University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

In the mean time, and at the very moment
when the renegade was urging his extraordinary
proposals on the young Virginian, a scene was
passing in the hut of Wenonga, in which one of
Roland's fellow-prisoners was destined to play an
important and remarkable part. There, in the
very tent in which he had struck so daring a blow
for the rescue of Edith, but in which Edith appeared
no more, lay the luckless Nathan, a victim
not so much of his own rashness as of the
excessive zeal, not to say folly, of his coadjutors.
And thither he had been conducted but a few
hours before, after having passed the previous
night and day in a prison-house less honoured, but
fated, as it proved, to derive peculiar distinction
from the presence of such a guest.

His extraordinary appearance, partaking so
much of that of an Indian juggler arrayed in the
panoply of legerdemain, had produced, as was
mentioned, a powerful effect on the minds of his
captors, ever prone to the grossest credulity and
superstition; and this was prodigiously increased
by the sudden recurrence of his disease,—a dreadful
infliction, whose convulsions seem ever to have
been proposed as the favourite exemplars for the
expression of prophetic fury and the demoniacal
orgasm,—and were aped alike by the Pythian
priestess on her tripod and the ruder impostor of

an Indian wigwam. The foaming lips and convulsed
limbs of the prisoner, if they did not
`speak the god,' to the awe-struck barbarians,
declared at least the presence of the mighty
fiend who possessed his body; and when the fit
was over, though they took good care to bind him
with thongs of bison-hide, like his companions,
and led him away to a place of security, it was
with a degree of gentleness and respect, that
proved the strength of their belief in his supernatural
endowments. This belief was still further
indicated the next day, by crowds of savages who
flocked into the wigwam where he was confined,
some to stare at him, some to inquire the mysteries
of their fate, and some, as it seemed, with
credulity less unconditional, to solve the enigma
of his appearance, before yielding their full belief.
Among these last were the renegade and
one or two savages of a more sagacious or skeptical
turn than their fellows, who beset the supposed
conjuror with questions, calculated to pluck
out the heart of his mystery.

But questions and curiosity were in vain. The
conjuror was possessed by a silent devil; and
whether it was that the shock of his last paroxysm
had left his mind benumbed and stupified,
whether his courage had failed at last, leaving
him plunged in despair, or whether indeed, his
frigid indifference was not altogether assumed, to
serve a peculiar purpose, it was nevertheless certain
that he bestowed not the slightest attention
on any of his questioners, not even upon Doe, who
had previously endeavoured to unravel the riddle
by seeking the assistance of Ralph Stackpole,—
assistance, however, which Ralph, waxing sagacious
of a sudden, professed himself wholly unable
to give. The faithful fellow indeed professed

to be just as ignorant of the person and character
of the young Virginian; swearing, with a
magnanimous resolve to assume the pains and
penalties of Indian ire on his own shoulders, that
`the hoss-stealing' (which, he doubted not, would
be held the most unpardonable feature in the adventure,)
`was jist a bit of a private speculation
of his own,—that there was nobody with him,—
that he had come on his expedition alone, and
knew no more of the other fellers than he did of
the 'tarnal tempers of Injun hosses,—not he!' In
short, the skeptics were baffled, and the superstitious
were left to the enjoyment of their wonder
and awe.

At nightfall, Nathan was removed to Wenonga's
cabin, where the chief, surrounded by a dozen
or more warriors, made him a speech in such
English phrases as he had acquired, informing
the prisoner, as before, that `he, Wenonga, was a
great chief and warrior, that the other, the prisoner,
was a great medicine-man; and, finally,
that he, Wenonga, required of his prisoner, the
medicine-man, by his charms, to produce the Jibbenainosay,
the unearthly slayer of his people
and curse of his tribe, in order that he, the great
chief, who feared neither warrior nor devil, might
fight him, like a man, and kill him, so that he, the
aforesaid destroyer, should destroy his young men
in the dark no longer.'

Not even to this speech, though received by the
warriors with marks of great approbation, did
Nathan vouchsafe the least notice; and the savages
despairing of moving him to their purpose
at that period, but hoping perhaps to find him in
a more reasonable mood at another moment, left
him,—but not until they had again inspected the

thongs, and satisfied themselves they were tied in
knots strong and intricate enough to hold even a
conjuror. They also, before leaving him to himself,
placed food and water at his side, and in a
way that was perhaps designed to show their
opinion of his wondrous powers; for as his arms
were pinioned tightly behind his back, it was evident
he could feed himself only by magic.

The stolid indifference to all sublunary matters
which had distinguished Nathan throughout the
scene, vanished the moment he found himself
alone. In fact, the step of the savage the last to
depart was yet rustling among the weeds at the
Black Vulture's door, when, making a violent effort,
he succeeded in placing himself in a sitting
posture, and glared with eager look around the
apartment, which was, as before, dimly lighted by
a fire on the floor. The piles of skins and domestic
utensils were hanging about, as on the preceding
night; and, indeed, nothing seemed to have
been disturbed, except the weapons, of which
there had been so many when Edith occupied the
den, but of which not a single one now remained.
Over the fire,—the long tresses that depended
from it swinging and fluttering in the currents of
smoke and heated air,—was the bundle of scalps,
to which Braxley had so insidiously directed the
gaze of Edith, and which was now one of the first
objects that met Nathan's eyes.

Having reconnoitered every corner and cranny,
and convinced himself that there was no lurking
savage watching his movements, he began straightway
to test the strength of the thong by which his
arms were bound; but without making the slightest
impression on it. The cord was strong, the knots
were securely tied; and after five or six minutes of
struggling, in which he made the most prodigious

efforts to tear it asunder, without hesitating at the
anguish it caused him, he was obliged to give over
his hopes, fain could he have, like Thomson's demon
in the net of the good Knight, enjoyed that
consolation of despair,—to

He summoned his strength, and renewed his
efforts again and again, but always without effect;
and being at last persuaded of his inability
to aid himself, he leaned back against a bundle of
skins, to counsel with his own thoughts what hope,
if any, yet remained.

At that instant, and while the unuttered misery
of his spirit might have been read in his haggard
and despairing eyes, a low whining sound, coming
from a corner of the tent, but on the outside, with
a rustling and scratching, as if some animal were
struggling to burrow its way betwixt the skins
and the earth, into the lodge, struck his ear. He
started, and stared round with a wild but joyous
look of recognition.

“Hist, hist!” he cried—or rather whispered,
for his voice was not above his breath: “hist,
hist! If thee ever was wise, now do thee show
it!”

The whining ceased; the scratching and rustling
were heard a moment longer; and, then,
rising from the skin wall, under which he had
made his way, appeared—no bulky demon, indeed,
summoned by the conjuror to his assistance
—but little dog Peter, his trusty, sagacious, and
hitherto inseparable friend, creeping with stealthy
step, but eyes glistening with affection, towards
the bound and helpless prisoner.

“I can't hug thee, little Peter!” cried the master,
as the little animal crawled to him, wagging

his tail, and, throwing his paws upon Nathan's
knee, looked into his face, with a most meaning
stare of inquiry;—“I can't hug thee, Peter!—
Thee sees how it is! the Injuns have ensnared
me. But where thee is, Peter, there there is hope.
Quick, little Peter!” he cried, thrusting his arms
out from his back; “thee has teeth, and thee
knows how to use them—thee has gnawed me
free before—Quick, little Peter, quick! Thee
teeth is the knives; and with them thee can cut
me free!”

The little animal, whose remarkable docility
and sagacity have been instanced before, seemed
actually to understand his master's words, or, at
least, to comprehend from his gestures, the strange
duty that was now required of him; and, without
more ado, he laid hold with his teeth upon the
thong round Nathan's wrists, tugging and gnawing
at it with a zeal and perseverance that seemed
to make his master's deliverance, sooner or later,
sure: and his industry was quickened by Nathan,
who, all the while, encouraged him with whispers
to continue his efforts.

“Thee gnawed me loose, when the four Shawnees
had me bound by their fire, at night, on the
banks of Kenhawa; (does thee remember that,
Peter?) Ay, thee did, while the knaves slept; and
from that sleep they never waked, the murdering
villains,—no, not one of them!—Gnaw, little Peter,
—gnaw hard and fast; and care not if thee
wounds me with thee teeth; for, truly, I will forgive
thee, even if thee bites me to the bone.—Faster,
Peter, faster! Does thee boggle at the skin,
because of its hardness? Truly, I have seen thee
a-hungered, Peter, when thee would have cracked
it like a marrow-bone! Fast, Peter, fast; and
thee shall see me again in freedom!”

With such expressions Nathan inflamed the
zeal of his familiar, who continued to gnaw for
the space of five minutes or more, and with such
effect, that Nathan, who ever and anon tested the
brute's progress by a violent jerk at the rope,
found, at the fourth or fifth effort, that it yielded
a little, and cracked, as if its fibres were already
giving way.

“Now, Peter! tug, if thee ever tugged!” he
cried, his hopes rising almost to ecstasy: “A little
longer; one bite more,—a little, but a little
longer, Peter, if thee loves thee master! Yea,
Peter, and we will walk the woods again in freedom!—Now,
Peter, now for thee last bite!”

But the last bite Peter, on the sudden, betrayed
a disinclination to make. He ceased his toil,
jostled against his master's side, and uttered a
whine, the lowest that could be made audible.

“Hah!” cried Nathan, as, at the same instant,
he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the
wigwam, “thee speaks the truth, and the accursed
villains is upon us! Away with thee, dog—
thee shall finish thee work by and by!”

Faithful to his master's orders, or perhaps to
his own sense of what was fitting and proper in
such a case, little Peter leaped hastily among the
skins and other litter that covered half the floor
and the sleeping-berths of the lodge, and was immediately
out of sight, having left the apartment,
or concealed himself in its darkest corner. The
steps approached; they reached the door: Nathan
threw himself back, reclining against his pile of
furs, and fixed his eye upon the mats at the entrance.
They were presently parted; and the
old chief Wenonga came halting into the apartment,—halting,
yet with a step that was designed
to indicate all the pride and dignity of a warrior.

And this attempt at state was the more natural
and proper, as he was armed and painted as if
for war, his grim countenance hideously bedaubed
on one side with vermilion, on the other with
black, a long scalping-knife, without sheath or
cover, swinging from his wampum belt, while a
hatchet, the blade and handle both of steel, was
grasped in his hand. In this guise, and with a
wild and demoniacal glitter of eye, that seemed
the result of mingled drunkenness and insanity,
the old chief stalked and limped up to the prisoner,
looking as if bent upon his instant destruction.
That his passions were up in arms, that he
was ripe for mischief and blood, was indeed plain
and undeniable; but he soon made it apparent
that his rage was only conditional and alternative,
as regarded the prisoner. Pausing within three
or four feet of him, and giving him a look that
seemed designed to freeze his blood, it was so
desperately hostile and savage, he extended his
arm and hatchet,—not, however, to strike, as it
appeared, but to do what might be judged almost
equally agreeable to nine-tenths of his race,
—that is, to deliver a speech.

“I am Wenonga!” he cried, in his own tongue,
being perhaps too much enraged to think of any
other,—“I am Wenonga, a great Shawnee chief.
I have fought the Long-knives, and drunk their
blood: when they hear my voice, they are afraid,
—they run howling away, like dogs when the
squaws beat them from the fire—who ever stood
before Wenonga? I have fought my enemies,
and killed them. I never feared a white-man:
why should I fear a white-man's devil? Where
is the Jibbenainosay, the curse of my tribe?—the
Shawneewannawin, the howl of my people? He
kills them in the dark, he creeps upon them while

they sleep; but he fears to stand before the face
of a warrior! Am I a dog? or a woman? The
squaws and the children curse me, as I go by:
they say I am the killer of their husbands and
fathers; they tell me it was the deed of Wenonga
that brought the white-man's devil to kill
them; if Wenonga is a chief, let him kill the killer
of his people! I am Wenonga; I am a man; I
fear nothing: I have sought the Jibbenainosay.
But the Jibbenainosay is a coward; he walks in
the dark, he kills in the time of sleep—he fears to
fight a warrior! My brother is a great medicine-man;
he is a white-man, and he knows how to find
the white-man's devils. Let my brother speak for
me; let him show me where to find the Jibbenainosay;
and he shall be a great chief, and the son
of a chief; Wenonga will make him his son, and
he shall be a Shawnee!”

“Does Wenonga, at last, feel he has brought a
devil upon his people?” said Nathan, speaking for
the first time since his capture, and speaking in a
way well suited to strike the interrogator with
surprise. A sneer, as it seemed, of gratified malice
crept over his face, and was visible even
through the coat of paint, that still invested his
features; and, to crown all, his words were delivered
in the Shawnee tongue, correctly and unhesitatingly
pronounced; which was itself, or so
Wenonga appeared to hold it, a proof of his superhuman
acquirements.

The old chief started, as the words fell upon his
ear, and looked around him in awe, as if the prisoner
had already summoned a spirit to his elbow.

“I have heard the voice of the dead!” he cried.
“My brother is a great Medicine! But I am a
chief;—I am not afraid.”

“The chief tells me lies,” rejoined Nathan, who,

having once unlocked his lips, seemed but little
disposed to resume his former silence;—“the chief
tells me lies: there is no white-devil hurts his people!”

“I am an old man, and a warrior,—I speak the
truth!” said the chief, with dignity; and then added,
with sudden feeling,—“I am an old man; I had
sons and grandsons—young warriors, and boys
that would soon have blacked their faces for
battle[1] —where are they? The Jibbenainosay
has been in my village, he has been in my wigwam—There
are none left—the Jibbenainosay
killed them!”

“Ay!” exclaimed the prisoner, and his eyes
shot fire as he spoke, “they fell under his hand,
man and boy,—there was not one of them spared
—they were of the blood of Wenonga!”

“Wenonga is a great chief!” cried the Indian:
“he is childless; but childless he has made the
Long-knife.”

“The Long-knife, and the son of Onas!” said
Nathan.

The chief staggered back, as if struck by a blow,
and stared wildly upon the prisoner.

“My brother is a medicine-man,—he knows all
things!” he exclaimed. “He speaks the truth: I
am a great warrior; I took the scalp of the Quakel[2]
—”

“And of his wife and children—you left not
one alive!—Ay!” continued Nathan, fastening
his looks upon the amazed chief, “you slew them

all! And he that was the husband and father,
was the Shawnees' friend, the friend even of Wenonga!”

“The white-men are dogs and robbers!” said
the chief: “the Quakel was my brother; but I
killed him. I am an Indian—I love white-man's
blood. My people have soft hearts; they cried for
the Quakel: but I am a warrior with no heart. I
killed them: their scalps are hanging to my fire-post!
I am not sorry; I am not afraid.”

The eyes of the prisoner followed the Indian's
hand, as he pointed, with savage triumph, to the
shrivelled scalps that had once crowned the
heads of childhood and innocence, and then sunk
to the floor, while his whole frame shivered as
with an ague-fit.

“My brother is a great medicine-man,” iterated
the chief: “he shall show me the Jibbenainosay,
or he shall die.”

“The chief lies!” cried Nathan, with a sudden
and taunting laugh: “he can talk big things to a
prisoner, but he fears the Jibbenainosay!”

“I am a chief and warrior: I will fight the
white-man's devil!”

“The warrior shall see him then,” said the captive,
with extraordinary fire. “Cut me loose
from my bonds, and I will bring him before the
chief.”

And as he spoke, he thrust out his legs, inviting
the stroke of the axe upon the thongs that bound
his ankles.

But this was a favour, which, stupid or mad as
he was, Wenonga hesitated to grant.

“The chief,” cried Nathan, with a laugh of
scorn, “would stand face to face with the Jibbenainosay,
and yet fears to loose a naked prisoner!”

The taunt produced its effect. The axe fell
upon the thong, and Nathan leaped to his feet.
He extended his wrists. The Indian hesitated
again. “The chief shall see the Jibbenainosay!”
cried Nathan; and the cord was cut. The
prisoner turned quickly round, and while his eyes
fastened with a wild but joyous glare upon his
jailer's, a laugh that would have become the jaws
of a hyena, lighted up his visage, and sounded
from his lips. “Look!” he cried, “thee has thee
will! Thee sees the destroyer of thee race,—
ay, murdering villain, the destroyer of thee people,
and thee own!”

And with that, leaping upon the astounded
chief with rather the rancorous ferocity of a wolf
than the enmity of a human being, and clutching
him by the throat with one hand, while with
the other he tore the iron tomahawk from his
grasp, he bore him to the earth, clinging to him
as he fell, and using the wrested weapon with
such furious haste and skill, that before they had
yet reached the ground, he had buried it in the
Indian's brain. Another stroke, and another, he
gave with the same murderous activity and force;
and Wenonga trode the path to the spirit-land,
bearing the same gory evidences of the unrelenting
and successful vengeance of the white-man,
that his children and grand-children had borne
before him.

“Ay, dog, thee dies at last! at last I have
caught thee!”

With these words, Nathan, leaving the shattered
skull, dashed the tomahawk into the Indian's
chest, snatched the scalping-knife from the belt,
and with one griding sweep of the blade, and
one fierce jerk of his arm, the gray scalp-lock of
the warrior was torn from the dishonoured head.

The last proof of the slayer's ferocity was not
given until he had twice, with his utmost strength,
drawn the knife over the dead man's breast, dividing
skin, cartilage, and even bone, before it, so
sharp was the blade, and so powerful the hand
that urged it.

Then, leaping to his feet, and snatching from
the post the bundle of withered scalps—the locks
and ringlets of his own murdered children,—
which he spread a moment before his eyes with
one hand, while the other extended, as if to contrast
the two prizes together, the reeking scalp-lock
of the murderer, he sprang through the door
of the lodge, and fled from the village; but not
until he had, in the insane fury of the moment,
given forth a wild, ear-piercing yell, that spoke
the triumph, the exulting transport, of long baffled
but never-dying revenge. The wild whoop,
thus rising in the depth and stillness of the night,
startled many a wakeful warrior and timorous
mother from their repose. But such sounds in a
disorderly hamlet of barbarians, were too common
to create alarm or uneasiness; and the wary
and the timid again betook themselves to their
dreams, leaving the corse of their chief to stiffen
on the floor of his own wigwam.