University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

While Nathan lay watching at the renegade's
hut, there came a change over the aspect of the
night, little less favourable to his plans and hopes
than even the discovery of Edith's place of concealment,
which he had so fortunately made. The
sky became suddenly overcast with clouds, and
deep darkness invested the Indian village; while
gusts of wind, sweeping with a moaning sound
over the adjacent hills, and waking the forests
from their repose, came rushing over the village,
whirring and fluttering aloft like flights of the
boding night-raven, or the more powerful bird of
prey that had given its name to the chieftain of
the tribe.

In such darkness, and with the murmur of the
blasts and the rustling of boughs to drown the
noise of his footsteps, Nathan no longer feared to
pursue his way; and rising boldly to his feet,
drawing his blanket close around him, and assuming,
as before, the gait of a savage, he strode forwards,
and, in less than a minute, was upon the
public square,—if such we may call it,—the vacant
area in the centre of the village, where stood
the rude shed of bark and boughs, supported by a
circular range of posts, all open, except at top,
to the weather, which custom had dignified with
the title of Council-house. The bounds of the
square were marked by clusters of cabins placed
with happy contempt of order and symmetry, and

by trees and bushes that grew among and behind
them, particularly at the foot of the hill on one
side, and, on the other, along the borders of the
river; which, in the pauses of the gusts, could be
heard sweeping hard by over a broken and pebbly
channel. Patches of bushes might even be
seen growing in places on the square itself; and
here and there were a few tall trees, remnants of
the old forest which had once overshadowed the
scene, towering aloft, and sending forth on the
blast such spiritual murmurs, and wild oraculous
whispers, as were wont, in ancient days, to strike
an awe through soothsayers and devotees in the
sacred groves of Dodona.

Through this square, looking solitude and desolation
together, lay the path of the spy; and he
trode it without fear, although it offered an obstruction
that might well have daunted the zeal
of one less crafty and determined. In its centre,
and near the Council-house, he discovered a fire,
now burning low, but still, as the breeze, time by
time, fanned the decaying embers into flame,
sending forth light enough to reveal the spectacle
of at least a dozen savages stretched in slumber
around it, with as many ready rifles stacked round
a post hard by. Their appearance, without affrighting,
greatly perplexed the man of peace;
who, though at first disposed to regard them as a
kind of guard, to whom had been committed the
charge of the village and the peace of the community,
during the uproar and terrors of the debauch,
found reason, upon more mature inspection,
to consider them a band from some neighbouring
village, perhaps an out-going war-party,
which, unluckily for himself, had tarried at the
village to share the hospitalities, and take part in
the revels, of its inhabitants. Thus, there was

near the fire a huge heap of dried corn-husks and
prairie-grass, designed for a couch,—a kind of
luxury which Nathan supposed the villagers
would have scarce taken the trouble to provide,
unless for guests, whose warlike pride and sense
of honour would not permit them to sleep under
cover, until they had struck the enemy in his
own country, and were returning victorious to
their own; and as a proof that they had shared
as guests in all the excesses of their hosts, but
few of them were seen huddled together on the
couch, the majority lying about in such confusion
and postures as could only have been produced
by the grossest indulgence.

Pausing awhile, but not deterred by the discovery
of such undesirable neighbours, Nathan
easily avoided them by making the circuit of the
square; creeping along from tree to tree, and
bush to bush, until he had left the whole group
on the rear, and arrived in the vicinity of a cabin,
which, from its appearance, might with propriety
be supposed the dwelling of the most distinguished
demagogue of the tribe. It was a cottage of
logs very similar to those of the renegades, who
had themselves perhaps built it for the chief,
whose favour it was so necessary to purchase by
every means in their power; but as it consisted
of only a single room, and that by no means spacious,
the barbarian had seen fit to eke it out by a
brace of summer apartments, being tents of skins,
which were pitched at its ends like wings, and
perhaps communicated directly with the interior,
though each had its own particular door of mats
looking out upon the square.

All these appearances Nathan could easily note,
in occasional gleams from the fire, which, falling
upon the rude and misshapen lodge, revealed its

features obscurely to the eye. It bore an air of
solitude, that became the dwelling of a chief. The
soil around it, as if too sacred to be invaded by
the profane feet of the multitude, was left overgrown
with weeds and starveling bushes; and
an ancient elm, rising among them, and flinging
its shadowy branches wide around, stood like a
giant watchman, to repel the gaze of the curious.

This solitude, these bushes through which he
could crawl unobserved, and the shadows of the
tree, offering a concealment equally effectual and
inviting, were all circumstances in Nathan's favour;
and giving one backward glance to the
fire on the square, and then fixing his eye on one
of the tents, in which, as the mat at the door
shook in the breeze, he could detect the glimmering
of a light, and fancied he could even faintly
hear the murmur of voices, he crawled among
the bushes, scarcely doubting that he was now
within but a few feet of the unhappy maid in
whose service he had toiled so long and so well.

But the path to the wigwam was not yet free
from obstructions. He had scarce pushed aside
the first bush in his way, opening a vista into the
den of leaves, where he looked to find his best
concealment, before a flash of light from the fire,
darting through the gap, and falling upon a dark
grim visage almost within reach of his hand,
showed him that he had stumbled unawares upon
a sleeping savage,—a man that had evidently
staggered there in his drunkenness, and falling
among the bushes, had straightway given himself
up to sottish repose.

For the first time, a thrill smote through the
bosom of the spy; but it was not wholly a thrill
of dismay. There was little indeed in the appearance
of the wretched sleeper, at that moment,

to inspire terror; for apart from the condition of
helpless impotence, to which his ungovernable appetites
had reduced him, he seemed to be entirely
unarmed,—at least Nathan could see neither knife
nor tomahawk about him. But there was that in
the grim visage, withered with age, and seamed
with many a scar,—in the mutilated, but bony
and still nervous hand lying on the broad naked
chest,—and in the recollections of the past they
recalled to Nathan's brain, which awoke a feeling
not less exciting, if less unworthy, than fear. In
the first impulse of surprise, it is true, he started
backwards, and grovelled flat upon his face, as if
to beat an instant retreat in the only posture
which could conceal him, if the sleeper should
have been disturbed by his approach. But the
savage slept on, drugged to stupefaction by many
a deep and potent draught; and Nathan preserving
his snake-like position only for a moment, rose
slowly upon his hands, and peered over again
upon the unconscious barbarian.

But the bushes had closed again around him,
and the glimmer of the dying fire no longer fell
upon the barbarian. With an audacity of daring
that marked the eagerness and intensity of his
curiosity, Nathan with his hands pushed the bushes
aside, so as again to bring a gleam upon the
swarthy countenance; which he perused with such
feelings as left him for a time unconscious of the
object of his enterprise, unconscious of every thing
save the spectacle before him, the embodied representation
of features which events of former
years had painted in indelible hues on his remembrance.
The face was that of a warrior, worn
with years, and covered with such scars as could
be boasted only by one of the most distinguished
men of the tribe. Deep seams also marked the

naked chest of the sleeper; and there was something
in the appearance of his garments of dressed
hides, which, though squalid enough, were garnished
with multitudes of silver broaches and tufts
of human hair, with here and there a broad Spanish
dollar looped ostentatiously to the skin, to
prove he was any thing but a common brave. To
each ear was attached a string of silver coins,
strung together in regular gradation from the
largest to the smallest,—a profusion of wealth
which could appertain only to a chief. To prove,
indeed, that he was no less, there was visible upon
his head, secured to the tiara, or glory, as it might
be called (for such is its figure,) of badgers' hairs,
which is so often found woven around the scalp-lock
of a North-western Indian, an ornament consisting
of the beaks and claws of a buzzard, and
some dozen or more of its sable feathers. These,
as Nathan had previously told the soldier, were
the distinguishing badges of Wenonga, or the
Black-Vulture (for so the name is translated;) and
it was no less a name than Wenonga himself, the
oldest, most famous, and, at one time, the most
powerful chief of his tribe, who thus lay, a
wretched, squalid sot, before the doors of his own
wigwam, which he had been unable to reach.
Such was Wenonga, such were many of the bravest
and most distinguished of his truly unfortunate
race, who exchanged their lands, their
fathers' graves, and the lives of their people, for
the doubtful celebrity which the white-man is so
easily disposed to allow them.

The spy looked upon the face of the Indian; but
there was none at hand to gaze upon his own, to
mark the hideous frown of hate, and the more
hideous grin of delight, that mingled on, and distorted
his visage, as he gloated, snake-like, over

that of the chief. As he looked, he drew from
its sheath in his girdle, his well-worn, but still
bright and keen knife,—which he poised in one
hand, while feeling, with what seemed extraordinary
fearlessness or confidence of his prey,
with the other along the sleeper's naked breast, as
if regardless how soon he might wake. But Wenonga
still slept on, though the hand of the white-man
lay upon his ribs, and rose and fell with the
throbs of his warlike heart. The knife took the
place of the hand, and one thrust would have
driven it through the organ that had never beaten
with pity or remorse; and that thrust Nathan,
quivering through every fibre with nameless joy
and exultation, and forgetful of every thing but his
prey, was about to make. He nerved his hand for
the blow; but it trembled with eagerness. He
paused an instant, and before he could make a
second effort, a voice from the wigwam struck
upon his ear, and the strength departed from his
arm. He staggered back, and awoke to consciousness:
the sound was repeated; it was the
wail of a female voice, and its mournful accents,
coming to his ear in an interval of the gust, struck
a new feeling into his bosom. He remembered the
captive, and his errand of charity and mercy. He
drew a deep and painful breath, and muttering,
but within the silent recesses of his breast, “Thee
shall not call to me in vain!” buried the knife softly
in its sheath. Then crawling silently away,
and leaving the chief to his slumbers, he crept
through the bushes until he had reached the tent
from which the mourning voice proceeded. Still
lying upon his face, he dragged himself to the door,
and looking under the corner of the mat that
waved before it in the wind, he saw at a glance
that he had reached the goal of his journey.

The tent was of an oval figure, and of no great
extent; but being lighted only by a fire burning
dimly in the centre of its earthen floor, and its
frail walls darkened by smoke, the eye could
scarcely penetrate to its dusky extremity. It consisted,
as has been said, of skins, which were supported
upon poles, wattled together like the frame-work
of a crate or basket; the poles of the opposite
sides being kept asunder by cross-pieces, which,
at the common centre of intersection or radiation,
were themselves upheld by a stout wooden pillar.
Upon this pillar, and on the slender rafters, were
laid or suspended sundry Indian utensils of the
kitchen and the field, wooden bowls, earthen pans
and brazen pots, guns, hatchets, and fish-spears,
with ears of corn, dried roots, smoked meats,
blankets and skins, and many articles that had
perhaps been plundered from the Long-knives,
such as halters and bridles, hats, coats, shawls, and
aprons, and other such gear; among which was
conspicuous a bundle of scalps, some of them with
long female tresses,—the proofs of the prowess of
a great warrior, who, like the other fighting-men
of his race, accounted the golden ringlets of a girl
as noble a trophy of valour as the grizzled looks of
a veteran soldier.

On the floor of the tent, piled against its sides
and furthest extremity, was the raised platform of
skins, with rude partitions and curtains of mats,
which formed the sleeping-couch, or, perhaps we
might say, the sleeping-apartments, of the lodge.
But these were in a great measure hidden under
heaps of blankets, skins, and other trumpery articles,
that seemed to have been snatched in some
sudden hurry from the floor, which they had previously
cumbered. In fact, there was every appearance
that the tent had been for a long time

used as a kind of store-room, the receptacle of a
bandit's omnium-gatherum, and had been hastily
prepared for unexpected inmates. But these particulars,
which he might have noted at a glance,
Nathan did not pause to survey. There were objects
of greater attraction for his eyes in a group of
three female figures: in one of whom, standing
near the fire, and grasping the hands and garments
of a second, as if imploring pity or protection, her
hair dishevelled, her visage bloodless, her eyes wild
with grief and terror, he beheld the object of his
perilous enterprise, the lovely and unhappy Edith
Forrester. Struggling in her grasp, as if to escape,
yet weeping, and uttering hurried expressions
that were meant to soothe the agitation of
the captive, was the renegade's daughter, Telie,
who seemed herself little less terrified than the
prisoner. The third person of the group was an
Indian beldam, old, withered, and witch-like, who
sat crouching over the fire, warming her skinny
hands, and only intermitting her employment occasionally
to eye the more youthful pair with
looks of malignant hatred and suspicion.

The gale was still freshening, and the elmboughs
rustled loudly in the wind; but Nathan
could overhear every word of the captive, as, still
grasping Telie by the hand, she besought her, in
the language of desperation, `not to leave her,
not to desert her, at such a moment;' while Telie,
still shedding tears, which seemed to be equally
those of shame and sorrow, entreated her to fear
nothing, and permit her to depart.

“They won't hurt you,—no, my father promised
that,” she said: “it is the chief's house, and nobody
will come nigh to hurt you. You are safe,
lady; but, oh! my father will kill me, if he finds
me here.”

“It was your father that caused it all!” cried
Edith, with a vehement change of feeling: “it
was he that betrayed us, he that killed, oh! killed
my Roland! Go!—I hate you! Heaven will
punish you for what you have done; Heaven
will never forgive the treachery and the murder—Go,
go! they will kill me, and then all will
be well,—yes, all will be well!”

But Telie, thus released, no longer sought to
fly. She strove to obtain and kiss the hand
that repelled her, sobbing bitterly, and reiterating
her assurances that no harm was designed the
maiden.

“No,—no harm! Do I not know it all?” exclaimed
Edith, again giving way to her fears, and
grasping Telie's arm. “You are not like your
father: if you betrayed me once, you will not
betray me again. Stay with me,—yes, stay with
me, and I'll forgive you,—forgive you all. That
man—that dreadful man! I know him well: he
will come—he has murdered my cousin, and he
is,—oh Heaven, how black a villain! Stay with
me, Telie, to protect me from that man; stay
with me, and I'll forgive all you have done.”

It was with such wild entreaties Edith, agitated
by an excitement that seemed almost to have
unsettled her brain, still urged Telie not to abandon
her; while Telie, repeating again and again
her protestations that no injury was designed or
could happen, and that the old woman at the fire
was specially deputed to protect her, and would
do so, begged to be permitted to go, insisting,
with every appearance of sincere alarm, that her
father would kill her if she remained,—that he
had forbidden her to come near the prisoner,
which, nevertheless, she had secretly done, and
would do again, if she could this time avoid discovery.

But her protestations were of little avail in
moving Edith to her purpose; and it was only
when the latter, worn out by suffering and agitation,
and sinking helpless on the couch at her
feet, had no longer the power to oppose her,
that Telie hurriedly, yet with evident grief and
reluctance, tore herself away. She pressed the
captive's hand to her lips, bathed it in her tears,
and then, with many a backward glance of sorrow,
stole from the lodge. Nathan crawled aside
as she passed out, and watching a moment until
she had fled across the square, returned to his
place of observation. He looked again into the
tent, and his heart smote him with pity as he beheld
the wretched Edith sitting in a stupor of
despair, her head sunk upon her breast, her
hands clasped, her ashy lips quivering, but uttering
no articulate sound. “Thee prays Heaven
to help thee, poor maid!” he muttered to himself:
“Heaven denied the prayer of them that
was as good and as lovely; but thee is not yet
forsaken!”

He took his knife from its sheath, and turned
his eyes upon the old hag, who sat at the fire
with her back partly towards him, but her eyes
fastened upon the captive, over whom they wandered
with the fierce and unappeasable malice,
that was in those days, seen rankling in the breast
of many an Indian mother, and expended upon
prisoners at the stake with a savage, nay, a demoniacal
zeal, that might have put warriors to
shame. In truth, the unlucky captive had always
more to apprehend from the squaws of a tribe
than from its warriors; and their cries for vengeance
often gave to the torture wretches, whom
even their cruel husbands were inclined to spare.

With knife in hand, and murderous thoughts in

his heart, Nathan raised a corner of the mat, and
glared for a moment upon the beldam. But the
feelings of the white-man prevailed; he hesitated,
faltered, and dropping the mat in its place, retreated
silently from the door. Then restoring
his knife for a second time to its sheath, listening
awhile to hear if the drunken Wenonga yet stirred
in his lair, and taking a survey of the sleepers at
the nearly extinguished fire, he crept away, retraced
his steps through the village, to the place
where he had left the captain of horse-thieves,
whom,—to the shame of that worthy be it spoken,—he
found fast locked in the arms of Morpheus,
and breathing such a melody from his upturned
nostrils as might have roused the whole
village from its repose, had not that been at least
twice as sound and deep as his own.

“'Tarnal death to me!” said he, rubbing his
eyes when Nathan shook him from his slumbers,
“I war nigh gone in a dead snooze!—being as
how I ar'n't had a true reggelar mouthful of snortin'
this h'yar no-time,—considering I always took
it with my hoptical peepers right open. But, I
say, Bloody Nathan, what's the last news from
the abbregynes and anngelliferous madam!”

“Give me one of thee halters,” said Nathan,
“and do thee observe now what I have to say to
thee.”

“A halter!” cried Ralph, in dudgeon; “you
ar'n't for doing all, and the hoss-stealing too?”

“Friend,” said Nathan, “with this halter I must
bind one that sits in watch over the maiden; and,
truly, it is better it should be so, seeing that these
hands of mine have never been stained with the
blood of woman.”

“And you have found my mistress, old

Bloody?” said Ralph, in a rapture. “Jist call
the Captain, and let's be a doing!”

“He is a brave youth, and a youth of a mighty
heart,” said Nathan; “but this is no work for
them that has never seen the ways of an Injun
village.—Now, friend, does thee hear me? The
town is alive with fighting-men, and there is a
war-party of fourteen painted Wyandotts sleeping
on the Council-square. But don't thee be
dismayed thereupon; for, truly, these assassin
creatures is all besotted with drink; and were
there with us but ten stout young men of Kentucky,
I do truly believe we could knock every
murdering dog of 'em on the head, and nobody
the wiser.—Does thee hear, friend? Do but thee
own part in this endeavour well, and we will save
the young and tender maid thee calls madam.
Take theeself to the pound, which thee may do
safely, by following the hill: pick out four good
horses, fleet and strong, and carry them safely
away, going up the valley,—mind, friend, thee
must go up, as if thee was speeding thee way to
the Big Lake, instead of to Kentucky: then, when
thee has ridden a mile, thee may cross the brook,
and follow the hills, till thee has reached the hiding-place
that we did spy from out upon this village.
Thee hears, friend? There thee will find
the fair maid, Edith; which I will straightway
fetch out of her bondage. And, truly, it may be,
I have learned that, this night, which will make
both her and the young man thee calls Captain,
which is a brave young man, both rich and
happy. And now, friend, thee has heard me;
and thee must do thee duty.”

“If I don't fetch her the beautifullest hoss that
war ever seed in the woods,” said Ralph, “thar's
no reason, except because the Injuns ar'n't had

good luck this year in grabbing! And I'll fetch
him round up the holler, jist as you say too, and
round about till I strike the snuggery, jist the
same way; for thar's the way you show judgematical,
and I'm cl'ar of your way of thinking.
And so now, h'yar's my fo'-paw, in token thar's
no two ways about me, Ralph Stackpole, a hoss
to my friends, and a niggur to them that sarves
me!”

With these words, the two associates, equally
zealous in the cause in which they had embarked,
parted, each to achieve his own particular
share of the adventure, in which they had left so
little to be done by the young Virginian.

But, as it happened, neither Roland's inclination
nor fate was favourable to his playing so insignificant
a part in the undertaking. He had remained
in the place of concealment assigned
him, tortured with suspense, and racked by self-reproach,
for more than an hour: until, his impatience
getting the better of his judgment, he
resolved to creep nigher the village, to ascertain,
if possible, the state of affairs. He had arrived
within ear-shot of the pair, and without over-hearing
all, had gathered enough of their conversation
to convince him that Edith was at last
found, and that the blow was now to be struck for
her deliverance. His two associates separated before
he could reach them; Ralph plunging among
the bushes that covered the hill, while Nathan, as
before, stalked boldly into the village. He called
softly after the latter, to attract his notice; but
his voice was lost in the gusts sweeping along the
hill; and Nathan proceeded onwards, without
heeding him. He hesitated a moment whether to
follow, or return to his station, where little Peter,
more obedient, or more prudent than himself, still

lay, having resolutely refused to stir at the soldier's
invitation to accompany him; until finally,
surrendering his discretion to his anxiety, he
resolved to pursue after Nathan,—a measure
of imprudence, if not of folly, which at a less exciting
moment, no one would have been more
ready to condemn than himself. But the image
of Edith in captivity, and perhaps of Braxley
standing by, the master of her fate, was impressed
upon his heart, as if pricked into it with daggers;
and to remain longer at a distance, and in
inaction, was impossible. Imitating Nathan's
mode of advance as well as he could, guided by
his dusky figure, and hoping soon to overtake
him, he pushed forward, and was soon in the
dreaded village.