University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Old Play.

—Nat Lee.

A quarter of an hour elapsed, and
still the captives, each to his tree, stood
fast bound, in awful suspense regarding
their fate, undergoing a mental torture
second only to that of the stake—when
the whole party of savages, Moody on
the lead, was seen approaching them.

As the Indians neared the prisoners,
the latter could discover—by the dark,
angry, sinister looks of all—that mercy,
that diviner attribute of the brave and
good, formed no part of their rude and
barbarous creed. When they had attained
a close vicinity to their captives,
they came to a halt, and for a moment
gazed around with savage ferocity.
Without going nearer, or saying a word
to any of the whites, who stood regarding
them in gloomy silence, they began
to collect some dry sticks, which they
threw into a pile and set on fire. Then
seating themselves around it, the pipe, the
unfailing accompaniment of an Indian
council, was produced and lighted, and
passed around the circle as on the occasion
previously described.

When this part of the ceremony was
over, Moody arose and said:

“Brothers, when last we met in council,
it was at the request of him who now
addresses you. He then told you a good
tale, which you yourselves have proved
to be true. He told you, that many
scalps or many prisoners were on the
southern path. You believed him, and
you turned back; for the rest, look
around you.”

Here he paused, and slowly pointed
to each of the prisoners, individually,
beginning with Clifton, and ending with
the gardener, who now stood bound to a
tree, some distance from the others, his
Indian captor having joined the council.
When done, Moody resumed:

“Brothers, behold your triumph!
There they stand, bound captives. In all,
Posetha counts nine heads, or nine scalps.
He looks around this circle, and, including
himself, can only count nine warriors.
There were two more when his red brothers
turned back. Where are they now?
In the Indian's Heaven. Who sent them
there before their time? Yonder pale-face
chief. Posetha thinks this enough.
He should die. He has been long enough
upon the war-path, and he should die.
The shoulder of Posetha pains him. He
has been wounded. Who did it? Yonder
miscreant (pointing to the gardener).
Three times has yonder wretch sought
Posetha's life. He still lives to boast it.
Posetha thinks he should die also. This
will make his party the strongest. Otherwise,
there will be a pale-face to every
red-man. There will still be left enough
to amuse the young men, the squaws and
papposes of the Indians. Posetha gives
his voice for the speedy torture of the two
he has named. His ears are open to hear
their cries for mercy. His heart is shut to
that mercy. It will please him. It will
please the Great Spirit. Brothers, Posetha
has spoken.”

By a ready tact, peculiar to his nature
Moody had learned to adapt himself to
the manners and mode of speaking of the
Indians. When harranguing in council
unlike his usual method in English, he
made his sentences simple and short, and
spoke directly to the point. His Indian
dialect was not spoken with ease, nor very
fluently; but, with short sentences, he always
managed to make himself distinctly
understood.

As he took his seat upon the ground
he ran his eye around the circle, and perceived,
by their looks of ferocity, their
flashing eyes, that his sentiments were
echoed in the breasts of nearly every savage.
We say nearly—we might say all
with the exception of Mugwa, the chief.
It will be recollected, that the bravery of
Clifton, even in slaying a part of his band,
had won his admiration; and a design of
saving his life, of transforming him into
an Indian, had then entered his head, and
had not yet been eradicated. With regard
to the others, he was ready to give his

voice for death; but Clifton, from some
strange fancy, he wished spared.

Moody saw at a glance, that on this
point he would meet with decided opposition;
but he trusted to a majority in his
favor to carry the day.

Mugwa was the next to speak. Slowly,
with dignity, he rose, and gazing
round upon the circle of warriors, whom
he saw were all attention, at length began.

“Brothers,” he said, “you have heard
the words of Posetha. To Mugwa they
seem wise, and not wise. Wise, when
they tell us we must make our party the
strongest—not wise when they bid us sacrifice
the pale-face chief.”

Here Mugwa, although no one interrupted
him, saw by the change in the
countenances of his hearers, that he had
touched upon an unpopular theme; but
nothing daunted, he went on.

“True, he continued, “he has slain
two of my braves, and menaced the life
of Mugwa himself—But was not this done
in his own defense? Who can blame
him? What warrior among you does
not admire bravery? It is a great virtue.
It comes directly from the Great Spirit.
Had he turned like a coward to fly, Mugwa
would have sent a ball to bid him tarry.
Mugwa would ere this have had his
scalp drying on his belt and the wolves
should have fattened on his carcass. He
did not do this, though surrounded by enemies
he knew he could not conquer. He
acted the hero and the man. Mugwa admires
heroism. He has been a great
many moons upon the war-path. His
own hand has slain a great many pale-faces.
He is brave. He is their enemy.
The proof of both is in his lodge. Who
thinks Mugwa boasts without cause—
that his tongue is forked—can go there
and see. Mugwa loves a hero, be he redman
or pale-face. It is a great thing to
be brave. Yonder pale-face chief is brave.
Mugwa would not see him bound to the
stake, and die like a dog. There is no
squaw[1] in. There is squaw in his
follower. Take them. There are enough
and to spare. Mugwa is willing. But
why select the bravest? Why select him
who fears not death? Mugwa does not
ask to set him free. He would take him
home to his nation, and let them decide.
He would in short make him an Indian.
He is worthy to be an Indian. He would
teach our young men courage—our warriors
wisdom. Spare him, and Mugwa
sanctions all the rest. He has spoken.”

Here the chief gravely took his seat,
amid a profound silence. It was evident
to Moody, who watched the faces of all attentively,
that the arguments of the Bear
had made a deep impression upon their
minds, and that the scale would assuredly
turn against him, unless the weight of the
next speaker's argument was thrown in
his favor. With some anxiety, therefore,
he waited the rising of the next orator.
On him, doubtless, would depend the triumph
of himself or Mugwa. At length
Unkee started to his feet, and Moody at
once felt satisfied by the gleam of his eye,
that he would side with him, and thus his
triumph would be complete. Nor was he
mistaken.

“Brothers,” began Unkee, “you have
heard. The words of the great chiefs
have found your ears open. They have
entered your brains, and, not being alike,
have become confused. You do not know
which has spoken most wise. You wish
to hear the opinion of another before you
decide. Unkee will give you his. Unkee
is not an orator. He is not of many
words. He is more for action. Hear his
counsel. The pale-face is many—the
red-man is few. Unless the red-man destroy
the pale-face, he will over-run him.
All should die. The voice of Unkee
joins Posetha's. The pale-face chief
should die now. First, because he is
brave, and the more to be feared. Secondly,
because the spirits of our friends
call for his blood. They cannot rest in
peace, knowing their murderer fills their
wigwam.”

This last was an argument so forcible,
so conclusive to an Indian mind, that
nothing but the mighty force of habit, restrained
the dark warriors from interrupting
the speaker with fierce yells of coin
ciding opinions. As it was, their faces instantly
grew savagely ferocious; their

eyes gleamed like balls of fire; their nostrils
expanded, and their hands nervously
clutched their weapons.

It was a complete triumph. A thousand
words could not add to or destroy the force
of that single, simple sentence. Even
Mugwa seemed astonished and taken
aback, as though the idea were new, and
had struck him, too, with force. Moody,
with a thrill of savage joy, now saw that
his end was gained. A direct Providence
could alone save the victims of his hate
from their impending doom. Unkee, too,
saw that the effect he sought was wrought,
and he was cunning enough to pause and
give it full sway.

Simply adding, “Unkee has spoken,”
he resumed his seat.

No sooner did the savages perceive that
he was done, than springing to their feet,
they uttered the most terrific yells imaginable—yells
which went to the hearts of
the prisoners, and told them, alas! to fear
the worst. As for Moody, he fairly shouted
with ferocious delight, and danced
around in a wild ecstasy of joy. Revenge
he felt was in his grasp.

At length the yells and rapid gesticulations
of the savages subsided, after which
several minutes were occupied in settling
the time and place where the horrid rite
should come off, and the manner in which
it should be conducted. After some discussion
in the Indian fashion, it was finally
agreed that Clifton and Ichabod should
be put to the tortures on the very ground
where the council had been held which
had decreed them to death, and in full view
of all the prisoners, who would thereby
be witnesses of what, sooner or later, they
would have to undergo themselves.

This suited the purpose of Moody exactly;
and while the Indians set about
preparing for the work of death, he repaired
to Clifton, to let him know the result,
taunt him all he could, and, in fact, enjoy
to the full his own hellish triumph.

“I have come, my dear brother,” he
said, ironically, “to inform you what my
friends propose to do for your benefit.
Perhaps, however, you can judge for
yourself, by simply watching their motions.”

“I suppose I am to be tortured,” an
swered Clifton, compressing his lips, and
slightly turning pale.

“Well, you have made a very good
guess, for the first one,” replied Moody,
with a laugh. “You are about to reap
the benefit of your obstinacy, I assure
you.”

“Do your worst,” rejoined Clifton;
“for sooner would I die, than sacrifice the
happiness of yonder maiden.”

“And what, think you, you save her by
this? Strange fancy you have got in your
head, and one which I will now remove,
for your especial benefit. In the first place,
is not the girl in my power?”

“I suppose she is.”

“Well, then, what think you it will matter
with me, or with her, whether she refuse
to be my lawful wife or not? I cannot
compel her to marry me, it is true;
but I can compel her to do worse.”

“Good God! Moody, what do you
mean?” cried Clifton, as a vague suspicion
of something terrible crossed his mind.

“I leave you to judge what I mean, for
the present, as I see a warrior coming to
prepare you for the trial that awaits you,”
answered Moody. “When you are burning
at the stake, and your flesh cracking
with the heat, I will come, and hiss my
meaning in your ear, that your spirit may
have a knowledge in the world beyond,
of what she you love is bound to suffer in
this.”

Saying this Moody turned upon his heel
and strode away toward Kate, while the
savage approached, and simply giving a
grunt, drew his knife and cut the thongs
which bound Ernest to the tree, but without
cutting those which bound his hands.
He then took hold of his arm, and pointing
in a significant manner toward the
main body of his companions, conducted
him away. All this was noted by the
friends of Clifton, with feelings peculiar
to each, but which it would be impossible
for us to describe.

Meantime Moody approached Kate,
who stood bound to the tree, her features
pale as death, and a look of alarmed inquiry
upon her sweet countenance.

“Well,” said the outcast, coming up, a
dark smile playing over his sinister features,
“you are now about to experience

the result of your decision. Look yonder,
and yon,” and he pointed first toward
Clifton, and then toward the savages, who
were in the act of driving a large stake
deep into the earth.

“What mean these fearful signs?” asked
Kate, breathlessly.

“Their meaning, methinks, is very apparent,”
answered Moody. “Your lover
is about to pass the ordeal of fire, on
a journey from which he will never return.”

“Oh, God! Moody, you cannot be so
base—so cruel!” cried Kate, in terrible
agony, little heeding that she might as
well have attempted to move a savage to
tears, as him she addressed to mercy.—
“Oh, save him! save him!—he is your
brother!”

“Not if he were ten times my brother,
and it were in my power,” returned Moody,
fiercely. “You plead too late, Kate
Clarendon. Once I sought to save him,
on the easy condition that you became
my wife. I told you of the consequences,
if you refused, and yet refuse you did.
His doom is now past recall. He must
die. And you,” added Moody, tauntingly,
“And you, pretty Miss Kate—do not
think by this that you will escape me!
No! I swear to you your doom shall be
no better than his!”

Kate shut her eyes and groaned.

“One thing,” she cried, suddenly, “do
me one favor, and I will ask no more!
Do not let him writhe at the stake! In
mercy take your rifle, and—and—(she
paused, and shuddered, and her voice
sunk to an almost inaudible whisper)—
and—end—his—misery,” she gasped, at
last with a groan.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Moody, “you
must have a very poor opinion of me, to
think I would condescend to save him
from his red friends yonder;” and again
he pointed toward the savages.

“Farewell, dearest!” said a deep, solemn
voice at this moment, that made the
blood retreat to the heart of Kate, leaving
her pale, agonized features bloodless; and
looking round, she saw her lover being
led to his place of torture. “Farewell,
dearest!” again spoke Ernest, in solemn
tones. “On earth we may never meet
again; but in God put your trust, and
meet me soon in the land of spirits!”

Kate could hear no more, but uttered
one fearful scream of anguish, that penetrated
the hearts of all her friends, and
made the brave young officer tremble as
a child.

“You see!” said Moody, coolly, pointing
toward the already retreating form
of Clifton, as his Indian conductor hurried
him forward: “You see!”

But he was mistaken; Kate did not
see; she had fainted; and with a deep
malediction on her tender heart, Moody
turned away, and strode on after his intended
victim.

By the time that he had come up to the
Indians, the driving of the stake was
completed, and the savages were already
placing sticks around it.—These were
put end-wise to the stake, some three feet
distant, so as to form a complete circle,
and give the condemned the benefit of a
slow fire. To the stake the prisoner was to
be bound, so as to leave him a little freedom,
and then the sticks were to be fired.

Clifton, as he neared the spot, noticed
all these preparations with a shudder, and
with a sinking spirit; but nerving himself
with as much stoicism as he could assume,
he in wardly called upon his Maker
to aid him, and prepared himself to undergo
the trial before him with manly
fortitude.

And a terrible trial it was to one like
him, in the very prime of life, with every
inducement to live—just, too, on the verge
of happiness—to be thus snatched away
from all he loved and held dear, and slowly
tortured out of existence into the dread,
unknown Beyond. But most terrible of
all, was the maddening thought of the
dear one he loved, who would be left behind
in the power of the most inhuman
monster on earth. Were Kate at liberty
and safe, he felt he could die comparatively
happy. The suffering of the body
alone, he fancied, could be borne; but
the suffering of body and mind together,
was a something to sap his courage, and
make the man a child. Nor was his feeling
of despair lessened, as he turned his
gaze upward toward the glorious sun,
(that now ascending the heavens, poured

his light and warmth upon the great earth)
then around upon the beauties of nature
everywhere displayed before him—felt
the soft, balmy breeze upon his cheek,
and remembered that he was about
to bid adieu to all these bright things forever.

It had been decided by the Indians, that
Clifton should suffer first, and therefore
only one place of torture had been prepared,
which was afterward to serve for
the gardener, who, in consequence, still
remained bound to his tree. The spot
chosen for the horrid rite, was a little open
patch of ground, near which grew a cluster
of bushes, forming part of a thicket
that stretched away to the Little Miami,
but not so as to obstruct the view of the
other prisoners—it being the policy of the
Indians to have them spectators of the awful
spectacle.

The appearance of Clifton upon the
ground, was the signal for the savages to
set up a series of horrid yells, to dance
around him in brutal triumph, and pinch,
beat and otherwise maltreat him with their
hands and fists. This lasted some ten or
fifteen minutes, and was borne by the
prisoner without a word of complaint.
In this savage custom, in justice be it said,
Moody did not join; but folding his arms
upon his breast, he stood a little apart, regarding
his brother in stern silence.

When they had amused themselves
sufficiently in this way, the Indians began
stripping their victim of his apparel,
preparatory to binding him to the stake.
First his coat, then his vest, and then
piece after piece of his other garments,
theytore rudely from him, and with some
of them decorated their own hideous persons.
As they rent the bosom of his
shirt, the silver box presented him by Luther,
which had been placed there for safe
keeping, rolled out and fell to the ground.
In an instant, Moody, who had so far
been only a spectator, sprang forward,
and seized it with avidity.

“What is this?” he asked, turning it
over and over, and noting with wonder
the strange characters upon it. “Speak,
sirrah! what is this?” he pursued, addressing
himself to Clifton. But the lat
ter deigned him no answer; and muttering,
“Take that for your silence,” Moody
struck him with his fist a violent blow upon
the side of his head, and coolly hid
the box under his vestments to be examined
at some future time.

Having at length stripped Clifton entirely,
the Indians proceeded to attach
him to the stake, by means of a rope
made of deer-skin, and in such a manner
as to leave him a little play round the
circle, but not enough to reach the fire.
They then had another dance around him,
accompanied with horrible yells, when a
warrior suddenly appeared with a burning
brand, and applied it to the combustible
pile. The sticks, many of them being
small and dry, were very ignitable, and
in a moment the red flames shot upward,
and flashed, and crackled and crept
around the circle, until the prisoner, to
those at a little distance, appeared enveloped
in fire and smoke. Gradually the
heat became more and more intense, untill
the position of Clifton, who kept
himself close to the stake, was rendered
not a little painful, and already a few
blisters began to make their appearance
on his tender skin.

“Now for the burnt powder,” cried
Moody, with a horrid laugh; and pointing
his rifle toward the naked body of
Clifton, he was already in the act of pullinh
the trigger, when suddenly the muzzle
dropped to the ground, and its owner,
turning ghastly pale, stood, with mouth
distended, and eyes half starting from
their sockets, gazing in the direction of
the thicket, and trembling with very fear.
The Indians, too, suddenly halted in their
savage rite, and uttering the single word
“Kitcho-chobeka,” shrank cowering
back, with looks expressive of surprise
and dismay.

The next moment a powerful figure
rushed through the flames, and cutting
the bonds of the prisoner, raised and bore
him to a safe distance beyond the fatal
circle. Turning with a look of unspeakable
grattitude to his deliverer, Clifton,
to his amazement and joy, beheld in him
the tall, ungainly, but commanding form
of Blind Luther, the Necromancer.