be called upon to undergo:
perhaps a punishment a thousand times worse than death—that of being the
pretended wife, but in reality the mistress, of the loathsome renegade. This
thought to him was torture—almost madness—and it was only by the most
powerful struggle with himself, that he could avoid exposing his feelings.

For a time, after ascending the rocky bank of the stream and gaining the
hill, the renegade and his Indian allies, with their captives, moved silently
onward at a fast pace; but at length, slackening his speed somewhat, Girty
approached the side of Algernon, who was bound in a manner similar to
Younker, with his wrists corded to a cross bar behind his back, and apparently
examining them a moment or two, in a sneering tone, said:

“How comes it that the bully fighter of the British, under the cowardly
General Gates, should be so tightly bound, away out in this Indian country,
and a captive to a renegade agent?—ha, ha, ha!”

The pale features of Algernon, as he heard this taunt, grew suddenly
crimson, and then more deadly white than ever—his fingers fairly worked in
their cords, and his respiration seemed almost to stifle him—so powerfully were
his passions wrought upon by the cowardly insults of his adversary; but at
last all became calm and stoical again, when turning to Girty, he coolly examined
him from head to heel, from heel to head and then moving away his
eyes, as if the sight were offensive to him, quietly said:

“An honest man would be degraded by condescending to hold discourse
with so mean a thing as Simon Girty, the renegade.”

At these words Girty started, as if bit by a serpent—the aspect of his dark
sinister features changed to one concentrated expression of hellish rage—his
eyes seemed to turn red—his lips quivered—the nostrils of his flat ugly nose
distended—froth issued from his mouth—while his fingers worked convulsively
at the handle of his tomahawk, and his whole frame trembled like a
tree shaken by a whirlwind. For some time he essayed to speak, in vain;
but at last he hissed forth, as he whirled the tomahawk aloft:

“Die!—dog!—die!”

Ella uttered a piercing shriek of fear, and sprung forward to arrest the
blow; but ere she could have reached the renegade, the axe would have
been buried to the helve in the brain of Algernon, had not a tall powerful
Indian suddenly interposed his rifle between it and the victim.

“Is the great chief a child, or in his dotage,” he said to Girty, in the
Shawanoe dialect, “that he lets passion run away with his reason? Is not
the Big Knife already doomed to the tortures? And would the white chief
give him the death of a warrior?”

“No, by —!” cried Girty, with an oath. He shall have a dog's death!
Right! Mugwaha—right! I thank you for your interference—I was beside
myself. The stake—the torture—the stake—ha, ha, ha!” added he in English,
with a hoarse laugh, which his recent passion made sound fiend-like
and unearthly; and as he concluded, he smote Algernon on the cheek with
the palm of his hand. The latter winced somewhat, but mastered his feelings
and made no reply; and the renegade resuming his former pace, the
party again proceeded in silence.

Towards night, Ella became so fatigued and exhausted by the long day's

march, that it was with the greatest difficulty she could move forward at all;
and Girty, taking some compassion on her, ordered the party to halt, until
a rough kind of litter could be prepared, on which being seated, she was
borne forward by four of the Indians. At dark they halted at the base of a
hill, where they encamped and found a partial shelter from the wind and
rain. At daylight they again resumed their journey, and by four o'clock in
the afternoon arrived at the river, which they immediately crossed in their
canoes, and, as the water was found in a good stage, did not land until they
reached the first bend of the Miami, the place agreed on for the meeting between
Girty and Wild-cat.

As the latter chief and his party had not yet made their appearance, Girty
and his band went ashore with their prisoners, and took shelter under
one of the largest trees in the vicinity, to await their coming. Of this expected
meeting, the captives as yet knew nothing; and it was of course
not without considerable surprise, mingled with a saddened joy, that they
observed the approach, some half an hour later, of their friends and enemies.

Ella, on first perceiving their canoes silently advancing up the stream,
and who were their occupants, started up with a cry of joy, which was the
next moment saddened, by the thought that she was only welcoming her relatives
to a miserable doom. Still it was a joy to know they were yet alive;
and as the sinking heart is ever buoyed up with hope, until completely engulfed
in the dark billows of despair—so she could not, or would not, altogether
banish the animating feeling, that something might yet interfere to
save them all from destruction. As the canoes touched the shore, Ella
sprang forward to greet her adopted mother and father; but her course was
suddenly checked, by one of the Indian warriors, who, grasping her somewhat
roughly by the arm, with a gutteral grunt and fierce gesture of displeasure,
pointed her back to her former place. Ella, downcast and frightened,
tremblingly retraced her steps, and could only observe the pale faces
and fatigued looks of her relatives and the little girl at a distance; but she
saw enough to send a thrill of anguish to her heart; and Girty, who perceived
the expressions of agony her sweet features now displayed, at once
advanced to her, and, modulating his voice somewhat from its usual tones,
said:

“Grieve not, Ella. I will endeavor to procure you an interview with
your friends.”

The kindness manifested in the tones of the speaker, caused Ella to look
up with a start of surprise and hope; and thinking he might perhaps be
moved to mercy, by a direct appeal to his better feelings, she replied, energetically,
with a flush on her now animated countenance:

“O, sir! I perceive you are not lost to all feelings of humanity.” Here
the compression of Girty's lips, and a knitting together of his shaggy brows,
warned Ella she was treading on dangerous ground, and she quickly added:
“All of us are liable to err; and there may be circumstances, unknown to
others, that force us to be, or seem to be, that which in our hearts we are
not; and to do acts which our calm moments of reason tell us are wrong,
and which we afterwards sincerely regret.”

“I know not that I understand you,” said the renegade, evasively.

“To be more explicit, then,” rejoined Ella, “I trust that you, Simon
Girty, whose acts hitherto have been such as to draw down reproaches and
even curses upon your head, from many of your own race, may now be
induced, by the prayer of her before you, to do an act of justice and generosity.”

“Speak out your desire!” returned Girty, as Ella, evidently fearful of
broaching the subject too suddenly, paused, in order to observe the effect
of what had already been said. “Speak out briefly, girl; for yonder stands
Wild-cat awaiting me.”

“O, then let me implore you to listen, and God grant your heart may be
touched by my words!” rejoined Ella, passionately, as she fancied she saw
something of relentment in his stern features. “Look yonder! Behold
that poor old man!—whose head is already sprinkled with the silvery
threads of over fifty winters—beside whom stands the companion of his
sorrows—both of whose lives have been spent in quiet, honest pursuits—
whose doors have ever stood open—whose board has ever been free to the
needy wayfarer. You yourself have been a partaker of their hospitality,
in their own home—which, alas! I have since learned is in ashes—and can
testify to their liberality and kindness. Is this a proper return therefor,
think you?”

“But did not he, yon gray-headed man, then and there curse me to my
face?” returned the renegade, fiercely, in whose eye could be seen the cold
sullen gleam of deadly hate; “and shall I, the outcast of my race—I, whose
deeds have made the boldest tremble—I, whose name is a by-word for
curses—now spare him, that has defied and called down God's maledictions
on me?”

“O, yes! yes!” cried Ella, energetically. “Convince him, by your acts
of generosity, that you are not deserving of his censure, and he, I assure
you, will be eager to do you justice. O, return good for evil, where evil
has been done you, and God's blessing, instead of His curse will be yours!”

“It may be the Christian's creed to return good for evil,” answered Girty,
with a strong emphasis on the word Christian, accompanied by a sneer;
“but by —! such belongs not to me, nor to those I mate with! Hark you,
Ella Barnwell! I could be induced to do much for you—for I possess for
you a passion stronger than I have ever before felt for any human being—but
were I ever so much disposed to grant your request, it is now beyond
my power.”

“As how?” asked Ella, quickly.

“Listen! I will tell you briefly. When first I saw, I felt I loved you,
and from that moment resolved you should be mine. Nay, do not shudder
so, and turn away, and look so pale—a worse fate than being the wife of
a British agent might have been apportioned you. To win you by fair
words, I knew at once was out of the question—for one glance showed me
my rival. Besides, I was not handsome, I knew—had not an oily tongue,
and did not like the plan of venturing too much among those who have good
reasons for fearing and hating me,—therefore I resolved on your capture.
I had already meditated an attack on some of the settlers in the vicinity,
and I resolved that both should be accomplished at one time. The result
you know. Younker and his wife became my prisoners. This was done
for two purposes. First, to revenge me for the insult heaped upon Simon
Girty. Secondly, to spare their lives; for had it not been for my positive
injunctions, they would have shared the fate of their neighbors. My design,
I say, was to spare their lives and send them back, whenever it could
be done with safety, provided they showed any signs of contrition. Did
they? No, by heavens! they again upbraided me to my face. I was again
cursed. My blood is hot—my nature revengeful. That moment sealed their
doom, I gave them up to Peshewa. They are no longer my prisoners.
For their lives you must plead with him. I can do nothing. Have you
more to ask?”

Girty, toward the last, spoke rapidly, in short sentences, as one to whom
the conversation was disagreeable; and Ella listened breathlessly, with a
pale cheek and trembling form; for she saw, alas! there was nothing favorable
to be gained. As he concluded, she suddenly started, clasped her hands
together, and looked up into his stern countenance, with a wild, thrilling expression,
saying, in a trembling voice:

“You have said you love me!”

“I repeat it.”

“Then, for God's sake, as you are a human being, and hope for peace in
this world and salvation in the next—restore me—restore us all to our
homes!—and to my dying day will I bless and pray for you.”

“Umph!” returned the renegade, dryly; “I had much rather hear your
sweet voice, though in anger, than to merely think you may be praying for
me at a distance. But I see Wild-cat is getting impatient;” and as he concluded,
he turned abrutly on his heel, and advanced to Peshewa—who was
now standing with his warriors and prisoners on the bank of the stream,
some fifty paces distant, awaiting a consultation with him—while Ella hid her
face in her hands and wept convulsively.

“Welcome, Peshewa!” said Girty, as he approached the chief. You and
your band are here safe, I perceive; and by —! you have timed it well,
too, for we have only headed you by half an hour.”

“Ugh!” grunted Wild-cat, with that look and gutteral sound peculiar to
the Indian. “Kitchokema has learned Peshewa is here!”

“Come, come,” answered the renegade, in a somewhat nettled manner,
“no insinuations! I saw Peshewa when he arrived.”

“But could not leave the Big Knife squaw to greet him,” added the Indian.

“Why, I am not particularly fond of being hurried in my affairs, you
know.”

“But there may be that which will not leave Kitchokema slow to act, in
safety,” rejoined Wild-cat, significantly.

“How, chief! what mean you?” asked Girty, quickly.

“The Shemanoes[1] —”

“Well?” said Girty.

“Are on the trail,” concluded Wild-cat, briefly.

“Ha!” exclaimed the renegade, with a start, involuntarily placing his
hand upon the breach of a pistol in his girdle. “But are you sure, Peshewa?”

“Peshewa speaks only what he knows,” returned the chief, quietly.

“Speak out, then—how do you know?” rejoined Girty, in an excited tone.

“Peshewa a chief,” answered the Indian, in that somewhat obscure and
metaphorical manner peculiar to his race. “He sleeps not soundly on the
war-path. He shuts not his eyes when he enters the den of the wolf. He
saw the camp-fires of the pale-face.”

Such had been the fact. Knowing that his trail was left broad and open,
and that in all probability it would soon be followed, Wild-cat had been diligently
on the watch; and as his course had been shaped in a roundabout,
rather than opposite direction (as the reader might at first glance have supposed)
from that taken by Boone, he and his band, by reason of this, had
encamped, on the night in question, not half a mile distant from our old
hunter, but on the other side of the ridge. Ascending this himself, to note
if any signs of an enemy were visible, Peshewa had discovered the light of

Boone's fire, and traced it to its source. Without venturing near enough to
expose himself, the wily savage had, nevertheless, gone sufficiently close to
ascertain they were the foes of his race. His first idea had been to return,
collect a part of his warriors, and attack them; but prudence had soon got
the better of his valor; from the fact, as he reasoned, that his band were
now in the enemy's country, where their late depredations had already
aroused the inhabitants to vengeance; and he neither knew the force of
Boone's party—for the reader will remember they were concealed in a
cave—nor what other of his foes might be in the vicinity;—besides which,
his purpose had been accomplished, and he was now on the return with his
prisoners;—the whole of which considerations, had decided him to leave them
unmolested, and ere daylight resume his journey; so that, even should they
accidently come upon his trail, he would be far enough in advance to reach
and cross the river before them. Such was the substance of what Wild-cat,
in his own peculiar way, now made known to Girty; and having inquired
out the location distinctly, the latter exclaimed:

“By heavens! I remember leaving that ridge away to the right, which
proves that the white dogs must have been on my trail. I took pains enough
to conceal it before that night; but if they got the better of me, I don't
think they did of the rain that fell afterwards,—so that they have doubtless
found themselves on a fool's errand, long ere this, and given up the search.
Besides, should they reach the river's bank, they have no means of crossing,
and therefore we are safe.”

Wild-cat seemed to muse on the remarks of Girty, for a moment or two,
and then said:

“Why did Mishemenetoc[2] give the chief cunning, but that he might use
it against his foes?—why caution, but that he might avoid danger?”

“Why that, of course, is all well enough at times,” answered Girty;”
but I don't think either particular cunning or caution need be exercised
now—from the fact that I don't believe there is any danger. Even should the
enemies you saw be fool-hardy enough to follow us, they are not many in
number probably, and will only serve to add a few more scalps to our girdles.
However, we are safe for to-night, at all events; for if they reach
the river, as I said before, they won't be able to cross, unless they make a
raft or swim it; and you may rest assured, Peshewa, they will sleep on the
other side, if for nothing else than their own safety.”

“What, therefore, does my brother propose?” asked Wild-cat.

“Why, I am for encamping, as soon as we can find a suitable spot—say
within a mile of here—for by —! I am not only hungry but cold, and my
very bones ache, from travelling in this untimely storm, which I perceive
is on the point of clearing up.”

“Peshewa likes not sleeping with danger so near,” replied the savage.

“Well, I'm not afraid,” rejoined Girty, laying particular stress on the
latter word; “and so suppose you take the prisoners, with a part of the band,
and go forward, while myself and the balance remain behind to reconnoitre
in the morning; for by —! that will be time enough to look for the lazy
white dogs. Yet stay!” he added, a moment after, as if struck by a new
thought. “Suppose you take the two Big Knives, and leave the squaws
with me—for being very tired, they will only be a drag upon your party—
and then you can have the stakes ready for the others, if you get in first,
so that we can have the music of their groans to make us merry on our
second meeting.”

To this latter proposition, the chief gave a grunt of assent, and the whole
matter being speedily arranged, the council ended.

The conversation between these two worthies having been carried on in
the Indian dialect, was of course wholly unintelligible to Mrs. Younker and
her husband, who were standing near; and trying in vain, for some time, to
gain a clue to the discussion, the good lady at last gave evidence, that if her
body and limbs were weary, her tongue was not; and that with all the
warnings she had received, her old habits of volubility had not as yet been
entirely superceded by thoughtful silence.

“I do wonder what on yarth,” she said, “that thar red-headed Simon Girty,
and that thar ripscallious old varmint, as calls himself a chief, be coniving
at?—and why the pesky Injens don't let me and Ella and the rest on'em come
together agin, as we did afore? Thar she stands—the darling—as pale
nor a lily, and crying like all nater, jest as if her little heart war a going
to break and done with it. I 'spect the varmints is hatching some orful
plans to put us out o' the way—prehaps to hitch us to the stake and burn us
all to cinder, like they did our housen, and them things. Well, Heaven's
will be done!—as Preacher Allprayer said, when they turned him out o'
meeting for gitting drunk and swearing—the dear good man!—but I do wish,
for gracious sake, I could only jest change places with 'em—ef jest for five
minutes—and I reckon as how they'd be glad to quit their gibberish, and
talk like Christian folks, once in thar sneaking lives! Thar, they're done
now, I do hope to all marcy's sake! and I reckons as how we'll soon have
the gist on't.

The foregoing remarks of Mrs. Younker, were made in a low tone, and
evidently not intended, like Dickens' Notes, for general circulation—the
nearly fatal termination of a former speech of hers, having taught her to be
a little cautious in the camp of the enemy. The conclusion was succeeded
by a stare of surprise, on being civilly informed by Girty, that she was
now at liberty to join Ella as soon as she pleased.

“Well now that's something like,” returned the dame, with a smile that
was intended to be a complimentary one; “and shows, jest as clear as any
thing, that thar is a few streaks o' human nater in you arter all.” Then,
as if fearful the permission would be countermanded, the good lady at once
set off in haste to join her adopted daughter.

Subsequent events, however, soon changed the favorable opinion Mrs.
Younker had began to entertain of Girty—particularly when she discovered,
as she imagined, that the liberty allowed her, had only been as a ruse to
withdraw her from her husband—who, as she departed, had been immediately
hurried away, without so much as a parting farewell.

Orders now being rapidly given by Girty and Wild-cat, were quickly and
silently executed by their swarthy subordinates; and in a few minutes, the
latter chief was on his way, with four warriors, the two male prisoners and
the little girl—Oshasqua, to whom the latter had been consigned by Girty,
as the reader will remember, and who still continued to accompany Wild-cat,
refusing to leave her behind.

When informed by Girty, in an authoritive tone, that he must join the
detachment of Wild-cat, Algernon turned toward Ella, and in a trembling
voice said: “Farewell, dear Ella! If God wills that we never meet again
on earth, let us hope we may in the Land of Spirits;” and ere she, overcome
by her emotion, had power to reply, he had passed on beyond the reach
of her silvery voice.

Immediately on the departure of Peshewa, Girty ordered the canoes to be
drawn ashore and concealed in a thicket near by, where they would be
ready in case they should be wanted for another expedition; and then leading
the way himself, the party proceeded slowly up the Miami, for about a
mile, and encamped for the night, within a hundred yards of the river.