 | CHAPTER IV. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
Before this discovery was fairly made, the wrath of Mingo
had been such as to render him utterly forgetful of the commands
of his master. He was now ready for the combat to the knife;
and had scarcely shaken himself free from his second assailant,
before he advanced with redoubled resolution upon the first. He,
by the way, equally aroused, stood ready, with closed lips, keen
eye and lifted knife, prepared for the encounter. All the peculiarities
of the Indian shone out in the imperturbable aspect, composed
muscles, and fiery gleaming eyes of the now half-sobered
savage; who, as if conscious of the great disparity of strength between
himself and foe, was mustering all his arts of war, all his
stratagems and subtleties, to reduce those inequalities from which
he had every thing to apprehend. But they were not permitted
to fight. The woman now threw herself between them; and, at
her appearance, the whip of Mingo fell from his shoulder, and
his mood became instantly pacific. She was the wife of the
savage, but certainly young enough to have been his daughter.
She was decidedly one of the comeliest squaws that had ever
enchanted the eyes of the Driver, and her life-darting eyes, the
emotion so visible in her face, and the boldness of her action, as
she passed between their weapons, with a hand extended toward
each, was such as to inspire him with any other feelings than
those which possessed him towards the squatters. Mingo was
susceptible of the tender influences of love. As brave as Julius
Cæsar, in his angry mood, he was yet quite as pliant as Mark
Antony in the hour of indulgence; and the smile of one of the
ebon damsels of his race, at the proper moment, has frequently
saved her and others from the penalties incurred by disobedience
of orders, or unfinished tasks. Nor were his sentiments towards
the sex confined to those of his master's plantation only. He
penetrated the neighbouring estates with the excursive and reckless
nature of the Prince of Troy, and, more than once, in consequence
scarcely less fierce, though less protracted than those of Ilium.
His success with the favoured sex was such as to fill him with a
singular degree of confidence in his own prowess and personal
attractions. Mingo knew that he was a handsome fellow, and
fancied a great deal more. He was presumptuous enough—
surely there are no white men so!—to imagine that it was scarcely
possible for any of the other sex, in their sober senses, to withstand
him. This impression grew singularly strong, as he gazed upon
the Indian woman. So bright an apparition had not met his eyes
for many days. His local associations were all staling—the
women he was accustomed to behold, had long since lost the
charm of novelty in his sight—and, with all his possessions, Mingo,
like Alexander of Macedon, was still yearning for newer conquests.
The first glance at the Indian woman, assured his
roving fancies that they had not yearned in vain. He saw in
her a person whom he thought destined to provoke his jaded
tastes anew, and restore his passions to their primitive ascendancy.
The expression of his eye softened as he surveyed her. War
fled from it like a discomfited lion; and if love, squatting quietly
down in his place, did not look altogether so innocent as the lamb,
he certainly promised not to roar so terribly. He now looked
nothing but complacence on both the strangers; on the woman
because of her own charms; on the man because of the charms
which he possessed in her. But such was not the expression in
the countenance of the Indian. He was not to be moved by the
changes which he beheld in his enemy, but still kept upon him a
wary watch, as if preparing for the renewal of the combat.
There was also a savage side-glance which his keen fiery eyes
threw upon the woman, which seemed to denote some little anger
towards herself. This did not escape the watchful glance of our
gay Lothario, who founded upon it some additional hope of success
in his schemes. Meanwhile, the woman was not idle nor silent.
She did not content herself with simply going between the combatants,
but her tongue was active in expostulation with her
sovereign, in a dialect not the less musical to the ears of Mingo
because he did not understand a word of it. The tones were
sweet, and he felt that they counselled peace and good will to the
expression of his face, and the mere sounds of his brief, guttural
replies, had, like Sempronius, a voice for war only. Something,
too, of a particular harshness in his manner, seemed addressed to
the woman alone. Her answers were evidently those of deprecation
and renewed entreaty; but they did not seem very much
to influence her Lord and master, or to soften his mood. Mingo
grew tired of a controversy in which he had no share, and fancied,
with a natural self-complacency, that he could smooth down some
of its difficulties.
“Look yer, my friend,” he exclaimed, advancing, with extended
hand, while a volume of condescension was written upon
his now benignant features—“Look yer, my friend, it's no use
to be at knife-draw any longer. I didn't mean to hurt you when I
raised the whip, and as for the little touch I gin the dog, why
that's neither here nor there. The dog's more easy to squeal
than-most dogs I know. Ef I had killed him down to the brush
at his tail eend, he could'nt ha' holla'd more. What's the sense
to fight for dogs? Here—here's my hand—we won't quarrel any
longer, and, as for fighting, I somehow never could fight when
there was a woman standing by. It's onbecoming, I may say,
and so here's for peace between us. Will you shake?”
The proffered hand was not taken. The Indian still kept
aloof with the natural caution of his race; but he seemed to
relax something of his watchfulness, and betrayed less of that
still and deliberate anxiety which necessarily impresses itself
upon the most courageous countenance in the moment of expected
conflict. Again the voice of the woman spoke in tones of reconciliation,
and, this time, words of broken English were audible, in
what she said, to the ears of the Driver. Mingo fancied that he
had never heard better English—of which language he considered
himself no humble proficient—nor more sweetly spoken by any
lips. The savage darted an angry scowl at the speaker in return,
uttered but a single stern word in the Catawba, and pointed his
finger to the wigwam as he spoke. Slowly, the woman turned
away and disappeared within its shelter. Mingo began to be
impatient of the delay, probably because of her departure, and
proceeded, with more earnestness than before, to renew his proposition
of his race in remembering threats and injuries.
“Lick dog, lick Indian; lick Indian, get knife—hah!”
“Who's afeard!” said the Driver. “Look yer, my friend:
'taint your knife, let me tell you, that's gwine to make me turn
tail on any chicken of your breed. You tried it, and what did
you git? Why, look you, if it hadn't been for the gripe of the
gal—maybe she's your daughter, mout-be your sister?—but it's
all one—ef it hadn't been her gripe which fastened my arm, the
butt of my whip would have flattened you, until your best friend
couldn't ha' said where to look for your nose. You'd ha' been
all face after that, smooth as bottom land, without e'er a snag or
a stump; and you'd have passed among old acquaintance for
any body sooner than yourself. But I'm no brag dog—nor I
don't want to be a biting dog, nother; when there's nothing to
fight for. Let's be easy. P'rhaps you don't feel certain whose
plantation you're on here. Mout be if you know'd, you'd find
out it wa'nt altogether the best sense to draw knife on Mingo
Gillison.—Why, look you, my old boy, I'm able to say what I
please here—I makes the law for this plantation—all round
about, so far as you can see from the top of the tallest of them
'ere pine trees, I'm the master! I look 'pon the pine land field,
and I say, `Tom, Peter, Ned, Dick, Jack, Ben, Toney, Sam—
boys—you must 'tack that field to-morrow.' I look 'pon the
swamp field, and I say to 'nother ten, `boys, go there!'—high
land and low land, upland and swamp, corn and cotton, rice and
rye, all 'pen 'pon me for order; and jis' as Mingo say, jis' so
they do. Well, wha' after dat! It stands clear to the leetlest
eye, that 'taint the best sense to draw knife on Mingo Gillison;
here, on he own ground. 'Spose my whip can't do the mischief,
it's a needcessity only to draw a blast out of this 'ere horn, and
there'll be twenty niggers 'pon you at once, and ebery one of dem
would go off wid 'he limb. But I ain't a hard man, my fren', ef
you treat me softly. You come here to make your clay pots and
pans. Your people bin use for make 'em here for sebenty
nine—mout-be forty seben year—who knows? Well, you can
make 'em here, same as you been usen to make 'em, so long as
you 'habe you'self like a gemplemans. But none of your
you. 'Mout-be, I'll trade with you for some of your pots.
Clay-pot is always best for bile hom'ny.”
We have put in one paragraph the sum and substance of a
much longer discourse which Mingo addressed to his Indian
guest. The condescensions of the negro had a visible effect upor
the squatter, the moment that he was made to comprehend the
important station which the former enjoyed; and when the Indian
woman was fairly out of sight, Richard Knuckles, for such was the
English name of the Catawba, gradually restored his knife to his
belt, and the hand which had been withheld so long, was finally given
in a gripe of amity to the negro, who shook it as heartily as if
he had never meditated towards the stranger any but the most
hospitable intentions. He was now as affectionate and indulgent,
as he had before shown himself hostile; and the Indian, after a
brief space, relaxed much of the hauteur which distinguishes the
deportment of the Aborigines. But Mingo was pained to observe
that Richard never once asked him into his wigwam, and, while he
remained, that the squaw never once came out of it. This reserve
betokened some latent apprehension of mischief; and the whole
thoughts of our enamoured Driver were bent upon ways and
means for overcoming this austerity, and removing the doubts of
the strangers. He contrived to find out that Caloya—such was
the woman's name—was the wife of the man; and he immediately
jumped to a conclusion which promised favourably for his
schemes. “An ole man wid young wife!” said he, with a
complacent chuckle, “Ah, ha! he's afeard!—well, he hab' good
'casion for fear'd, when Mingo Gillison is 'pon de ground.”
| CHAPTER IV. The wigwam and the cabin | |