 | CHAPTER XXVIII. The new purchase, or, Seven and a half years in the far West |  |
28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
“— neque semper arcum
Tendit Apollo.”
“Pleasure after Pain.”
When the Indian tribe were departing from the New
Purchase, a distinguished chieftain had suddenly died, and
been buried in aboriginal style in the spot known in our
settlements as the Indian grave. That spot I could never
pass without feeling myself on hallowed ground, often contemplating
the scene with indescribable emotion—ay,
more than once with unbidden tears. The burial place itself
was a beautiful natural mound, abrupt on the side towards
the county road, but otherwise of a regular shape
and gradual swell, being hardly indeed supposed a mound
on the approach by the Glenville path. On the summit of
this mound was the grave. It was inclosed by a fence of
small logs and covered with poles: while a rough post
carved with Indian hieroglyphics and its point or top painted
red, marked where the warrior's head rested.
This place was too far from Glenville for a walk, and
we never hunted in that direction, but, even when hurrying
on a journey, as I rode by. I could not pass till I paused
some moments to gaze, and with a melancholy soul, on this
resting place of the savage king; and with the most profound
sadness and shame, after learning that this wild and
lonely and regal grave had been violated!
Around that grave had stood a band of exiles and houseless
wanderers—children of the forest! Trusting to the
white man's faith, they had asked a few yards of earth,
had been theirs—a few yards where they might lay in his
rest their chief, their lawgiver, their father! Yes! yes!
there bitter agony of the soul had been felt, although proudly,
perhaps, sternly concealed! Mournful enough to bury
a king and a patriarch in a borrowed grave; yet was it
some alleviation that he was to lie in no dishonoured ground!
If there was sadness, there was grandeur too, in the
thought, that his was the only grave, and that it made venerable
and sanctuary-like so large a forest space!—ay,
that for long years to come white men's children would
point and say, “Behold that little mound yonder!—that is
the grave of Blue Fire!—the mighty Indian warrior and
chief!” That grave would remain a monument, speaking
to successive generations of the pale faces and saying—
“This was all once the red man's land!”
What would that tribe of mourning warriors have felt?
what would they not have done, had some fierce and proud
apparition from their spirit-land, revealed that the base
sons of white men would despoil that grave of its treasure,
even before the impress of the departing exiles' feet should
be covered by the fall of the coming autumn's leaves?
Yet so it was. Reader! the poor Indian is often cursed
for his indiscriminate massacres—has he no provocations?
Do not civilized and nominal Christian men, with deadly
weapons, watch near the sepulchres of their fathers and
sons to wreak sudden vengeance on the robbers of the
tomb? And dare we condemn the poor, hunted, defrauded
Indian, who, finding his father's grave desecrated and
rifled, cools the phrenzy rage of his burning soul in a bath
of white man's blood?
Once on my way to Timberopolis, I sat gazing and
dreaming on my horse, near that sad mound; when, not
without an emotion of fear, I saw appear a large party of
mounted Indians, going, as it afterwards was discovered, to
The party did not halt at the grave, as probably they would
have done, if no pale face had been there to notice: if
they had, although no sign apparently could lead to the discovery
that the sacred deposit was gone, yet should I have
felt, if not afraid, yet truly ashamed. Our way being for
several hours in their direction, we often passed and repassed
one another, and occasionally I rode among the party,
and held a conversation with a half breed that could use
a little English—till at last, they encamping on the bank
of the beauteous and silvery river, once their own! we
parted—my way leading across the stream and their path
still further up on its bank. I felt a strange wish to plunge
with them into the dark, tangled wilds of that vast forest,
where no white man yet lived—so strong is the love of the
uncivilized in some hearts!
But to our story. Several years prior to our arrival in
the Purchase, two young men, whose youth and ignorance
is their best apology, students of Dr. Sylvan's, on hearing
of the burial of Blue Fire, determined so soon as the Indians
should resume their march for the Mississippi, to take
up the body; partly for anatomical purposes and partly out
of rash boldness; for some nerve was necessary to the
work, while many lagging Indians were yet straggling in
the woods. And unhappily for our honour they succeeded;
but not until after a very remarkable interruption and temporary
defeat. And that defeat is my story. It shall be
given, however, in the words of the renowned “Hunting-Shirt-Andy,”
the leader of the party that terrified the resurrectionists,
and almost to insanity, and from whose lips we
ourselves received the narrative.
Be it premised, that at the time of our story, not more
than three cabins were between Woodville and the river;
that on their side the river, the nearest house from the
grave, (on our side) was more than three miles, and
necessary in passing and repassing to and from
Woodville to cross the river. In many places were fords,
and near them also dangerous holes from four to six feet
deep; and into these, not only inexperienced travellers, but
even we neighbourhood people often plunged; and hence
escape from them to a terrified man running from savages
would be almost miraculous. On our side, the cabin nearest
the grave was two miles up the river, so that if any
Indians came unexpectedly upon the young fellows, they
would be in hazard of meeting a pretty summary vengeance
—and not, I must say, wholly undeserved.
Our narrator was called Hunting-Shirt-Andy, mainly because
he lived like an Indian, and always wore a very
wonderful leather hunting shirt—(his second hide or skin)—
most curiously frilled, and elaborately ornamented with bits
of skin, birds' and beasts' claws, and porcupine quills dyed
red, and green, and yellow; and also to distinguish him from
his second cousin White-Andy, so named because he lived
like the rest of us civilized woodsmen in a cabin. The
story was given in Uncle John's cabin, at the united request
of myself and the others, and is as follows:—
Hunting-Shirt-Andy's Story.
“Well, Mistur Carltin, if you reely wants to hear about
them two young fellers, I don't kere to tell about that Blue
Fire scrape; but case you put it in your book, don't let on
about thare namses—as the doctor's nevy is a most powerful
clever feller and tended me arter in the agy, and
charged me most nuthin at all, although he kim more nor
once all the way over more nor twenty miles—and the
tother one what got most sker'd, is a sort of catawampus,
(spiteful) and maybe underhand wouldn't stick to do you
a mischief if he thought you made a laff on him—albeit,
he's been laffed at a powerful heap afore.
“Well, we heern the two was a comin to git up Blue
us neighbours was powerful mad about it; as cos couldn't
they allow the poor Injin to lay in his grave; and as cos the
Injins still a sort a squattin and campin round, mought
hear on it, and it mought n't be so good for folks's consarns
then. And so we talks over the thing, and allowed we'd
make the chaps let Blue Fire lay; and so, says I to Bill
Roland, Bill, says I, let's you and me make on to be Injins,
and skere them doctur fellers; and don't let them go for to
bile the poor red savage for the natumy. Agreed, says
Bill, and then we goes and gits ole man Ashford, and fixes
up like reel gineine Injins, and paints our faces red and
clean up our arms, away up here (showing,) and all on us
gits on blankits and leggins and moksins, and teetotally
greases our hair back so—slick-like, and I gits a bit of tin
round my hat, and we takes our tomhoks and rifles and
puts off and lies hid near the grave. 'Twas just thare, Mr.
Carltin, along by the black walnut stump what I cut down
the very next day arter for rails for Bill Tomsin's yard.
Well, thare we all on us lays down in the bushes on our
bellies, a little over fifty yards from the grave; for we
know'd the young fellers was to come at sich a time; cos
they kim to Squire Brushwood's the night afore; and the
Squire he sends up his little gal to ole man Ashford's afore
sun-up to sort a let us know: and so we was all ready,
when what should we spy a comin but the two young doctor
chaps with a couple of hossis, and a meal-bag, and a
spade, and a hoe.
“Well, we lays teetotally still, and they goes fust and
fassens their hossis to the swinging branch of that thare sugar
west o' the place, and then goes and begins a takin
down the pen, and when they gits it down, they off's coats
and begins a diggin like the very divil.[20]
And jist then we
at that knot in that thare beech at the tail ind of the grave;
I'll show you the knot any day, and you'll see its more nor
half a foot good above their heads when they stood up agin
the beach, although they arterwards tried to make the knot
out only two inches above their heads; and then I gives a
leetle bark, like a growling Injin—and up they pops both on
'em, right under the beach, and looks about most powerful
skittish, and then we lets fly three balls crack-wack right
into the knot, and makes bark peel right sharp in that 'are
quarter; and then out jumps we and raises the yell, with
tomhoks agoin to fling —”
At this very moment our narrator was interrupted by a
terrific burst of thunder, which shook our cabin with much
violence, and caused the dry clay of the chinking to curl up
in dust around us like smoke! To persons shut up from the
view of the horizon, it had seemed a very fair afternoon
early in July; but while we listened to Andy, a single
cloud surcharged with lightning came over our clearing, and
using a tall tree within a few yards of our cabin as conductor,
it had darted its fiery bolt, which shivered the tree into
pieces, and filled us with a momentary, yet very intense
fear: and then, it rapidly passing, our few rods of sky was
clear and brilliant as before. After a short and revereful
pause, Andy resumed:—
“That's a most mighty powerful big clap of thunder, and
most mighty near! but it's not a bit more skery than our
bullits above them two young doctors' heads and the reel
Injiny yells us three screeched out! The way they drops
tools and made tracks was funny, Mr. Carltin, I tell you!
You see! I've seed runnin in my days that's sartin—but if
them chaps didn't git along as if old Sattin was ahind 'em,
then I allow I never killed no deer, and that would be a
wapper!
“Well—they divides, and the doctor's nevy, he tuk
pretends they was a follerin him—howsom'er they couldn't
a ketch'd up no how—and so the nevy he runs clare up two
miles and gits safe into Pete's shanty on the bottum, and
sker'd Pete hisself so powerful he was afeer'd to come
down, till we sends up and lets Pete into the secret.
“But tother chap, he was so sker'd he didn't see where
he runn'd, and kept right study ahead slash through weeds
and briars to the river—and me slam smack arter him, as cos
I was afeerd he'd run in and git drownded; for thar's where
the water is deepish, and jist about where you swim'd your
hoss, Mr. Carltin—and so I runs and hollers like a screech-owl
—`stop!—doctur!—staw-u-up!' But the more I hollers,
the more he legs it; case he was more nor ever sker'd
to hear a Injin holler Inglish—Graminy! Mr. Carltin, if he
didn't make brush crack and streak off like a herd of buffalo!—and
me all the time a keepin arter, as I was sentimentally
afeer'd now he'd git drownded; but, darn my
leather shirt—(Andy would put this profane stitch into his
shirt when he was excited)—darn my leather shirt, if arter
all I could make him stop; and in he splash'd kerslush,
like a hurt buffalo bull, and waded and swim'd and splash'd
and scrabbled even ahead rite strate across and up tother
bank—when he stops for the furst time to blow and takes a
look back! And then he sees me a standin on our side and
without no gun, a bekenin on him to stop; for I was too
powerful weak a laffin to holler any more—but darn my
leather shirt, if the blasted fool didn't set off agin like a tarrified
barr, and wades clean in all through the bio! and
the buttermilk slash tother side! and never stopt again till
he kim to the three mile cabin! and thare he tells them
as how the Injins had all got back agin, and had killed
tother doctur and tuk his skulp!! And you may naterally
allow, Mr. Carltin, the hull settlement over thare was a sort
a sker'd, and sent out scouts and hunters to see: but when
mighty powerful heap of laffin, I never kill'd no deer.
“Howsever the Doctor's nevy was good pluck; for he
gits another chap to help, and two days arter when we warn't
a watchin, he digs out the poor Ingin and totes him over to
Woodville, and biled him up for a natumy for their shop
arter all—and so that's the hull story, Mr. Carltin;—but I
must be a sorter goin. I'll fetch that jerked vensin about
next week—and them 'are deer skins:—but afore I starts,
wont you jist play us a toone on that flute of yourn, Mr.
Carltin?”
“Most certainly, Andy—I'll play you a dozen if you
can stay,—what will you have?”
“Well!—let's see—thare's one I don't mind it's name
now—but a powerful toone; I heard Mr. Johnsin fiddlin
on it at Spiceburgh—but thare's somethin about river in it,
and it was talkin of the young doctur's splunge, made me
think of the toone.”
“Was it this, Andy?”—(Mr. C. plays.)
“That's him! that's the dentikul toone!—let's see—
what do you call him?”
“Over the river to Charlie.” And accordingly this
“powerful toone” was done now in first rate double-shuffle
style, with very curious extempore variations, and very
alarming embellishments; while all the time Andy patted
the puncheons with his moccasin'd feet, and seemed barely
able to refrain from leaping up and dancing; till the music
ending, he remarked:—
“Ie! Ie! darn my leather shirt if I didn't know 'twas
river somethin!—and by jingo, Mr. Carltin, if you don't
jist about know the sling of it, about as good as Mr. Johnsin—and
maybe a leetle bit betterer—and the way he makes
it hum on the fiddle!—I tell you what!! Well, well,—I
must be goin, but I should like to stay and git you to play
that 'ere meetin toone, Pisger,—(Pisgah, a great favourite
named, Gumsnorter[21] —but I can't stop—I'm off—good-bye,
folks.”
And off he was sure enough; while I treated him during
his exit with Yankee-doodle. And this compliment Andy
felt so much, that he began capering, and yelping, and tossing
his legs and arms, till he reached our bars, which he
cleared like a bounding buck at a flying leap: but within
the bushes beyond he paused a moment, and gave, first, an
Indian grunt and bark, and then such a yell!—it rung in my
ears for twenty-four hours? Then once more he leaped
away, shaking the bushes, scattering old leaves, making
brush crack, and at the same time screaming out—“Sta-up
doctur!—sta-a-a-aup!” in all which he designed a scenic
exhibition of his late story; playing like other celebrated
actors different parts, first, his own Indian character, and
secondly, the flight of the young doctor.
Reader!—do you believe life is all moping in the West?
Now be well assured we have other recreations there than
going to church—the only one certain hic vel haec English
tourists grant to us and never use themselves!
| CHAPTER XXVIII. The new purchase, or, Seven and a half years in the far West | |