 | CHAPTER XIII. The trapper's bride, or, Spirit of adventure |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
In the forming of those purple-tinted
hues that color the schemes and bright
anticipations of future happiness, and
which lovers are apt to indulge in, the
hours of sun-light sped away with our
fond pair. They seemed never to tire
or weary of talking and listening to each
other. Their words were invested with
a meaning, a charm that rendered them
tenfold interesting to one another, but
which, were we to repeat them, we fear
would appear both dull and commonplace
to our reader's ears.
It was late in the afternoon, and the
dusky shades of evening had spread
wide over the heavens, and rendered
misty and indistinct the objects that
break and diversify the surface of mother
earth, by their darkening folds, ere
Charles and Coquese bethought themselves
of the necessity of returning to the
village. They were now all in all to
each other, and could they live in one
another's company they would have
been content to have passed all their
lives away, far from the busy, changing
world, and never have asked for any of
its varied, artificial pleasures, or its numerous
and differing occupations. So
they thought and felt at this moment, but
now they must part again, and remember
that there were other beings in the world
beside themselves; a fact which they
were apt to forget while together. As
before, they took the path leading to the
village, which Coquese had chosen, she
leaning fondly on the arm of Charles,
not for support, for her footsteps were
light and elastic as the fawn's, that
bounds so lightly over the forest path,
but she loved to feel his arm gently and
fondly supporting her; it was a token,
a proof of all the love and fondness she
wished and believed he felt for her; and
it was enough for her happiness that it
was his own dear self, whom she so
deeply loved, so fondly clung to. This
feeling that he was by her side, that his
loved hand was supporting her steps and
protecting her way, should it not render
her happy? We leave for lovers such
as they were, to solve this question, and
comprehend these feelings, for we believe
they only can rightly judge them.
When they entered the village, they
were met by M. Boileau, who was just
returning to his own lodge. He cordially
returned the salutation of Charles, and,
arrived at the door of his lodge, invited
him to enter. Charles readily accepted
his invitation; on entering, he saw M.
Boileau's wife, to whom he was introduced
by his host. She was a fine,
matronly-looking squaw, apparently much
younger than her husband; she looked
not more than twenty-five, so smooth
and fresh was her rich, olive skin, so
clear and bright her dark, beautiful eyes,
so light and graceful her movements, so
springy and elastic her step. She was
not so tall as Coquese, but perfectly
straight, and her form developed the most
exquisite and beautiful symmetry of
graceful proportions. There was, perhaps,
a slight, very slight tendency to
emboinpoint, which some would have
said, detracted from her beauty; but in the
eyes of their visitor, a full, plump form,
and finely rounded limbs, were associated
with rosy, lively health, and a sweet disposition;
it gave an additional charm
was luxuriant, and black as the raven's
plumes, and unlike most of the Indians,
who pay comparatively little attention to
dressing their hair, her's was arranged
with scrupulous neatness, and with becoming
taste. It was parted on the middle
of the forehead, and combed smoothly
down on either side; the long tresses were
gathered in braids, or plaits, at the back
of the head, and confined by a very pretty
comb; her dress was a pretty calico,
made very loose, low on the shoulders,
leaving exposed her beautiful neck, and
the top of her swelling bosom. Her features
were rather small, and perfectly
regular. In this simple, unpretending
attire, with none of the ornaments that
fashionable ladies use to display favorably
their beauties, and conceal, or often
supply the defects of nature, she would
unhesitatingly have been called a beautiful
woman, even in the most fashionable
and fastidious circles. There was an
air of refinement and delicacy in her
manners, a native grace and ease, a kindliness
of bearing which delighted and
charmed our hero. She spoke both the
English, French, and Delaware languages
with fluency and sweetness. Her voice
was soft and low. She asked Charles
if he had been long from the white settlements,
and if he was pleased with a
forest life? She inquired kindly after
his family that he had left behind, and
remarked that he must find it difficult to
correspond with them in this part of the
country. Charles answered readily that
he was much pleased with the hunter's
pursuits, and his free, roving life; there
was a freedom and careless pleasure in
it that suited his taste. His friends, he
said he had not heard from for several
months; he left them in the fall, at which
time they were well and happy; but
since he left St. Louis he had received
no news of them; and as for corresponding
with them, he said he did not expect
to be able to do so when he entered the
forests, unless by accident he should
have an opportunity.
She said that it must have been a hard
thing for him to have undertaken such a
journey; to have left all his friends and
his pleasant home, and alone to journey
so far to these forests, where he could
find neither cities nor towns. She also
remarked that he must, and doubtless
had already missed many of the comforts
which surrounded him in his native home.
But Charles soon assured her that he
suffered not for the lack of any comfort,
that his health had been, and was excellent,
and he regretted nothing but the
presence of his friends, to whom he expressed
his warm attachment, to render
him completely happy. “It is with a
better appetite,” said he, “that I sit
down to eat the food I have taken with
my own labor, and prepared with my
own hands; and I relish it far better
than the spiced dishes I have eaten in
the city.”
Charles then spoke to the younger
sisters of Coquese, who stood by their
mother listening to the conversation, and
casting wonderous looks towards him.—
He would have known their relationship
to Coquese at once, from their resemblance
to her, had she not before told
him of them. These three daughters
were all his children; and we have
already said sufficient of Coquese to
convey to the reader the fact, that they
must be beautiful children, as they resembled
her. The youngest was about
six years old, and Charles thought one
of the prettiest and most interesting children
he had ever seen. She was longing
to come to him to see the beautiful
sparkling pin he wore in his cravat,
which had attracted her attention.—
When he called her to come and see
him, she was afraid a little, but Coquese
encouraged her, and took her seat by
Charles' side. This emboldened her,
and she came up to him looking timidly
in his face. He raised her on his knee
and told her she was a good little girl, he
knew. He played with her dark, curling
hair, and soon she lost all timidity,
and began to play, with all the full confidence
and gaiety of her age, with him as
if he had been an old friend. His open,
handsome face had, at first, won her
liking, and now he took so much pains to
amuse her. She loved him; she looked
up in his face after a few minutes, and,
pointing to his pin, asked him to give it
to her, it was so pretty. Charles handed
minutes, and turning it over and over,
she put it in her dress, and, laughing, she
jumped down and went to her other sister
to show it to her.
“Why Leila,” said Coquese, “you
are not going to carry off the gentleman's
pin, are you?”
She said nothing in reply, but taking
it in her hand, with wistful looks, she
brought it back to him. Charles then
took a pretty string of beads from his
pocket, and told her he would give her
them. She was delighted with them,
and went jumping away to show them to
her mother and sister, with great glee.—
This made Charles her favorite at once.
He was treated by all the members of
the family as an old friend, though they
were entirely ignorant (the rest, I mean)
of the intimacy and affection which existed
between him and Coquese. There
was, in their manner towards him, just
sufficient ceremony used to make him
feel they were anxious and desirous to
please him, without producing the restraint
and reserve which make the introduction
of a gentleman in fashionable
life such an awkward performance as to
render it a bore.
He was cordially invited to remain
and sup with them. He had no excuse
for declining, had he felt disposed to do
so, which, however, was by no means
his inclination. With pleasure he accepted
this invitation. A glance from
Coquese assured him of the pleasure she
received at his course. The family all
sat down to the table to partake of a
simple, substantial meal, which was prepared
for them. The display of dishes
upon the table attracted his notice, and
very much pleased him. There was no
useless array of plates, and cups, and
bowls, and pitchers, and the endless
amount of dishes which burden the tables
of the wealthy white at his sumptuous
repasts. To each one there was
distributed a wooden bowl and a wooden
plate; in fact, all the articles of service
on the table were made of wood, of
pretty style and extremely neat. They
were made from the white wood tree,
and looked as smooth and white almost
as porcelain ware. Their meal consisted
of meats, both fresh and dried, and of
various kinds, that the game of the
woods afforded, and might tempt the
palate of an epicure. At their table he
found what was a great luxury and rarity;
good flour biscuit, and new, fresh
butter, cream and milk, also in abundance.
M. Boileau always kept a supply
of these for his table, if possible.—
His wife had learned how to make butter,
and she constantly kept one or two
cows; a piece of luxury and refinement
the Indian is not guilty of often, though
there are a few tribes amongst whom the
missionary has settled, and who have
been led by him to adopt some of the
habits and customs peculiar to the white
man, and to follow some of his pursuits.
The raising of cattle, and the arts of
husbandry are attended to by them to a
limited extent, but these instances are
rare; and in this tribe M. Boileau's
cows were looked upon as a sufferance,
tolerated out of respect and affection for
him. The Indian despises real, genuine,
downright labor. If he labors at all, it
is an exertion mixed with sport or fame.
It is either in the chase or in war.
But, to come back from this brief
digression. There was one other article
which our hero found upon his host's
table, which he did not expect to find.—
Coffee, excellent delicious coffee, prepared
after the very best manner. The
natives are very fond of this drink, and
always, in their purchases, make it an essential.
Charles was seated at table
next Coquese. She was very happy,
but did not converse much. She frequently
would blush as she caught
Charles' eye fixed upon her; and as she
helped him to some dish, or received
something from his hand,—for he was as
attentive and polite in serving her as if
he were sitting by the side of some fine,
gay, city belle,—she answered his questions
with much modesty and simplicity,
but did not attempt to lead the conversation.
She chose rather to listen to the
conversation of her parents with Charles,
and was highly gratified with observing
the great interest and satisfaction they
took in what he said.
M. Boileau led the conversation to
those subjects which concern and govern
the fluency and ease, upon such topics,
of a man of the world. His remarks
showed a deep and thorough knowledge
of mankind, and of the principles of
government. Charles was surprised to
find so much and so full an acquaintance
with the laws and politics of different
governments in him. Many of the
manners and customs of society he condemned
in the severest terms. Their
direct, their only influence upon men, he
thought, was to render them selfish,
heartless and deceitful. Ceremony and
form, he said, were but a cloak with
which men covered up and hid their real
feelings and character. The selfish love
of distinction which regarded only the
fame of the possessor, and was sought
for that end alone, he said, was the
prevailing spirit of men in public life
and high stations; and to this cause,
said he, is attributed the fact, that the
more solid and common duties which
make for the welfare of the whole people,
when faithfully performed, are so
disregarded and neglected for the more
showy and less useful duties of office.—
The incumbent of office loves himself
better than the nation; but he does not
want them to think so by any means,
and blinds the mass by doing, perhaps,
some notorious duty or service, while he
avoids the quiet parts of his duty.—
Wealth, too, exercises a strangely undue
and degrading influence upon mankind.
It is almost, if not quite, omnipotent in
the world. It supplies the lack of head
and brains, wit and learning. In every
occupation, in every pursuit, in all
branches of business that men spend
their lives in, the one idea, the accumulation
of wealth, is the motive, the sole
incentive to labor. In every situation of
life, in every branch of society, this is
the idol which is worshipped most faithfully
and constantly. By this test a man
is tried. Is he wealthy, or is he not?—
If he is, then will his stupid words be
stamped as witty and humorous, and
toadies will echo with laughing voice
and swelling sides the poorest jest.—
When he talks politics, he is a Solon in
wisdom. When he talks religion, he
is a Paley or a Dick. In all things he
stands confessed a monstrous wise man.
So say the truckling sycophants, while
they all in their hearts say he is an
ass.
“A most lamenting and humiliating
picture of society, is it not?” said M.
Boileau. “But not, for that reason, the
less true, I fear. Will it ever change,
and for the better? Will the time ever
arrive, when the mind shall be considered
and treated by the great mass of mankind
as though it were of equal consequence
and importance with the body, or
the trappings that can adorn it? But,”
continued M. Boileau, “I have been
speaking of the manners, and customs,
and feelings of the white man, in all
the points I have enumerated. I can
now point you, with pleasure, to his less
enlightened, uncivilized brother for a
contrast.”
“But are there no grades of distinction
among the red men?” said Charles, “are
they not in their manner of life as selfish
as the white?”
“No,” said M. Boileau, “I feel assured
that I can say no, to the question,
without fear of contradiction. With
them form and ceremony holds no place;
everything is plain, simple, straight-forward.
They speak and act by feeling,
not from rule; distinction follows, never
creates this. Station and rank are the
rewards of worth and sterling qualities.
You cannot find a chief who is a coward;
nay, more, who is surpassed by any of
his nation for bravery. Among the Indians,
he and he alone, who possesses
virtues and qualifications that can benefit
his tribe, or such traits and qualities as
are deemed virtues among them, is the
great and honored. The bold and daring
warrior, though his wealth may all be
reckoned and summed up in the price of
his weapons, and a poorly, scantily furnished
lodge, is both highly honored and
esteemed. His voice is heard first and
with the most eagerness in council; his
views and plans are highly considered,
and weigh most with them; his influence
is both felt and acknowledged. So
long as he practices the virtues that have
distinguished him, and is devoted to the
interests of his tribe, and faithfully serves
them, he maintains his exalted rank.
or his heart become timid or cowardly;
let his strong arm become weak and
slow, and he falls to give place to a better
man. But while the brave and deserving
man, though wanting all else but these
good qualities, is thus honored, the rich,
the wealthy, simply are pitied and despised;
they are considered like squaws,
and not fit to be trusted with any important
duty, or office, nor wise enough to
be heard in council, or possessed of aught
that entitles him either to respect or
esteem.”
“I can but agree with you in what you
have said of the habits and ways of our
enlightened nations,” said Charles, “and
I am ready to believe you have spoken
rightly of the character of the Indian,
from what I have already observed from
my intercourse with them. I have noticed
with very great interest and pleasure,
the readiness, the cheerfulness with
which your adopted people divide and
share among each other the comforts, and
necessaries, and luxuries they hold.
They appear to know no difference of
caste or grade in social and domestic life;
they seem to set but little value upon the
articles of property they possess. It is
only when in the deliberations and general
affairs of the tribe, it becomes necessary
to call forth the talent and courage of
the nation, that they make the distinction
of their great men known; this is the
only distinction which comes from great
deeds achieved in behalf of the tribe and
their country; and he who has most
bravely and skillfully led on his followers,
who has most successfully overcome and
vanquished his enemies in war, or whose
daring and dexterity have best supplied
the wants of the tribe in the successful
chase; he is the really enviable and honored
man. The acts of the Indian are
true to his professions. I wish with all
my heart that we who profess to know so
much more, and so much better, the great
ends and purposes of life, could be induced
to adopt the same rule, and the
same course with regard to what we
believe. The conduct of men to each
other in civilized countries, is but a sorry
proof of the sincerity of their professions;
nay, worse, it is proof of their want of
truth. They universally profess and
declare that the honest, enlightened, benevolent,
poor man, is more worthy of
their respect and esteem, than the deceitful,
ignorant, mean, rich man; yet do
they constantly and habitually turn their
backs upon the subjects of their praise,
or treat them coldly, and with evident
lack of respect, while they court and pay
homage to those characters they either
do, or affect to despise.”
“Wealth,” said M. Boileau, “as I
have before observed, is the touchstone
that tries the worth of men in society,
and proves their capacity for any and
every station in life, and insures them
success, or rather approbation or applause,
in whatever they may do, or attempt to
do. All this it does by force of the extravagant
and exalted worth men blindly
invest it with. It is all a complete mockery,
a sham; and what is more, all know
it to be so; to be a perfect farce, at which
all the world plays. Yet such is the
power and weight of wealth, foolishly
enough given it, that none dare tear away
the flimsy covering which hides, or shelters
the fools and their folly beneath, and
show up boldly its real worth, and set it
in its proper place; but on the contrary,
all strive as much as possible to cheat
and deceive others, and themselves too.
They profess to estimate it at its proper
value; their actions give the lie to their
professions. While such a course is
pursued by the community at large, never
can the great and glorious principles
which should govern men, and which,
indeed, most men acknowledge prevail
and bless the world; they have been
heretofore, and will ever continue to be,
while such a use is made of them, inefficient
and of no avail. A principle of
conduct professed, and acted against, is
almost as good as having no principle at
all; not quite, however.”
“But,” said Charles, “I look upon it
as proving something in favor of society,
that they deem it necessary to attribute
these principles and their character, to
those persons whom they would honor.
It is the first step in reforming error, to
know it to be an error, and when one
becomes ashamed to avow his practices,
but seeks to hide it by his professions,
or both must go.”
“I can but look upon this fact that you
have just spoken of,” said M. Boileau,
“as an idle ceremony, a mere pretence;
ah! worse than a mere empty form. It
serves to lull and hush the reproaches of
conscience, and the voice of truth that
speaks to them from their own hearts,
for the deceit they practice upon themselves,
and confirm them in their base
course of life. The true character is
often developed by the changes and accidents
that occur in this changing world.
To-day this man is honored and treated
as if no distinction or regard were too
great to be shown him; while that poor,
forsaken, friendless, unknown being who
walks by his side in the streets, or meets
him at the corner, to ask in vain of him
for relief from poverty's sharp pains, is
unheeded, or spurned from his path —
How do these two men differ? asks the
stranger who observes them both. One,
the first is a man of wealth; he wears
the golden cloak that hides a heart the
most selfish and depraved; he makes his
own happiness his only, his sole study;
if he ever thinks of others, it is to despise,
or hate, or turn them to account in ministering
to his own selfish gratification;
they, poor fools, do not, or will not think
so, or if they should, dare not utter such
a thought. The poor man, how stands
it with him? has he the same feelings,
the same selfish character? No, he has
seen better days, and he was then a
blessing to those about him; his hand
was open to give to the needy, his heart
was quick to feel, and ready to sympathize
with their troubles. He ever
thought more of the welfare of others,
than of his own happiness alone; but a
sweeping calamity fell upon him, and
deprived him of all his wealth, and like
a star he falls, and is plunged in a deep
oblivion; no one of his companions of
his happy, prosperous days, knows him;
they look strangely upon him, and pass
him by. He is virtuous, he is honest;
they cannot deny it, and they will sometimes,
in confidence among a few select
friends, that used to feast upon his generosity,
say (with regret of good things
they had from him), he was a fine fellow
when he was worth anything; I'm sorry
for him. They were sorry for themselves.
But change the course of life;
a little time, and we see the real monster,
the vicious, golden-plastered man, stripped
of his costly trappings, all his gold
had gone; he is indeed to be pitied, for
it was his all; and dark clouds of wretchedness
and contempt quickly cover him
in the impenetrable folds of forgetfulness.
Nobody knows him, or cares to know
him. Now say those who used to fawn
upon him and flatter him, and boast of
his acquaintance, I always knew he was
a fool, and a knave, into the bargain; I'm
glad of it. But the same wind that scattered
his wealth and blew away his
admirers and false-hearted friends, came
to the noble, poor man, who was forgotten;
but not with anger or loss; he had
nothing to lose but his integrity, and men
think such a loss small, too small, to
grieve for; any change that comes to
him must be for the better; and so it
was. This gale that wrecked the hopes
of the rich man, was laden with wealth
for him; it brings him gold, it makes
him a rich man. The news spreads as
on the wings of the swift-flying clouds.
With haste those who lately scorned him,
now seek him, they humbly bow down
to kiss the golden hem of his robes; literally
true is it, they worship this, and
not the possessor. They fawn, they
flatter, they are loud in his praises.—
True, he was a noble-hearted man before,
but unfortunately he was poor; now he
has got something better than a feeling,
generous heart, and educated mind.—
Why, my dear sir, he has got gold,
he is wealthy; who can help admiring
him now?”
“This is the consistency and wisdom
of boasted civilization,” said M. Boileau.
“I have seen just such events as I have
related,” said he, in a serious, half sad
tone, as of one thinking upon some unpleasant
scene of the past; and then
added, in a cheerful tone, “let the civilized
world have its own way, but give
me the integrity—the honest simplicity
of the Indian character, ignorant and unenlightened
though he may be. He
knows enough to stick close to the side
and serve with all his power his courageous
not more faithfully than in adversity;
in smiling sunshine, and when
dark and threatening clouds cover the
sky, with his life he will defend and serve
his friend. Ah, more than this. His
love and devotion increase as grow and
deepen the perils and dangers that surround
that friend. In poverty and
wealth he equally honors and esteems
him. And, too, on the converse, the
sluggard and coward, the cheat and the
knave, is despised and unheeded, though
he may possess wealth enough to buy
all the property of the rest of the tribe.
“There is in the wide range of society
nothing so humiliating, nothing so degrading
to the higher nature of man, as
the spectacle of a noble, gifted, learned
man, who towers far above those about
him in his expanded and highly cultivated
intellect, bending and bowing before
the golden calf, prostituting his great and
god-like powers for the gratification of a
vulgar, ignorant, degraded man. That
he may gain his gold or his favor he sells
his gifts, and often vilely, basely does so,
for simple wealth. That his purse may
be filled, he rifles his own heart and
wounds his brain. Alas for humanity,
that it should be so. That man should
be so blind, so simple, as to destroy all
that is actually and really of worth and
importance to him, or degrade it for
such a paltry reward.”
Charles could not deny the truth of
the reflection which M. Boileau then
made upon society. He felt its justness,
and feeling it, he was humbled at
the thought. But this did not prevent
his feeling surprised that such views
and such words should come from the
mouth of one who lived far from cities
and the refined world, in the depths of
the forest, and in the companionship of
untutored savages; and he could not but
feel, as he looked around upon his little
family, and saw them all listening attentively
to their father, that they would,
they must grow up well educated and
informed, with correct and reasonable
views of life under such a teacher. And
he anew congratulated himself upon
the chance that brought him acquainted
with them, and, as he hoped, would lead
him to a still closer connection with
them.
After tea Le Beaux came into the
lodge, and was soon engaged with M.
Boileau in an interesting and absorbing
conversation of a private character.—
This gave Charles an opportunity to pay
more particular and direct attention to
Coquese and her mother.
Coquese was perfectly happy as she
sat by the side of Charles and listened to
his voice, and saw also around them all
those dear friends whom she loved best
on earth. Her spirits were buoyant and
lively, and her native wit and sense displayed
itself in a brilliant and captivating
strain of conversation, that completely
fascinated Charles. It was a delightful
evening he spent in their rustic lodge,
and it was with reluctance, at a late hour,
that he rose to take his leave of them.—
Before doing so, however, he had seized
the opportunity of a few minutes' absence,
on the part of the mother, of
pressing the little hand of Coquese,
which he had stolen unperceived by any
in the room, and expressing to her how
happy he was, and how delighted he was
with her family. These were sweet
words to her ear, and she loved him better
than ever for it. As he was leaving,
M. Boileau pressed him to visit them
often; and with familiarity Charles expressed
to them the very great pleasure
his visit had afforded him, and assured
him that he should have no reason to
complain of his negligence in calling
upon them. And then, bidding them
good night, he and Le Beaux returned to
Wahalla's lodge.
On the way there he was eloquent in
his praises of M. Boileau and his family,
and kept Le Beaux, long after their return,
a listener to his out-pourings of
heart towards them. He had the good
luck, however, to speak to willing and
delighted ears; for Le Beaux loved them
very much. Charles spoke in the highest
terms of the wife's grace and dignity
of manner. Her sweetness of disposition
and her rare beauty were all commented
upon. He wondered at the
facility with which she had acquired
such refined and lady-like manners.—
But, most of all, he was delighted with
witty, so intelligent.
The next day all the hunters of the
camp were busy getting ready for a bear
hunt, which was to come off the day
following. Some of their shaggy fraternity
had been discovered on the high
hills that lay a few miles west of the
village, and it was determined to attack
them, and exterminate the monsters.—
The Indians, however, to tell the truth,
had no other motive but, first, a love for
the dangerous sport, and, second, a desire
for the flesh, which they esteem very
highly. The bear, most common to this
part of the country, is not the common
black bear, that is found in almost every
part of the country, but is of the species
known as the grizzly bear, and is both
stronger, larger and much bolder than
the black bear. The hunting of this
bear is attended with much more risk to
the hunter than almost any other animal,
native of the western forest. When
pursued or wounded, he almost invariably
turns upon his enemies; and wo be
to the luckless victim who falls into his
claws, for, when enraged and infuriated,
he rushes with mad fury upon his tormentors,
and tears them with savage
ferocity, both with teeth and claws.—
The hug of the bear is certain death to
any animate creature that falls into his
embrace, and the more furious he grows,
the tighter he hugs.
Charles was entertained by his host
and young Shoonshoone with many daring
exploits of the tribe, in the hunting
of this animal, that would have made a
less courageous man hesitate about venturing
upon their hiding places. But
this dangerous chase only served to
stimulate and heighten the desire he had
to encounter them. He was fond of
daring sport, and, as we have before
said, a most excellent marksman and
hunter.
One of the most remarkable instances
of this sport occurred to Wahalla, a few
years before, and had gained him a great
name in the tribe for his address and intrepidity.
He was returning alone from
the war path, where he had followed his
most deadly enemy. It had been a long
and perilous undertaking, and after days
and nights of constant vigilance and close
pursuit, he had been at last able to slay
his enemy close to his own village, where
his companions had separated from him,
and he, deeming himself safe, was preparing
to return to his tribe, decked in
the trophies of his bloody victory. For
three days after this Wahalla pursued
his homeward way, devoting but a few
hours of the middle watch of night to
sleep. The fourth night he came to a
woody hill covered with a thick growth
of oak and beech. Wearied with his
long continued efforts, he sat himself
down upon the grass, at the foot of a
wide-spreading oak, whose thick foliage
hid his figure under its heavy cover,
and, resting his rifle by the side of the
tree against which he had seated himself,
he fell asleep.
The streaks of gray dawn were just
stretching along the sky, when, after a
sound slumber, he awoke. On opening
his eyes, the first object that met his
view, was a huge bear, sitting on his
haunches, directly in front of him, and
not more than two yards distant. He
was watching for some movement on the
part of the sleeper, that should give proof
of animation, in order to commence the
attack; for it is a fact in relation to the
bear, that he will touch no dead prey.
Wahalla in a moment saw his danger,
and determined upon the course he would
pursue. He knew that at the first movement
on his part, the bear would be upon
him; and looking him steadily in the
eye, he contrived at the same time to
reach with one hand, his rifle, and slowly
and steadily bringing it down to his knee,
he levelled it deliberately at the head of
the bear; his wish and aim was to strike
him between the eyes; a moment, and
he fired, and instantly springs upon his
feet and draws his hunting-knife; the
bear uttered a wild, fearful scream of
pain and rage, and recovering his feet—
for the fatal shot had knocked him backwards,—sprung
upon Wahalla, with the
fury of a fiend. So sudden was his
bound that Wahalla could not escape his
grasp; his sharp claws pierced his arm,
and tore away the flesh; while the maddened
beast raised his head, showed his
strong jaws, and sharp, fearful-looking
moment, with a presence of mind truly
heroic, Wahalla deliberately marked the
spot upon his broad throat, that should
receive the keen knife, and plunged it
there with a force that buried it deep in
his vitals. It was a fortunate point; the
blood gushed in a flood from the deadly
wound, and with a moan the savage brute
fell dead at his side. He was a huge
beast, and the deed was, even amongst
these bold huntsmen, a theme for wonder
and admiration. It was not accomplished,
however, without cost to Wahalla;
for a long time after, his arms
were supported by a sling, and it was
doubtful whether he would ever recover
the use of them. The wounds were
dreadfully deep, and the flesh awfully
mangled and torn; but with care, they
finally were healed, and Wahalla is now
as strong of arm as before; there are,
however, upon his arms, proofs of the
encounter which will abide with him to
his grave, in the large scars and seams
that are left upon his flesh.
This story was told Charles by Shoonshoone,
who related it with the greatest
interest, and seemed to envy Wahalla the
exploit.
Le Beaux said that the grizzly bear
had been known to run for miles, after
more than ten balls had been lodged in
various parts of his body; and when
overtaken, turn with the greatest fury
upon his pursuers, and make a stout fight.
They not unfrequently, when pinched
with hunger, attack man, though generally,
if left undisturbed, will allow him to
pass unmolested.
Le Beaux attended to all the preparations
necessary both for himself and
Charles. During the course of the day,
Charles had walked through the village
and visited many of the lodges; amongst
others, he paid a visit to the lodges of
the Black Feet, and entered the lodge of
Red Hand, whom he found with his
braves around him; they did not appear
busy like the others, but were lounging
idly about the lodge, smoking, and talking
to each other in their own tongue.
They received him coldly, and treated
him very much as an enemy would have
been treated. The chief, in a supercil
ious manner, asked him if the white chief
was not afraid to go on the bear hunt?
Charles affected not to notice his manner,
but very kindly, and readily replied
that the bear hunt would be very pleasant
for him; that he loved to encounter
dangerous animals, whether bear or any
other that roamed in the forests; that the
greater the danger, the more exciting the
hunt. Red Hand is a great hunter and
warrior, and knows no fear in war, or in
the hunt. His white brother has the
heart of a Delaware, and is, like Red
Hand, afraid of neither man nor beast.
He looked steadily at the chief, as he
said this, and his firm look neither trembled
nor swerved for a single instant.
This act seemed to produce some effect
upon his hearers. It seemed very much
like a defiance of their boasted skill and
strength. The chief muttered a few
words to his followers, in their own
tongue, which Charles did not understand,
but he judged from their looks
that they were amazed at his rashness.
Red Hand then turning to Charles,
cast on him a scowling look, that expressed
the hatred he felt towards him;
and said, “the pale faces have white
hearts, they are cowards; they are afraid
of the Black Feet,—is it not so?”
“The pale faces,” said Charles, “are
a great people; their warriors are many
and strong; but they are friends to the
red men, and would be at peace with
them; but they can punish their enemies
if they do them an injury; they know
no fear, their hearts are strong and
brave.”
This terminated the visit, and Charles
left them to give free utterance to their restrained
feelings of hatred, and form their
plans of vengeance; although there was
no cause, except what they had formed
in their own minds; yet, still they hated
him with all their wills. Charles thought
he perceived in their manner, something
that indicated both contempt for their
entertainers, and satisfied assurance in
themselves. He believed, though he
could not tell why, they had plotted
some scheme which they relied upon with
great certainty; and he resolved not only
to keep a close watch upon them himself,
but also to mention his suspicion to Le
thoughts, he turned his steps to the little
arbor, which he approached by the well-known
path, which had now become
perfectly familiar to him. So absorbed
in his feelings was he, that he did not
observe a stealthy figure that dogged his
steps, and kept close upon his path.—
When he arrived at the bower, he found
Coquese there already. She greeted
him with a fond welcome, and invited
him to take a seat by her. He accepted,
of course, her invitation, and inquired
after her father's family. He expressed
to her great pleasure from his last evening's
visit to her father's family. Coquese
was delighted to think that he was
so favorably impressed from his visit to
her parents. She knew the prejudices
of the whites towards the Indian; and
although she felt persuaded that her dear
Charles must love her kind mother, when
he should become acquainted with her;
yet she could not help feeling some anxiety
upon a subject so intimately connected
with her happiness. After conversing
a short time upon this subject,
she spoke to Charles of Red Hand, and
what he had told her the day before
concerning him, and it appeared to give
her much uneasiness; she dreaded his
power of working harm, and felt now
more than ever terrified at the disposition
which she knew he possessed, of avenging
anything which appeared an obstacle
to his wishes. Charles took her hand
tenderly, and was endeavoring to quiet
her fears, with his promises of protection
and watchfulness of her happiness;
when suddenly and noiselessly, Red
Hand approached the bower, and stood
at the entrance. For a moment, so engaged
with each other were they, that
they did not perceive him. He looked
upon them with a scowling, fiendish expression,
as he contemplated their loving
looks, and familiar conduct towards each
other; and his shrewd mind at once discovered
the truth of their feelings, and
their relations to each other. His worst
fears, and suspicions were proved true.
Coquese, whom he sought from a brutal,
low passion, and whom he was determined
to make his squaw, loved the accursed
pale face. He felt that it was so,
and all the black, devilish passions of his
soul kindled at the thought. He shut his
teeth hard together, and regarded them
for a moment with equal hate, and had
half the purpose within him, to kill them
both on the spot; but it was only for a
second only,—Charles must die by his
hand, and Coquese should yet be his
squaw. This was the second thought,
and he fixed upon it greedily.
All this passed through his mind, in
much less time than we can write it.—
Just as he had arrived at this determination,
Coquese caught a glimpse of his
shadow on the ground, and instantly
looking up at the entrance, beheld him
standing there, with that fiendish expression
still on his face, intently regarding
them. She uttered an exclamation of
surprise and terror,—the blood fled from
her cheeks and neck, and left her pale
and trembling.
Charles at once turned his eyes in the
direction she had looked. Doing so, he
saw the cause of her alarm was the huge
Indian, who remained fixed where he
stood. Charles met his savage scowl
with a calm, determined look, and, in a
stern tone, asked him what his business
was, that made him, in such an insolent
manner, intrude upon their company.
Red Hand's brow was flushed with
anger and hate at these words, and with
a voice full of passion and bitterness, he
said, “Does the pale face think that Red
Hand will allow himself to be questioned
by such as him? What brings the pale
face to the tent of Red Hand's squaw?”
Charles was now in turn angry at the
tone in which Red Hand spoke of Coquese,
as his, and the insolent bearing
he manifested. But quickly replying,
that this was no place or time to dispute
with such a coarse brute as he was, told
him “begone!”
Coquese, who had listened to what
was passing between them, with an anxious
heart, here begged Charles, in
English, not to say anything to anger
him; but to recall what he had just said,
and suffer him to enter, when they might
endeavor to pacify him and make him
friendly to them. This, however, it was
too late to do, could it have been possible
to have achieved such a purpose at the
nothing but vengeance on the object that
had angered him would satisfy his passionate
temper. Without any farther
words, he advanced a step into the
bower. Charles started with a hasty
impulse to throw him out quicker than
he came in; but Coquese laid her hand
upon his arm and entreated him to be
quiet. This checked him, and, in obedience
to her wish, he controlled his
anger.
Coquese now addressed Red Hand
with the words, “Red Hand has unexpectedly
and without giving her notice
of his visit, come to Coquese's private
retreat. What leads the great chief to
this spot?”
Red Hand felt abashed and confused
before the innocent and beautiful girl,
who thus, in a kind manner, addressed
him. After his rude conduct, he would
have liked it far better if she had spoken
harshly and angerly to him. He would
then have had a chance to display his
insolence and impertinence; but this
unlooked-for kindness and words of
respect completely confused him. He
replied, however, rallying his self confidence,
that he came to seek the Valley
Flower for his squaw; that he loved her
and would make her the mistress of his
lodge. He recounted his gallant deeds
and feats in war and the chase, which
had given him so high a rank in his tribe.
And by such arguments as the Indian
lover is wont to use, by extravagant
praise of her beauty and goodness,
sought to win her assent to his proposal.
She listened to him patiently, though
the changing color which came and went
alternately in quick succession showed
that her feelings were deeply affected.—
In truth, she felt that there was great
danger impending over her. This avowal
of Red Hand's wishes with regard to
her, showed her, what she feared before,
that he would become an enemy to her
happiness, and a foe, deadly and cunning,
to her dear lover. But she never faltered
or hesitated for a moment; but as
soon as Red Hand ceased speaking, she
answered him that it could never be;
that her heart was already given away,
and even were it not so, she said she did
not think herself fit to become the squaw
of so great a chief. There were many
other maidens of his own tribe who were
fitted to be the wives of their chief, and
who would delight to accept his vows.
She thanked him for his regard and
esteem for her, but could not, as she
already said, ever be his.
As she spoke, Red Hand's face grew
dark and cloudy. He felt humbled; nay,
he deemed it an insult, that any squaw
should reject his proposals; he, the chief
of his warlike tribe, though he anticipated
her refusal. He immediately turned
and left her presence, muttering as he
did so, some threats against the pale face
who had stolen her away from him.
Charles, who had been sitting by her
side during the dialogue between them,
and who, in spite of himself, was a good
deal amused by the course which the
chief pursued in his proposals to Coquese,
and was also filled with admiration
at the manner in which Coquese
had received them, and replied to him,
now, that he was gone, congratulated
her at the ready means she used to get
rid of him, and silence him forever.
But she was silent and thoughtful.—
She seemed even sad and dispirited, and
did not reply to his words.
Charles asked with an inquiring tone,
if she regretted that he had gone.
“No,” said she, surprised at the question,
“I only fear for you. I heard the
threat he uttered against you as he left,
and I know him too well, not to feel that
you are in danger.” She spoke in a
melting tone of tenderness, and her large
black eyes were turned lovingly upon
him.
He could restrain his feelings no
longer. Her looks, her love for him,
fired his heart, and, seizing her little
hand, he breathed forth into her ear, in
gushing, burning words, and earnest
tones, his love. She felt the blood rush
into her face again, and then she became
pale. Her downcast eyes hid her looks
from him; but the suppressed breathing
and pressure of the little hand he held in
his own, confirmed his hopes.
In a few moments she raised her face,
beaming with happy blushes, and, in
reply to his ardent and repeated wishes,
would ever love him, with her own lips,
she said, “Forever.” He clasped her
in a warm, close embrace, to his heart,
and their lips clung together in a warm,
sweet, long, thrilling kiss; a kiss of love,
that carried with it their heart's best love.
They forgot everything else but their
dear, fond love for each other. It filled
their hearts, and absorbed and overflowed
all their soul. It seemed as if they
never knew what happiness was before,
so completely felicitous were they now.
All around them looked beautiful. The
murmuring flow of the gentle stream that
was just before them, came to their
enraptured ears like sweet music. The
rustling of the leaves, that were stirred
by the soft breeze, whispered love. The
bright flower that decked the luxuriant
and blooming bank, never before looked
half so bright. And, to his eyes, how
beautiful, how surpassingly beautiful,
was the girl that sat by his side and
smiled so fondly upon him. Those
eyes, those dazzling, brilliant, sparkling
eyes! Did he ever see such eyes before?
The stars were dim, when contrasted
with their beaming light. And now,
how fond and lovingly they shone upon
him. And now he glances at the little
hand that was reposing in his clasp—so
tenderly, so affectionately—like the dove
in its nest, or the child on its mother's
bosom. Was he not the most fortunate,
the most favored of men? Was there
such delight, such bliss, as he now felt,
ever before bestowed upon man? How
he chided himself that he so poorly
appreciated, heretofore, those exquisite
perfections and surpassing beauties in his
dear Coquese. How blind and stupid
he must have been! his dear Coquese!
The thought filled his heart with love,
with fondness, with fullest joy. He
looked tenderly upon that sweet face,
that lay confidingly, close upon his
bosom, and in a low, endearing voice,
that thrilled to her very heart, and sent
a sweet thrill of delight throughout all
her being, he softly murmured, “Dearest
Coquese, oh, how much I owe you,
for this happiest moment of my life.—
Would that I could tell you how much,
how deeply I love you; but words are
poor, and but feebly express the feeling
of love that flows in my heart. You
are my life, my all. I feel that I could
not live without you, sweetest, dearest
girl. I loved you when I first beheld
you, as I awoke in your little arbor.—
Your image has ever, from that moment,
been present to my vision. It seemed
as though I had never loved before.—
Feelings as delightful as now kindled in
my heart, and all my life, that had
passed, seemed but a dream, a shadowy
vision, in the comparison. Oh, say
again, sweet one, you love me; I do so
delight to hear you say so. I could
never tire of your dear voice.”
“My darling, my idol,” said Coquese,
“my love has made me bankrupt, it has
taken all I have,—it is all yours. Would
I had more, how charming, how sweet
to give it you. 'Tis heaven to listen to
your fond words of love; dearest, I am
filled with fondest happiness. My love
is an ocean into which I have poured all
the gushing feelings of an overflowing
heart. Oh! that we might always be
thus; I could bid adieu to all the world,
without a sigh, were my loving Charles
to be always by my side. Do you know
I think you so beautiful, dearest, that I
almost fear you are an angel, and will fly
up to those beautiful fields in the sky,
that would alone make you a fit home?
But will my darling always love his Coquese?
will he always find delight in
her company, and love to sit by her
side?”
“Dearest love,” said Charles, “your
words are rapture to me, and you do love
me so very much; I am jealous of your
love, I would take it all; 'tis so sweet to
feel you love me. Does my sweet one
doubt, can she doubt, that her own
Charles will ever, can ever cease to love
her? Can my eyes cease to delight in
the sweet rays of the sun that makes all
things so happy-like, and gives such
friendly heat? Not until my heart forgets
to beat, can I, will I cease to love
you, sweetest, with all the fond, burning
affection of my true heart,” and he raised
the soft, beautiful hand he held, to his
lips, and impressed a warm, ardent kiss
upon it. She raised her blushing, happy
face to his,—so full of love, so full of
gazed with fondest admiration
upon her.
“How strange, how wonderful is it,
dearest, that we should ever have met!
What a change has come over me since
then; it seems as if it were my whole
existence pressed into these few, short
days.”
“I can remember nothing else,” said
Coquese.
“Say not so, sweetest,” said Charles,
“we were made for each other; believe
me, I feel that it is so. I recognize in
you, my love, the enchanting being of my
visions, the ideal that possessed my longing
imagination. Oh! I do, indeed, find
in you, all, and more than all I sighed,
and so ardently longed for.”
“But only to think,” said Coquese,
“how short a time, how few days have
passed since I found my Charles slumbering
in my little arbor, like a bird in
his nest; and yet it seems a life to me.
I fear my darling will think his Coquese
is light of heart, and too forward, that she
has given him so suddenly her heart.”
“My dearest, darling Coquese, “I
adore you as the best, and most beautiful
of women; and I love you more, if possible,
that you did thus give me your
priceless heart, so suddenly as you say.”
“Oh! how could I help loving you,
darling? I found you so unexpectedly,
so strangely, and then you looked so
beautiful, so noble,—I loved you before
you opened those lustrous, brilliant
eyes,” and again blushing, she leaned
her face on his breast.
“Dearest, darling girl,” said Charles,
“I shall never forget the moment, when
first, on awaking, I beheld your dear self
standing by my side. Speechless and
confused, I gazed with wonder and admiration
upon your graceful form and
beauteous face, and then closed my eyes,
believing it was a spell of my brain that
called up such a fairy creature; but oh!
what joy, what delight were mine, when
I again opened them, to see you still
there, and feel convinced you were indeed
a mortal, if indeed, you are. I felt
that I had found her whom I had loved
in my dreams, and my ready affections
lcaped to meet you, and fold you in a
warm embrace. Dearest, what happy
days we have spent together; they are
worth a life.”
But we will pursue the course of our
fond pair no farther; they talked of all
the incidents of the days of their acquaintance;
no event was too trifling or
little to escape their recollection. With
that sweet, charming confidence, which
true, intense love alone can create, they
poured out the sweet thoughts and feelings
which had occupied their minds,
and found new cause for their happy
love. Evening was far advanced, still
they sat in that little bower, close to each
other, side by side. Charles had wound
his arm around her waist, her hand was
folded in his, while she leaned her head
upon his shoulder, and fondly looked up
into his face. Happy hours! how short
you seemed! and when, at last, they
were warned by the thick shades of
night, of your flight, how amazed were
they at your rapid course; they started
as if awakening from a dream.
“We must go home, my Charles,”
said Coquese, “it is late, and my parents
will miss me.”
With unwilling hearts they left the
little arbor, the scene of their happy
loves. They pursued the path that led
to the village; they walked on in silence,
they were sad at the thought of parting,
even for so short a time, for they knew
they would meet on the morrow. Suddenly
Charles felt the arm that rested in
his, tremble,—a shudder passed over the
form of Coquese. She had just recalled
the meeting of Red Hand, at the bower,
and fear and a sad foreboding chilled her
heart. Charles, at once, in a tender voice,
exclaimed, “what troubles my Coquese?
is she afraid of aught that can happen
while her devoted love is by her side?”
“Alas!” said Coquese, “we have forgotten,
in our happiness, the wicked
threats, and deadly anger of Red Hand.
Oh! my darling, it is for you, my heart
is oppressed with fear. Your dear life
is threatened, and can your Coquese be
happy while it is so? Dearest, I implore
you to guard yourself; avoid that
blood-thirsty, remorseless man. I cannot
rest until you promise me you will not
meet him.”
Charles pressed her hand with affectionate
love, for her fond anxiety on his
account, and readily promised what she
wished. He was so happy in her love,
he said, that he would forgive all his insults,
and be his friend. He had no
enemies, she had made him love the
world, and all about him.
And now their path emerged from the
woods, and they were close to the village;
they must part at her father's door; this
was a trial to their new love. They felt
as though they could not live out of each
other's sight, even for so short a time.
What might happen? The suspicion
that some accident might occur to them,
saddened their hearts, and made them
reluctant to separate; but they had reached
the door of her father's lodge, and
they must bid each other farewell.—
Charles pressed the fair girl to his heart,
and their lips met again; it was the parting
kiss,—without a word they separated.
Coquese entered the lodge, where her
parents sat, and were beginning to be
anxious about her return. They joyfully
welcomed her, and her mother said they
had been waiting for her, anxiously expecting
her.
Coquese blushed at the proof of the
lateness of the hour, but sat down to supper,
without making any reply. Her
thoughts were with her lover; and the
sweet hours she had just passed with him,
were her delightful subjects of reflection.
She recalled his loving looks, and dear
words. How good and beautiful he was,
thought she; and what a blessed fortune
was her's to be loved so ardently, by
one so gifted and kind. Her thoughts
kept her silent during the evening. 'Tis
true, they were interrupted at times, by
the danger which threatened their love,
from the passion and disappointment of
Red Hand; but she would not, could
not believe that any wrong, or adversity
could overtake her own, dear Charles;
and she banished these fears as unfounded,
to dwell upon the sweet prospects
open to them, and recall the blissful feelings
she had experienced in his company.
With such happy feelings she sought her
pillow.
| CHAPTER XIII. The trapper's bride, or, Spirit of adventure | |