 | Tales of the border |  |
THE PIONEER.
I was travelling a few years ago, in the northern
part of Illinois, where the settlements, now
thinly scattered, were but just commenced. A
few hardy men, chiefly hunters, had pushed themselves
forward in advance of the main body of
emigrants, who were rapidly but quietly taking
possession of the fertile plains of that beautiful
state; and their cabins were so thinly scattered
along the wide frontier, that the traveller rode
many miles, and often a whole day together, without
seeing the habitation of a human being. I had
passed beyond the boundaries of social and civil
subordination, and was no longer within the precincts
of any organized country. I saw the camp
of the Indian, or met the solitary hunter, wandering
about with his rifle and his dog, in the full
enjoyment of that independence, and freedom from
countrymen. Sometimes I came to a single log
hut, standing alone in the wilderness, far removed
from the habitations of other white men, on a delightful
spot, surrounded by so many attractive
and resplendent beauties of landscape, that a prince
might have selected it as his residence; and again
I found a little settlement, where a few families,
far from all other civilised communities, enjoyed
some of the comforts of society among themselves,
and lived in a state approaching that of the social
condition.
But whether I met the tawny native of the forest,
or the wild pioneer of my own race, I felt equally
secure from violence. I found them always inoffensive,
and usually hospitable. That state of
continual warfare, which marked the first settlements
upon the shores of the Ohio, had ceased to
exist. The spirit of the red man was broken by
repeated defeat. He had become accustomed to
encroachment, and had learned to submit to that
which he could not prevent. However deeply he
might feel the sense of injury, and however fiercely
the fires of revenge might burn within his bosom,
too many lessons of severe experience had taught
him to restrain his passions. Bitter experience
had inculcated the lesson, that every blow struck
at the white man recoiled with ten-fold energy
upon himself.
I found the pioneers a rude but a kind people.
The wretched hovels, built of rough logs, so carelessly
joined together as to afford but a partial
protection from the storm, afforded a welcome
shelter, when compared with the alternative of
“camping out,” which I had been obliged to adopt
more frequently than was agreeable. Their tables
displayed little variety, but they were spread with
a cheerful cordiality that was delightful to the
weary traveller. There were venison, poultry,
rich milk, and excellent bread, in abundance.
There was honey too, for those that liked it, fresh
and fragrant from the cell of the wild bee. But
the smile of the hostess was that which pleased me
most; her hospitable reception of the tired stranger—the
alertness with which she prepared the
meal—her attention to his wants—the sympathy
she expressed for any misadventure that had befallen
him, and the confidence with which she tendered
the services of “her man,” when it happened
that the more slowly spoken host faltered in the
performance of any of the rites of hospitality;—all
these, while they afforded the evidence of a noble
trait of nationality, which I recognised with pride
as a western American, reminded me also of the
delicacy and quickness of perception with which a
woman recognises the wants of him who “has no
mother to bring him milk, no wife to grind his
corn.”
I halted once upon the “Starved Rock,” a spot
rendered memorable by a most tragic legend which
has been handed down in tradition. It is a stupendous
mass of insulated rock, standing upon the
brink of the Illinois river, whose waters wash its
base. Viewed from this side, it is seen to rise
perpendicularly, like the ramparts of a tall castle,
frowning over the still surface of that beautiful
stream, and commanding an extensive prospect of
low, but richly adorned, and quiet, and lovely
shores. Passing round, the bulwark of rock is
found to be equally precipitous and inaccessible on
either side, until the traveller reaches the rear,
where a narrow ledge is found to slope off from the
summit towards the plain, affording the only means
of access to this natural fortress. Here a small
tribe of Indians, who had been defeated by their
enemies, are said to have taken refuge with their
wives and children. The victorious party surrounded
the rock, and cut off the wretched garrison
from all possibility of retreat, and from every
means of subsistence. The siege was pressed
with merciless rigour, and the defence maintained
with undaunted obstinacy—exhibiting, on either
side, those remarkable traits of savage character:
on the one, the insatiable and ever vigilant thirst
for vengeance; on the other, unconquerable endurance
of suffering. The position is so inaccessible,
that any attempt to carry it by assault was wholly
adopted of reducing it by starvation—an expedient
which was rendered inevitably and rapidly successful,
by the circumstance that the summit of the
rock afforded no water, and that the besieged party
had laid in no supply of provisions.
It is shocking to reflect on such warfare. There
is nothing in it of the pomp, or pride, or circumstance,
which often deceive us into an admiration
of deeds of violence. In reading of the stern conflict
of gallant men who meet in battle, our feelings
are enlisted by the generosity which exposes life
for life. The “plumed troops, and the big wars,”
stir up the soul to a momentary forgetfulness of
the vices they engender, and the wretchedness
they produce, though we cannot agree with the
poet, that they “make ambition virtue.” We
admire the genius which plans, and the talent that
executes, a successful stratagem, and pay the homage
of our respect to any bright development of
military science. Courage always wins applause;
we cannot withhold our approbation from a daring
act, even though the motive be wrong. But bravery
on a fair field, and in a good cause, becomes
heroism, and warms the heart into an enthusiastic
admiration. How different from all this, and from
all that constitutes the chivalry of warfare, and
how like the cold-blooded sordidness of a deliberate
murder, was that savage act of starving to death a
and the children! And such, in fact, became the
fate of that unhappy remnant of a nation which had
once possessed the sovereignty over these beautiful
plains, and had hunted, and fought, and sat in
council, in all the pride of an independent people.
The pangs of hunger and thirst pressed them, but
they maintained their post with obstinate courage,
determined rather to die of exhaustion, than to
afford their enemies the triumph of killing them in
battle or exposing them at the stake. Every stratagem
which they attempted was discovered and defeated.
When they endeavoured to procure water
in the night, by lowering vessels attached to long
cords into the river, the vigilant besiegers detected
the design, and placed a guard in canoes to prevent
its execution. They all perished—one, and only
one, excepted. The last surviving warriors defended
the entrance so well, that the enemy could
neither enter nor discover the fatal progress of the
work of death; and when, at last, all show of resistance
having ceased, and all signs of life disappeared,
the victors ventured cautiously to approach, they
found but one survivor—a squaw, whom they adopted
into their own tribe, and who was yet living, at
an advanced age, when the first white men penetrated
into this region.
One morning, on resuming my journey, I found
that my way led across a wide prairie. The road
scarcely visible among the high grass. As I stood
in the edge of a piece of woodland, and looked forward
over the extensive plain, not the least appearance
of forest could be seen—nothing but the grassy
surface of the broad natural meadow, with here
and there a lonely tree. It was in the spring of
the year, and the verdure was exquisitely fresh
and rich. The undulating plain, sloping and swelling
into graceful elevations, was as remarkable for
the beauty of its outline as for the resplendent brilliancy
of its hues. But although the prairie was
so attractive in appearance, there was something
not pleasant in the idea of crossing it alone. The
distance over it, to the nearest point of woodland,
was thirty miles. There was, of course, neither
a house nor any shelter by the way—nothing but
the smooth plain, with its carpet of green richly
adorned with an endless variety of flowers. To
launch out alone on the wide and blooming desert,
seemed like going singly to sea; and it was impossible
to avoid feeling a sense of lonesomeness when
I looked around, as far as the eye could reach,
without seeing a human being or a habitation, and
without the slightest probability of beholding either
within the whole day. As I rode forth from the
little cabin which had given me shelter through
the night, I could not avoid looking back repeatedly
at the grove which surrounded it, with a wistfulness
receding shore. But the sun was rising in majestic
lustre from the low distant horizon, shedding a
flood of light over the placid scene, and causing
the dew-drops that gemmed the grass to sparkle
like a silver tissue—and I spurred my steed forward
with mingled sensations of delight and pensiveness.
I soon became convinced that the journey of this
day was likely to prove disagreeably eventful.
There had recently been some heavy falls of rain,
and the ravines which intersect the prairie, and
serve as drains, were full of water. Some of these
are broad, and many of them too deep to be crossed
when filled, without obliging the horse to swim;
and the banks are often so steep, that, before the
rider is aware of his danger, the horse plunges
forward headlong, throwing the unwary traveller
over his neck into the stream. I rode on, however,
wading through pools and ravines, but happily
escaping accident, and meeting with no place sufficiently
deep to try the skill of my steed in the
useful art of swimming, though the water often
bathed his sides, and sometimes reached nearly to
his back. Nor was this all—“misfortunes never
come single.” The clouds began to pile themselves
up in the west,—rolling upward from the
horizon portentously black. The signs were ominous
of a day of frequent and heavy showers. But
no refuge from the fury of the storm, any more
than there is upon the ocean; and to warn a traveller
that the rain is soon to fall, is about as practically
useful to him as would be the inculcation of
that ancient canon of the church,—“No man may
marry his grandmother.” I looked back at the
clouds, and then looked forward to a wetting. It
is vexatious to be caught thus. A shower-bath is
pleasant enough when taken voluntarily, but not
so when it must be received upon compulsion. To
be wet is no great misfortune, nor is there any
thing dangerous or melancholy in the occurrence.
But this only makes it the more provoking. If
there was any thing pathetic in the catastrophe of
a ducking, or any bravery to be evinced in bearing
the pitiless peltings of the storm, it might do. But
there is no sympathy for wet clothes, nor does a
man earn any tribute of respect for his patient endurance,
when sitting like a nincompoop under the
outpourings of a thundergust. The whole affair
is undignified and in bad taste. Few things so
humble one's pride, and make one feel so utterly
insignificant, and so like a wet rag, as to be soaked
to the skin against our own consent.
It was thus that I felt on this unlucky day. The
clouds rolled on until the whole heavens became
overcast. That splendid sun which had risen so
joyously, and lighted up the landscape, and gladdened
shadows pervaded the plain. The clouds settled
down, until the low arch of suspended fluid appeared
to rest upon the prairie. I drew on my great coat.
A blast of wind swept past me—then the rain fell
in torrents upon my back, as if poured out from ten
thousand water buckets. What a dunce was I
to put on my over-coat, which only served as a
spunge to suck in the descending cataract, and load
me down with an accumulated weight. The rain
poured in streams from the eaves of my hat—it
beat upon my neck, and insinuated itself under my
clothes—it ran down into my boots, and filled them
until they overflowed. I felt cowed, crest-fallen,
hen-pecked—I compared myself to a drowned rat
—to a pelted incumbent of the pillory—to any
thing but an honest man, a republican, and a gentleman.
I got vexed, and kicked my spurs into
my horse, who, instead of mending his pace, only
threw up his head indignantly, as if to reproach
me for the supplementary torture thus gratuitously
bestowed upon my companion in trouble. I relented,
drew in my rein, stopped short, and just sat
still and took it—and presently the rain stopped
also. It cannot rain always.
I drew a long breath, and looked around me, as
the war of the elements ceased. My saturated
garments hung shapelessly about my person, and
I had the cold comfort of knowing that there they
until all the particles of moisture should be carried
away by the slow process of evaporation—for the
rain had penetrated my saddle-bags and soaked my
whole wardrobe. The clouds still looked watery,
and were rolling up in heavy masses, portentous of
new and repeated showers. If it would not have
been unmanly, and unlucky too, I should have
turned back, and regained the shelter of my last
night's lodgings—but I was as wet as I could be,
and—as General Washington said when he was
sitting for his portrait—“in for a penny, in for a
pound.”
As I looked about me I perceived, at a great
distance, a horseman approaching in my rear, and
travelling in the same direction with myself. I
determined to wait for him,—the more readily, as
I had just arrived at the brink of a ravine which
was broader and apparently deeper than any I had
passed, and in which, in consequence of the recent
shower, the water was rushing rapidly. Any company
at such a time was better than none: I was
willing to run the risk of being scalped by a Winnebago,
talked out of my senses by a garrulous
Kentuckian, or questioned to death by a travelling
Yankee, rather than ride any further alone.
As the traveller approached me and halted, with
the courtesy usual in the country, I was struck
with his appearance. From his countenance one
garb was that of a methodist preacher. Dressed
in the coarse homespun fabric which is made, and
almost universally worn, in this region, there was
yet a dignity in the air and conduct of this stranger
which was independent of apparel. His coarse
and sunburnt complexion was that of a person who
had been exposed to the elements from childhood.
It was not scorched and reddened by recent exposure,
but regularly tanned and hardened, until its
texture would have bid defiance to the attacks of a
musquito, or any other insect or reptile of less
muscular powers than the rattlesnake. His features
were composed, but the air of perfect calm
that rested upon them was that of reason and
reflection operating upon a vigorous mind, which
had once been violently excited by passion. There
could be no mistake in the expression of these
thin compressed lips, indicating unalterable resolution
and sternness of purpose. The high relief,
and strong development of the muscles of the face,
evinced the long continued impulse of powerful
emotion. But the small gray eye was that which
most attracted attention. It was fierce, and bold,
yet subdued. Time and the elements had driven
the blood from the cheeks, but the eye retained
all the fire of youth. There was an intensity in
its glance which caused another eye to sink or turn
aside, rather than gaze at it directly; and this
repulsive in the expression, but because the power
of vision seemed to be so concentrated and intense
as to defy concealment. There was a vigilance,
too, about that eye, as I had afterwards occasion to
observe, which seemed never to sleep, and suffered
nothing to escape its attention. Without at all
disturbing the sedate demeanour of the body, and
the nearly motionless position of the head—the
eye, moving quietly and almost imperceptibly
under the lid, watched all that passed around,
while the ear caught the slightest sound with an
acuteness which was extraordinary to one not
accustomed to this perfect exercise of the faculty
of attention.
In the wilderness, it is well understood that
strangers who meet may address each other with
frankness: it was soon discovered that we were
travelling in the same direction, and agreed that
we should go together. The stranger took the
lead; and if I was at first struck with his appearance,
I was now even more surprised at his perfect
composure, under circumstances which were certainly
unpleasant, and perhaps dangerous. He
rode into the ravine before us, as carelessly as
if it had formed a part of the hard path, neither
changed position nor countenance as his horse
began to swim, managed the animal with the most
perfect ease and expertness, and, on reaching the
without seeming to notice the splashing and puffing
which it was costing me to effect the same
operation.
As we rode on we found the earth saturated,
and the surface of the plain flowing with water.
Throughout the day the showers were frequent
and heavy, gust after gust passed over us, each as
furious as the last. We had to wade continually
through pools, or to swim our horses through
torrents. My companion minded none of these
things, and I became astonished at the imperturbable
gravity with which he encountered those
difficulties, which had not only fatigued me nearly
to death, but so worried my patience that I had
grown nervous and irritable. On he plunged,
through thick and thin, selecting the best paths
and crossing places—guiding his horse with consummate
skill—favouring the animal by avoiding
obstacles, and taking all advantages which experience
suggested,—yet pushing steadily on through
impediments which, at first sight, seemed to me
impassable. On such occasions he took the lead,
as he did generally along the narrow path which
we could only travel comfortably in single file;
but, when the ground permitted, we rode abreast
and engaged in conversation.
Towards evening we arrived at the brink of a
small river, not wide, but brim-full, and whose
the recently riven branches of trees upon its foaming
bosom. The idea of swimming on the backs
of our tired horses, over such a torrent, was not to
be entertained; and I actually groaned aloud, in
despair, at the thought of being obliged to spend
the night upon its banks. But my companion,
without halting, observed calmly, that a more
favourable place for crossing might possibly be
found; and, turning his horse's head along the
brink of the river, began to trace its meanders.
Presently we came to a spot where a large tree
had fallen across, the roots adhering to one bank
while the top rested upon the other. My companion
dismounted and began to strip his horse,
leaving nothing on him but the bridle, the reins of
which he fastened carefully over the animal's
head, and then leading him to the water, drove
him in. The horse, accustomed to such proceedings,
stepped boldly into the flood, and, stemming
it with a heart of controversy, swam snorting to
the opposite shore, followed by my trusty steed.
We then gathered up our saddles, and other
“plunder,” and mounting the trunk of the fallen
tree, crossed with little difficulty, caught our steeds
who were waiting patiently for us, threw on our
saddles, and proceeded.
It was night when we reached a cabin, where
we were hospitably entertained. Kindly as strangers
not but observe that the ecclesiastical character of
my companion excited, on this occasion, an unusual
assiduity of attention and homage of respect. The
people of our frontier are remarkable for the propriety
of their conduct in this particular. However
rude or careless their demeanour towards
others may sometimes be, a minister of the gospel
is always received at their houses with a mixture
of reverence and cordiality, which shows the
welcome given him to be as sincere as it is
liberal. They seem to feel unaffectedly grateful
for the labours of these devoted men in their
behalf, and to consider themselves honoured, as
well as obliged, by their visits. And none deserve
their gratitude and affection in a greater degree
than the preachers of that sect to which my companion
belonged. They are the pioneers of religion.
They go foremost in the great work of
spreading the gospel in the desolate places of our
country. Wherever the vagrant foot of the hunter
roams in pursuit of game—wherever the trader is
allured to push his canoe by the spirit of traffic—
wherever the settler strikes his axe into the tree,
or begins to break the fresh sod of the prairie, the
circuit-riders of this denomination are found mingling
with the hardy tenants of the wilderness,
curbing their licentious spirit, and taming their
fierce passions into submission. They carry the
only
They introduce ideas of social order, and civil
restraint, where the injunctions of law cannot be
heard, and its arm is not seen. And these things
they do at the sacrifice of every domestic comfort,
and at the risk of health and life. At all seasons,
and in all weathers, they go fearlessly on; riding
through trackless deserts, encamping in the open
air, crossing rivers, and enduring the same hardships
which beset the hunter in the pursuit of his
toilsome calling, or the soldier in the path of
victory.
These reflections occurred to my mind when I
recalled the superiority over myself, young and
vigorous as I thought I was, which my companion
had shown in surmounting the difficulties of a
border journey. As I saw him seated at the
cheerful fireside of the woodsman, I was surprised
to perceive how little he seemed affected by the
fatigues of the day, how totally he appeared to
forget them, and with what ease and earnestness
he conversed with the family on serious topics
suggested by himself. He sat with them as their
equal and their friend. He enquired familiarly
about their health, their crops, their cattle, and
all their concerns—led them gradually to speak of
opinions. As the time to retire approached, he
drew the sacred volume from his pocket, and proceeded
to the performance of that service which
has always struck me as the most solemn and affecting
of religious exercises—the worship of the
family—where those united by the tenderest ties
of affection kneel together before the throne of
grace, to render their humble tribute of thanks
for blessings received, and to invoke for each
other the continued protection of Heaven.
On the following morning we departed at the
dawn. I accompanied my new acquaintance several
days, during which we experienced a variety
of adventures and hardships; and I had many
opportunities for observing the courage of my
companion, his perfect self-possession under every
vicissitude, and his skill in all the arts of the
backwoodsman. He was the most accomplished
woodsman that I have ever met. No danger
could daunt him, no obstacle impeded our way
which he had not some expedient to obviate or
avoid. He was never deceived as to the points of
the compass or the time of day. If our path
became dim, or seemed to wind away from the
proper direction, he struck off without hesitation
across the prairie, or through the forest, and
always reached the place which he sought with
unerring certainty. Community of peril and adventure
acquaintance ripened speedily into intimacy. I
became struck with the conversational powers of
my companion; though habitually taciturn, he
sometimes grew social and communicative, and
then his language was energetic, his train of
thought original, and his figures bold and rhetorical.
He seemed to have no acquaintance with
books, but had studied nature, and had stored his
mind with a fund of allusions drawn from her
ample volume. There was something mysterious
about him that excited my curiosity. His peaceful
garb and holy calling were entirely inconsistent
with his military bearing, his keen jealous eye, his
intimate acquaintance with the artifices of the
hunter, and the wistful glances which I sometimes
saw him throw at the rifles of the persons
we occasionally met. At last I ventured to suggest
the impressions made upon my mind by these
seeming contradictions, and was gratified by a
frank relation of his history. It was minutely
detailed in the course of several conversations.
I cannot pretend to repeat his wild emphatic language,
but will give the story as nearly as I can
in his own manner.
THE PIONEER'S TALE.
There are some events in my life, said my
friend, to which I cannot look back without shuddering.
Although time has cooled my feelings,
and given a better tone to the decisions of my
judgment, it has not destroyed the vividness of
those impressions which were made upon my
memory in childhood. They still present themselves
with all the familiarity of recent transactions;
and there are times when a peculiar
combination of circumstances awakens them with
a freshness that seems to partake more of reality
than of recollection, and when I can hardly persuade
myself that the same scenes are not again
about to be acted over. Sometimes a particular
state of the atmosphere, the position of the clouds,
and the distribution of light and shade, give a
character to the landscape which transports me
back in a moment to the days of childhood, and
pictures, in living truth upon my imagination, an
event which occurred under such circumstances,
as to have connected it indissolubly with those
natural appearances. A sound has suddenly poured
in a train of associations: the song of the bird in
some distant tree, the hooting of an owl, the long
dissonant bay of the wolf, borne on the still air
when the moonlight reposed on the tops of the
back almost to infancy.
I have but an indistinct recollection of my father.
I have endeavoured to preserve the impression, for
there is a sacredness connected with his memory,
which renders it dear to my heart; but it is so
dim, and so shadowed over by other images, that
I know not whether it be the real impress made by
his kindness on my young nature, or the offspring
of fancy. He was one of the pioneers who came
to the forests of Kentucky, among the first adventurers
to that scene of disastrous conflict. My
mother followed his footsteps to the wilderness,
bearing me, an infant, in her arms, resolved to
participate in the vicissitudes of his fortune, however
precarious, and to brave all the dangers and
hardships of a border life, rather than endure the
greater pain of separation. Their cabin was
reared upon the shores of the Kentucky river, in
one of the most blooming valleys of that Eden,
which nature seems to have created in a moment
of prodigal generosity. They were happy; though
destitute of all that constitutes the felicity of the
larger portion of mankind. Without society, with
no luxuries, and with few of the comforts of civilised
life, they were content in the society of each
other. My father was a bold and successful hunter;
he delighted to rove over those fertile plains,
whose magnificent forests, abounding in game, and
sylvan sport. Having selected an excellent tract
of land, from which he began to clear the trees,
he indulged, like others, in flattering anticipations
of the wealth and independence which would
crown his labours, when these broad lands should
become the seat of an industrious population, and
when Kentucky, then the paradise of hunters,
should be the garden of Western America. These
were not visionary dreams; though he and others
who indulged them did not live to behold their accomplishment,
their descendants have seen them
abundantly fulfilled.
This spot was the birth-place of my sister. I
remember her too, with a fondness that no subsequent
emotion has equalled or effaced. I cannot
forget her, for she was my only playmate. The
bitter moment when I realised the truth, that this
sweet child was separated from us, to be restored
no more in this world, caused a gush of anguish,
almost too strong for the tenderness of my young
affections, and left a wound which saddened my
spirits throughout the years of my early life.
Year after year rolled away, and my parents
continued in the wilderness, almost alone, and
exposed to continual danger. At first, the frequent
alarms caused by the incursions of the
savages, and the many vicissitudes incident to
their situation, produced discontent, and they
had it not been for the shame of turning their
backs on danger, and leaving others exposed to
that which they would have avoided. But the
burthen gradually grew lighter, and their strength
to bear it increased. The little cabin appeared
more and more comfortable, because its inmates
became accustomed to its narrow dimensions, and
its meagre accommodations. It was their HOME;
it was the spot where they began to live for each
other, to enjoy the endearments of conjugal affection,
and to accumulate the comforts of domestic
life around them; and every year brought some
addition to their little circle of enjoyments, and
added new links to the chain of agreeable associations,
which at last rendered this retreat,
savage as it was, the dearest place to them on
earth. So my mother has told me; and I well
remember the glow of feeling with which she
spoke of those years, and of that spot which was
her first home in the wilderness.
She had to endure many sufferings; but they
were light when placed in the balance against
the pleasures that sweetened her existence. Her
husband cherished her with tenderness; and with
the shield of his affection around her, the clouds
of sorrow, though they might sadden her heart
for a moment, could not chill it with the withering
blight which falls on those who are alone in
toiled as others toil: their hopes were sometimes
disappointed—the frost blasted their grain, a
drought shortened their crops, the enemy ravaged
their fields, or drove away their cattle, and they
found themselves as poor as when they first began
the world. But they lived in a plentiful country;
their neighbours, though few, were hospitable,
and they never knew want. The pangs of hunger—the
deeper anguish of listening to the cries
of famishing children, are not among the evils
which infest the dwelling of the American borderer.
She had her hours of solitude; when my
father was employed in wielding the axe, or
guiding the plough, with his loaded rifle at hand,
and his dog keeping watch, to prevent surprise
by the Indians, she pursued her appropriate
duties in silence and pensiveness at home. But
she was working for him, and this reflection supported
her in his absence, until his return brought
an ample recompense for the temporary deprivation
of his society. Those who reside in towns,
or in thickly settled neighbourhoods, cannot understand
the full force of this language; but
thousands of matrons are daily realising upon the
frontiers of our country, that which I describe.
The young wife has left father and mother to
cleave unto her husband—she has abandoned the
parental roof, the home of childhood, the companions
father, the care of an experienced mother, are
hers no longer—she has left the circle of intimate
friends by whom she is known and appreciated—
and she has followed cheerfully, in the buoyancy
of hope and love, the footsteps of the husband of
her choice, to some spot beautifully embellished
by the hand of nature, where they anticipate all
the joys of Arcadian felicity. But their dwelling
stands alone, separated from all others by miles
of forest, or uninhabited prairie. All her affections
are concentrated upon him who is her only
friend and sole companion; and that tie which
is ordinarily so sweet, so strong, and so indissoluble,
becomes more powerful by the absence of all
other objects of attachment or companionship.
The office of the husband assumes a tenderer
and holier character,—for he is the only adviser,
friend, and protector, of her who has forsaken all
for him. In his absence she sits alone, for the
time being a widowed and desolate creature. If
disease suddenly invade the dwelling there is no
friend nor neighbour at hand; if an accident
befal her infant, she has perhaps no messenger
to send for assistance; and in those early times,
in which the scenes that I relate occurred, there
was the continual terror of the savage, pressing
like the hideous monster of an unquiet dream,
upon the bosom of the wife, who, in the absence
to danger, and her own unprotected condition.
Often did the young mother, of those
days, hide her infant in some secret place, while
she pursued her domestic labours.
My father, fearless himself, placed too little
confidence in the reality of such perils; and
although generally at home, suffered himself occasionally
to be persuaded to join a hunt, or a
war party. Sometimes a longer hunt than usual,
or an accident, detained him from home all
night, and then my mother passed the sleepless
hours in listening to catch the sound which
might announce his return, and dreading the
moment when the stealthy footstep of the Indian
might invade the sanctity of her dwelling. On
such occasions, she would hide her sleeping
infants, in some secret spot, not likely to be
suspected, and then retire to her own bed, awaiting
the result in anxious suspense. But the
severest of all the trials of her fortitude came,
when the pioneers were summoned to the field,
and my father joined the parties of armed rangers,
who drove the savages from our settlements,
or pursued them to their own villages. Then it
was, that day after day, and night after night, she
watched, and wept, and prayed, and felt herself
already bowed down in anticipation, under the
hopeless grief of an imaginary widowhood.
At length the blow came. The storm, whose
voice had often been heard at a distance, and
which had thrown its lengthened shadow over
our little dwelling, burst over us in the fulness of
its destructive energy. One day my father had
gone out to a piece of ground which he was
clearing, not far from the house, accompanied
by a few of the neighbouring men, who had
assembled to assist him in rolling some large
logs into heaps, for burning. My mother was
employed in sewing, while my little sister and
myself played on the floor. She heard the crack
of a rifle, in the direction of the newly cleared
ground, and as this was always a sound which excited
interest in the mind of the wife of a pioneer,
in those days of continual warfare, she hastily
stepped to the door to listen. A single report
did not necessarily imply danger, for the farmers
always carried their rifles with them to the field
of labour; and they might have fired at one of
the wild animals with which the forest abounded.
But another and another report followed in quick
succession—and then the shrill war-whoop of the
Indian—that terrific sound, which once heard,
is never forgotten. The little party had been
attacked by the savages. My mother rushed
out of the house. Her first impulse was to
hasten to the scene of action, to aid her husband
with her feeble strength, or die by his side. But
that she could render no service in the battle,
but might endanger the safety of her little ones
by abandoning the spot which was her post of
duty, restored her presence of mind; and she
climbed to the top of a high fence, to catch, if
possible, a view of the combatants. The guns
continued to be discharged in rapid succession;
she saw the smoke rising in thin columns from
each explosion, and settling in a dense cloud over
the field of conflict, and, under the dark shadow
of the edge of the forest, even the flashes were
visible. What a scene for a wife to witness!
The yells of the Indians were mingled with the
shouts of the white men—the screams of anguish,
and the horrible exclamations of revenge, were
borne together to the ear of the affrighted and
only spectator of this bloody drama.
In this moment of horror, the distracted mother
heard the piercing screams of one of her children,
and rushed instinctively to the house, expecting
to find that the savages had also approached in
that direction. My little sister had fallen into
the fire, and was severely burned. She snatched
up her child, began to tear the blazing clothes
away from it, and soon ascertained, that the
injury, though severe, was not dangerous. While
thus employed, she became conscious that the
war-whoop had died away, and the firing ceased.
excruciating torments are inflicted upon the helpless
dependents, and inoffensive companions of
man, by his ambition, his fierce passions, and
his reckless prodigality of life! The battle was
over, and the slain were lying upon the field.
She knew not certainly that any had fallen, but
the probability was, that even if the white men
were victorious, the triumph had been purchased
by a heart-breaking loss to some unhappy wife,
or wretched mother—perhaps to herself. But if
the Indians had prevailed, how accumulated the
horror of her situation! The tomahawk might
even now be performing its brutal office in
despatching the vanquished, or mutilating the
dead, and in a few moments she might be compelled
to witness the expiring agonies of her
children!
She wept bitterly over her screaming infant,
and almost blamed the unconscious child that
detained her from rushing to her husband. Unable
to restrain her impatience, she hastened to
the door with the babe in her arms, and saw the
little party of backwoods-men slowly returning.
Why came they with such tardy steps—why thus
closely crowded together—why did they halt so
often? Alas! they bore one of their number a
corpse in their arms! She ran to meet them.
As she came near, the men laid down their burthen
stood respectfully back—while my poor mother,
recognising her husband in the agonies of death,
threw herself on the ground beside him, and had
only time to attract one look from the dying man,
by her shriek of agony, ere his eyes were closed
for ever.
The remains of my father were buried near
the house, and my mother could not be prevailed
upon to quit the spot around which her affections
lingered. After spending a few weeks at the
house of a neighbour, who had kindly taken us
home during the confusion of the melancholy
event, she returned to her deserted cabin, havings,
in the mean while, written to an unmarried brother
in North Carolina to come to her. He
came and remained with us, carrying on the
business of our farm, and acting as a kind protector
to us all.
From this period I date the commencement of
my recollections. I remember well the care-worn
figure and broken-hearted countenance of my mother.
She was so bowed down under affliction
that her voice had acquired a tremulous tone,
which was very touching to those who knew the
cause, and especially to the few who participated
in her grief. The neighbours were kind to her;
they gathered her corn, looked after her affairs,
and provided for her until my uncle's arrival; and
attention. There are few who do not
feel deep sympathy for the utter desolation of the
widow's heart, and for the helpless wretchedness
of her unprotected situation; nor do any people
exhibit, in the indulgence of this natural feeling, a
more manly benevolence than our backwoodsmen.
Continually exposed to danger, and dependent on
each other for a thousand charitable offices, which
are always rendered without remuneration, they
do not become callous to the misery of others, but
learn to feel and act as if bound to those around
them by the ties of fraternity. They visited my
mother often; and the story of my father's death
was repeated so frequently as to be deeply impressed
upon my memory. In the higher circles
of life, where a great degree of refinement is said
to prevail, it is not customary, I believe, to converse
with the parties interested upon those sad
topics which deeply affect the heart, and throw a
gloom over the family circle. In humble life it
is different: the fountains of grief are familiarly
approached and thrown open, and the bitter waters
of affliction suffered to flow freely out. The heart
relieves itself by these discussions, and, instead of
brooding over its sorrows, gives them vent, and
does better than adding imaginary ills to those
which are real, by learning to consider the subject
by others.
My sister and myself often strolled to the woods
to gather nuts, or to hunt for the nests of birds—
or stole away to a neighbouring stream to wade
in the water. But we never went far from the
house without having the fear of the Indians before
our eyes. We had heard the story of our
father's death so often repeated—had listened to
so many similar legends—had so often witnessed
the alarm created by a rumoured appearance of
the Indians in the vicinity,—that our hearts had
learned to quail in terror at the thought of a
savage. The word Indian conveyed to our minds
all that was fierce, and dangerous, and hateful.
We knew what we had ourselves suffered from
this ferocious race, and we saw that others lived
in continual fear of them. We heard the men
talk of “hunting Indians,” as they would speak of
tracking the beast of prey to his lair—and the
women never met without speaking of the abduction
of children, or the murder of females,—repeating
tale after tale, each exceeding the former in
horror, until the whole circle became agitated
with fear, the candles seemed to burn blue, and
the slightest sound was considered as a prognostic
of instant massacre.
Many were our childish discussions and surmises
together.
“What made the Indians kill our father?” my
little sister would ask, and we would guess and
guess, without coming to any other conclusion
than that it was “because they were bad people.”
“Would they kill us?”—“Do they kill every
body they meet?”—“Do they eat people?” were
some of the questions which naturally occurred to
us, and it will be readily believed that the agitation
of them always led to inferences the most
unfavourable to the Indian. If a bush rustled, or
a footstep was heard as we strolled abroad, we
imagined that the Indians were near; but, instead
of running and screaming, as more civilised children
would have done, we crept silently under the
nearest cover, or dropped quietly in the high
grass, with the instinct which teaches the young
partridge a similar device—lying perfectly motionless,
and throwing our little wild eyes vigilantly
about until the danger had passed. We should
not have moved had an Indian stepped over us;
nor have betrayed any signs of life, so long as
silence would have afforded concealment. Such
are the habits of cunning and of self-command
acquired, even in infancy, by those who live on a
frontier exposed to hostile incursions—who are
often in danger, and who hear continually of stratagems
and deeds of violence.
Thus two years of my mother's widowhood had
rolled away, when one day my sister and myself
were amusing ourselves by dabbling in the water
of a small branch not far from the house. She
was at a distance from me—and, being intent on
different objects, we had not spoken for some
time—when suddenly I heard her utter a most
piercing shriek. I looked up, and beheld her in
the grasp of an Indian warrior. Instinctively I
recoiled behind a thick bush, where I sat in breathless
silence, keeping my eye fixed on the savage,
who, not having discovered me, began to retreat
with his terrified prisoner in his arms. Poor
child! I shall never forget the dreadful screams
which she uttered—until the Indian, placing his
hand on her mouth and menacing with his knife,
gave her to understand that he would kill her
unless she ceased to cry. Nor shall I ever fail to
remember my own agony when I saw her borne
away sobbing, stretching out her little arms, and
gazing wildly towards her home for the last time.
What rage and grief filled my young heart as I
witnessed her pangs, and felt my own impotence
—as the most beloved object in existence was torn
from me, while I could neither prevent nor revenge
the violence.
No sooner was the savage out of sight, than I
started up and hurried to the house, taking care
to follow the most concealed path, and treading
night. My uncle was not at home, and my poor
mother—my widowed, mourning mother, whose
infants were all that were left to her in this world
—words cannot describe the acuteness of the grief
with which she was overwhelmed. But she acted
with courage and prudence: displaying, in this
moment of affliction, a self-possession which never
forsook her under any circumstances. After my
father's death, I was perhaps the dearest object of
her affection. She felt at that moment the sentiment
expressed by the patriarch of Israel: “If I
be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved.”
Apprehending that the Indians still hovered around
the dwelling, and would soon appear to complete
their ferocious purpose, she closed the door and
placed the heaviest articles of furniture against it,
determined to defend herself to the last. She
said to me, “Your father is dead, your sister is
gone, and you are all that is left to me—I must
save your life if I lose my own;” and then raising
one of the puncheons which formed the floor, she
thrust me under it, and charging me to lie still,
and neither move nor speak—whatever might
happen—restored the puncheon to its place. The
floor was sufficiently open to enable me to see
what passed, and sometimes to catch a glimpse of
the actors. It was now past sunset. In a few
minutes the Indians came to the door, and attempted
having a loaded rifle, presented it through a
crevice of the logs, upon which they retired,
uttering as they went the most horrible yells.
They soon returned, bearing lighted torches,
which they threw upon the roof—in a few minutes
the house was in flames—the rifle dropped
from my mother's hands, and, before she could
determine what to do, the door was burst open,
and she was dragged out. The savages, finding
no other object upon which to vent their fury,
departed, carrying her with them.
I cannot pretend to convey any adequate idea
of my own emotions during this scene. The loss
of my little sister had gone to my heart—the
self-possession and energy of my mother had
awakened my admiration—and in the tumult of
other feelings, my own danger had scarcely been
the subject of a thought. I was naturally bold;
and I was not given to the indulgence of selfish
reflections. But what a moment of horror was
it, when the house was fired, and the savages
rushed in! When they laid their brutal hands
upon my mother, I experienced a sensation of
agony such as I had never known before. How
sacred is the person of a mother! What pure
and hallowed affections cling around her! What
sacrilege in the eyes of a sound hearted child, is
an act of violence against that parent, whose sex
her watchful solicitude, her devotion, her
maternal pride, have entwined a thousand fond
associations among the tendrils of his heart.
Besides that intuitive love, which every mother
kindles in the bosom of her offspring even before
the will begins to exist, I had learned, young as I
was, to reverence mine on account of her superior
worth. Devoted to her children, I had witnessed
more than one instance of her self-denial,
which had penetrated my heart. I had seen her
on several occasions display a degree of calmness
in the presence of danger, and of patient fortitude
under extreme suffering, which amounted, in my
eyes, to heroism. I had beheld her widowed and
in sorrow; and had begun to look forward to the
time when I should be her protector. I had seen
the involuntary tear trickling secretly down her
cheek, and had listened, deeply affected, to the
midnight prayer for her children, intended for the
ear of Him only to whom it was addressed. A
deed of violence perpetrated towards any other
woman, would have struck me as brutal,—but
there was a sacredness thrown around the person
of my mother which gave to this proceeding a
character of desecration. When I saw her
forced away, I struggled to release myself from
my confinement—I screamed—but the shouts of
the infuriated incendiaries drowned my cries.
thought alone of my mother. The love of life
was smothered by more powerful emotions, and I
only wished to share her captivity, or to die in
her arms.
The sounds of war died away. I no longer
heard the footsteps of men, nor the yells of vengeance.
The crackling of flames over my head,
and the falling of firebrands upon the floor under
which I was lying, alone met my ear. I was
confused and stupefied by the ferocious deeds I
had witnessed. A vague sense of my own danger
began to stir within me. I looked round, and
discovered that the space between the floor and
the ground was sufficient to allow me room to
crawl out. I crept from beneath the blazing pile,
and found myself the sole spectator of that heart-rending
scene of desolation. The perpetrators of
that dark deed of aggression against the widow
and the orphan, had fled with their captives.
The flames were consuming the home which had
sheltered me all the years of my existence of
which I had any recollection—where I had
played with my little sister, and had so often
fallen asleep with my head upon my mother's
bosom, and felt her warm kiss upon my lips, and
had been awakend in the morning by her caresses.
Here, morning and evening, had we knelt by her
side, with our little hands pressed in hers, as she
A gush of tenderness overwhelmed my
heart, as the contemplation of my own desolate
wretchedness contrasted itself with past endearments.
Around me was the darkness of the
night, rendered more black by the brightness of
the fire. I ran to my father's grave—for I could
not resist the conviction that the spirits of my
murdered mother and sister would hover over a
spot which was so sacred to us all. All was
silent here. The hand of the murderer, though
it may strike terror into the heart of the living,
cannot disturb the repose of the dead. I threw
myself on the ground. The reflection that I was
alone in the world became almost insupportable—
tears came to my relief—I wept bitterly.
In a little while I recovered my composure. I
had been reared in habits which were not calculated
to enervate my faculties; on the contrary, I
was thoughtful and daring. The idea occurred to
me that my mother and sister might still be
living, and could be rescued from captivity. No
sooner had this thought flashed upon my mind,
than I rushed, regardless of my own safety,
towards the house of our nearest neighbour. It
was two miles distant; but I was intimately acquainted
with the path, and proceeded with a
speed which soon brought me to the place. Pale,
trembling, and in tears, I presented myself before
any thing but the word “Indians!”
The effect produced by this alarming name, so
often heard, and so fraught with danger, was
instantaneous. All started up and prepared for
defence. The doors were closed, and the rifles
grasped. Consternation was painted on every
face; but the men evinced a martial bearing, in
the alacrity with which they subdued their apprehensions,
and flew to arms. When I told my
tale, however, in broken fragments, but intelligibly
enough for the comprehension of those who
were accustomed to such recitals, and it was
rendered probable that the savages were already
on their retreat, a different direction was given to
the feelings of this worthy family. Its head, a
strong, muscular man, slow, heavy, and apparently
indolent, seemed to be inspired with a new
life.
“We must be after them, boys,” said he, “they
haint got much start of us, no how—there'll be a
nice fresh trail in the morning that can't be
missed, and we can out travel the varmints, let
'em do their best.”
“John!” exclaimed the wife, “you're a good
soul! I wish I was a man, and could go along.
Can't you go to-night? Poor Sally Robinson—
she'll suffer a heap of misery before morning—the
distressed creetur!”
“Its no use to try to hunt Indians in the night,”
replied the man; “and besides, it will take 'til
morning to get the neighbours warned in.”
“Don't cry, Billy,” said the woman, putting
her arms round my neck, and kissing me affectionately,
“don't cry, my little man—they'll bring
your mammy back afore to-morrow night—no
mistake about that—its mighty hard for Indians
to get away from our people. You shall sleep
with my little boys, and be my son, 'til your
mammy comes back.”
The backwoodsman now directed several young
men, his sons and others, who were present, to
mount their horses and spread the alarm through
the neighbourhood, and to summon all the men
to meet at his house the next morning. The
young fellows caught his ardour, and in a few
minutes were dashing off, through the woods, in
different directions.
There was little sleep among the inmates of
this cabin on that eventful night. The children
were afraid to go to bed. The man of the house,
whose name was Hickman, aware of the necessity
of husbanding all his powers for the approaching
chase, which might last several days, threw himself
down in his clothes, and soon appeared to
slumber. His wife sat by the fire, sighing, pouring
out bitter anathemas upon the Indians, and
giving utterance to her lively sympathy in the
crowded around her, squatted upon the floor with
their bare feet gathered under them, each clinging
to some part of her dress, gazing at one
another in mute terror, or asking questions in
whispered and tremulous accents about the savages;—and
all of them in turns casting glances
of pity at myself, as I sat, sometimes weeping
bitterly, and at other times staring in tearless
agony at the terrified group. At intervals, the
kind-hearted matron would articulate my mother's
name, accompanied by passionate expressions
of grief and affection.
“Poor Sally Robinson! she has had her own
troubles, poor thing! And she sich a good creetur!
It was sorrowful enough to be a lone woman,
—and her man murdered the way he was, right
before her eyes, as a body may say! The dear
knows how she did to stand it! Law, children,
don't pull my gownd so,—you'll tear every stitch
of clothes off of my back. What are you afeard
of? the Indians aint comin' here, no how,—the
varmints—they know better than for to go where
there's men about the house, 'drot their vile skins!
the 'bominable riff-raff cowardly scum of creation!
they haint got the hearts of men, no how! they
haint no more courage nor a burnt cracklin, no
way they can fix it! Poor Sally! ah me!—and
the dear child—the poor, poor little child!”
“Did the Indians kill little Sue, mammy?”
“I don't know, child—they carried her off, and
Him that's above only knows what has become of
her. And they have burnt the very roof over the
heads of them that had no one to take care of
them.”
“Did they burn Miss Robinson's house up,
mammy?”
“To be sure they did—the cabin, and a beautiful
piece of cloth that she had in the loom, and
all the plunder that the poor thing has been scrapin
together by the work of her own hands.”
“Mammy,—”
“Hush, what's that?”
Then they would all crowd together and listen.
“It's daddy snoring.”
It was past midnight when the tramping of a
horse was heard rapidly approaching. The dogs
barked fiercely, as if conscious of the necessity of
unusual vigilance, and then ceased all at once. A
loud voice called, “Who keeps house?”
Those who were sitting up were afraid to move;
but Mr. Hickman, accustomed to awake at the
slightest alarm, started up, and proceeded, with
his gun in his hand, to open the door cautiously.
My uncle entered. He had heard the rumour
vaguely repeated, had hurried home, and found, in
the smoking embers of his dwelling, a fatal confirmation
of his worst fears.
Between that time and the dawn of day the
neighbours poured in, all armed, and prepared to
pursue the Indians. Some were ready for action:
others, who had repaired more hastily to the
rendezvous, upon the moment of receiving the
summons, now employed themselves in wiping out
their guns, cleaning the locks, changing the flints,
and supplying their pouches with all the munitions
required for several days' service. Mr. Hickman
seemed to be tacitly agreed upon as the leader.
I watched all his motions, and, young as I was,
saw with admiration the coolness and precision
with which he made his arrangements. He examined
every part of his rifle with the most severe
scrutiny. He placed a handful of bullets on the
table, and passed them rapidly through his fingers,
one by one, to ascertain that they were perfectly
round and smooth, rejecting those that were in
the slightest degree defective. His flints and
patches underwent the same close inspection.
The tomahawk and knife were placed in his belt
—then withdrawn and placed again—until the
wary pioneer was satisfied that each was so arranged
as to be capable of being quickly grasped
by the hand, in case of sudden need, and so secured
as not to be liable to be lost while the rider was
dashing rapidly through the bushes. Grave and
taciturn all the time, he was as cool as if preparing
for a hunt.
His wife hung round him during these operations,—now
officiously tendering her services—
now leaning on his shoulder, and speaking to him
in a low voice,—then retiring, as if overcome by
her fears, and sometimes secretly wiping away a
tear with the corner of her apron.
“John,” she would say, “you won't lose no time,
I hope. Poor Sally! she will be mighty bad off
'till she sees you comin—it's sich a dreadful bad
fix for any body to be in.”
“We sha'nt be long, I reckon.”
“Take mighty good care of yourself, John—
you know, dear, what a poor broken-hearted body
I'd be without you. Don't ride Ball,—you know
he stumbles powerful bad, and falls down sometimes—and
his sight's so bad, he aint no account,
no how, in the night.”
“I shall ride Dick—no mistake in him.”
“No two ways about Dick,” reiterated the wife;
“boys, go and feed Dick, and clean him, and fix
him good for your daddy to ride. And, John,
when you get up to the miserable varmints, don't
be too ambitious—you know you're apt to be sort
o' quick when you're raised—don't be too brash;
if you can only get poor Sally Robinson away
from them, don't run no risks. You don't reckon
you'll have to fight with them, do you?”
“It's a little mixed,” replied the husband.
“It would be a droll way to hunt Indians, and
party.
“I'll be dogged if I don't save one of them,”
added another.
“I allow to use up one or two,” continued a
third.
“I'll never agree to return 'til we use up the
whole gang—stock, lock, and barrel,” added another.
“They are the darndest puteranimous villyens
on the face of the whole yearth—and I go in for
puttin the pewter to 'em, accordin' to law,” chimed
in a little dried up old man, who was whetting his
knife against the side of the fire-place, and looking
as savage as a meat-axe. It was very obvious
that the Indians would get no quarter.
At daylight the party began to mount. All
were completely equipped. Under every saddle
was a blanket, to save the horse's back—behind it
was tied either a great coat or a blanket to sleep
in—on this was lashed a wallet, containing several
days' provisions, and a tin cup dangled on the top
of the whole. Each man carried a good rifle, in
complete order, and had a knife and a tomahawk
in his belt. Their legs were covered, to protect
them from the briars, with dressed deer-skin—not
made into any garment, but rolled tightly round
the limb and tied with strings. Some wore shoes,
others moccasins—some had hats, others rejected
bound closely round the head. When mounted
they bade adieu to their friends, and set out in
high spirits—not observing any particular order
of march at first, but falling gradually into the
single file, as the most convenient arrangement
for passing rapidly through the forest.
Towards evening two of the party returned.
They brought the clothes of my sister which had
been found by the way, near the bank of the Ohio,
torn and bloody, but yet in a state to be identified.
There was other evidence, abundant and conclusive,
that the poor child had been murdered, and
her body thrown into the river. I cannot express
the poignancy of my sensations on receiving the
intelligence of this catastrophe. I had, until now,
sustained my spirits by the hope of her escape. I
would not believe that even a savage could wantonly
give pain, much less inflict death, upon my
innocent companion—a sweet, rosy, laughing girl.
A girl! a little girl—I could not imagine it possible
that any human creature, with the form of
manhood, would touch the life of a thing so
winning, so gentle, so helpless. I dreamed away
the day in painful excitement—in feverish visions
of hope and fear; but when the truth came I sunk
down in an agony of grief and horror. I had not
realised the possibility of a catastrophe so terrible.
Another day was drawing near to a close. I
Grief, watching, excitement, and loss of appetite,
had produced a bodily exhaustion, attended with
extreme nervous sensibility. I had wandered off
by myself, and came, I hardly know how, to the
blackened ruins of our cabin. I seated myself
under a tree, in the desolated yard. It was a
bright calm evening; the sun was sinking towards
the horizon, and the long shadows of the forest
extended over the spot. The cool air fanned my
burning brow, and brought a momentary sense of
relief from pain. Before me was a silent heap of
ashes—but all else wore the air of home. A few
fruit trees that stood scattered around, were in
full blossom, and the bees were humming busily
among the flowers—the birds sang, and the domestic
animals seemed to welcome my return.
The cow, that had been standing unmilked, came
lowing towards me—the pigs ran to meet me—
and the fowls gathered about the place where I
sat, as if they recognised a master whose protection
had been withdrawn from them. Oh! how
many ties there are to bind the soul to earth!
When the strongest are cut asunder, and the
spirit feels itself cast loose from every bond which
connects it with mortality, how imperceptibly
does one little tendril after another become entwined
about it, and draw it back with gentle
violence! He who thinks he has but one love is
overmastering affection, more powerful than all
the rest, which, like the main root of the tree, is
that which supports it; but if that be cut away, it
will find a thousand minute fibres still clinging to
the soil of humanity. An absorbing passion may
fill up the soul, and while it lasts, may throw a
shade over the various obligations, and the infinite
multitudes of little kindnesses, and tender associations,
that bind us to mankind; but when that
fades, these are seen to twinkle in the firmament
of life, as the stars shine, after the sun has gone
down. Even the brute, and the lilies of the field,
that neither toil nor spin, put in their silent claims;
and the heart that would have spurned the world,
settles quietly down again upon its bosom. A
moment before, I was in despair;—and now I was
caressing the dumb animals around me. They
seemed like friends; and a something like joy
revived within me, as I reflected that I was not
entirely forsaken. I raised my eyes and my
heart to Heaven, with a feeling of thanksgiving,
and melted into tenderness.
I looked up and gazed around me. In the
edge of the forest, an object attracted my attention.
It was the dim and shadowy representation
of a human figure. It moved; and then seemed
to lean against a tree; again it moved, and halted.
Could it be an Indian? Was the savage thirst
satisfied until all, even the last, of my unhappy
family, should have fallen under the tomahawk?
I did not fly: I would not have moved from that
spot had a myriad of savages appeared,—a legion
of devils could not have daunted my spirit in that
moment of stubborn desperation. The figure
moved along under the shade of a long point of
timber, which approached to within a few yards
of the house—advancing, and then halting, cautiously
as an insidious enemy, or painfully like a
friend, who came the bearer of unwelcome tidings.
I watched it with intense interest, until it came
near, and stepped from under the woody covert,
which had rendered the form indistinct,—and
then I recognised, with unerring instinct, the
person of my mother. I rushed towards her, and
in a moment was in her arms. I gazed at her
with an overwhelming gush of joy and fondness—
but, oh! how changed, how wretched was she!
Her bare feet were torn and bloody—her clothes
were tattered into shreds—her eyes red—her
face pale and emaciated—her frame exhausted
with fatigue. After being driven forward a whole
day, she had effected her escape in the night, and
had wandered back to the home which had been
desolated by the ruthless hand of the murderer and
incendiary. With my assistance she was enabled,
with much difficulty, to crawl to the house of our
bodily and mental sufferings, and remained some
days dangerously ill.
The party who had gone to her assistance, had
missed her on the way, but had overtaken the
Indians, and attacked them with such spirit, that
one half the savages were slain in the first onset.
The remainder dispersed, and found safety in
flight.
We did not return to the spot which had proved
so calamitous to our unhappy family, but removed
to a place which was supposed to be less exposed
to danger. I had now no companion. The loss
of my little sister preyed upon my spirits. She
was continually the subject of my thoughts. I
often sat for hours together absorbed in visionary
speculations, founded upon the possibility of my
sister's escape from death. As is the case with
all dreamers, I did not examine the evidence for
the purpose of learning the truth, nor did I permit
the certainty of the catastrophe which had befallen
her to interfere with my theories; but
assuming the premises which were necessary, I
proceeded to erect an airy superstructure, and to
luxuriate in the enjoyment of the “baseless fabric
of a vision.” I exercised my ingenuity in imagining
a variety of modes in which she might have
escaped from her captors, fancied for her some
present state of existence under the protection of
and unexpected restoration. Sometimes I
supposed her to be living in captivity, and fancied
myself leading an armed party to her rescue—
I went through all the stratagems and perils
of border warfare—signalised myself by a series
of acts of almost miraculous daring—delivered
my beloved sister from bondage, and filled the
heart of my bereaved mother with joy and pride.
When I slept, the same fancies were ever present.
I strolled about with my sister, embarrassed by
the endeavour to reconcile the appearances of my
dream with the facts indelibly engraved upon my
memory. Sometimes she sat by me, with her
hand clasped in mine, and narrated a series of
adventures, which she had passed through since
our parting; but more frequently she seemed to
laugh at my credulity, and pronounced our misfortunes
to have been all a dream. Often did I
awake in tears.
As I grew older, my tenderness began to give
way to sterner feelings. Accustomed to fear the
Indians from infancy, I began at last to hate them
with intense malignity. I had never heard them
spoken of but as enemies, to extirpate whom was
a duty. I had been taught to consider the slaying
of an Indian as an act of praiseworthy public
spirit. As my sorrow for the sufferings of those
who were dear to me began to harden into indignation,
bosom. This feeling was rapidly developed, because
it was the only one connected with my
reveries which I could trace out to any practical
result. I could not bring my sister to life, nor
dispel the cloud of grief from the face of my
widowed mother: but I could strike the savage, I
could burn his dwelling, and desolate his fireside,
as he had desolated mine. This passion soon
gained a predominating mastery over my mind—
as a rank weed shoots up and overshadows those
around it, the desire of revenge struck deep its
roots, grew rapidly into vigour, and smothered
the better emotions of my heart.
I procured a gun, and began to roam the forest.
In this country boys are permitted, at an early
age, to mingle in the sports of men, and my propensity
for hunting did not excite any particular
remark. The hunters sometimes took me with
them; but more often I wandered about alone. I
soon learned to shoot with precision, and became
expert in many of the devices of the backwoodsman.
When I was about twelve years old, a village
was laid out in the neighbourhood in which we
then resided. The country was settling rapidly;
several wealthy families from Virginia were
among the emigrants; the frontier had been
war. Society began to be organised, and many
of the luxuries of social life were introduced.
Among other improvements was a school, conducted
by a person of some erudition, who brought
with him a good many books, and was looked
upon as a prodigy of knowledge.
I was sent to school; entered upon my studies
with eagerness, and made rapid advances in learning.
With a mind naturally inquisitive, and accustomed
to rely upon itself, I had no difficulty in
mastering any task which was given me, and soon
became fond of reading. My teacher had in his
possession a number of volumes of history, which
I perused with avidity. A few classics, which
fell into my hands, I read over and over, with the
delight of a newly awakened admiration. I commenced
the study of the Latin language, and
gained a slight acquaintance with the mythology
and history of the ancients. In three years, my
character was much changed; my mind was enlarged,
my affections softened, and the tone of my
morals considerably ameliorated. I still loved my
gun, and indulged my propensity for wandering in
the forest; while my hatred of the Indians, and
that thirst for vengeance over which I had so long
brooded, were by no means blunted by the perusal
of those histories, in which the recitals of military
daring form a prominent part, and martial accomplishments
worthy of the highest admiration.
I was little more than fifteen years of age, when
a number of the poorer families in the neighbourhood
formed a party for the purpose of removing
to the settlements upon the Mississippi, in Illinois
—a new country, which just then began to be
spoken of. My uncle and mother determined to
accompany them. I know not what infatuation
induced them to brave again the perils of the
wilderness, after all their fatal experience. It is
probable that their only inducement was that love
of new lands, of fresh wild scenery, and of the
unconstrained habits of border life, which forms a
ruling passion with the people of the backwoods,
and which no chastening from the hand of adversity
can eradicate.
The only settlements of the Americans in Illinois,
at that time, were in the neighbourhood of
the French villages, which were scattered along
the American Bottom, on the Mississippi, from
Kaskaskia to the vicinity of St. Louis. We
embarked in two large boats; and, after floating
quietly down the Ohio to the Mississippi, began
to ascend that wonderful river, proceeding slowly
against its powerful current. Sometimes a fair
wind invited us to hoist our sails, and enabled us
for a while to move forward without labour; but
usually our boats were pushed with poles, by the
all in opposition to the current, it was necessary
to creep along close to the shore. But there
were places where it became impossible to make
any headway even by this method: where the
bank was perpendicular, the water too deep to
allow the use of poles, and the headlong stream
swept foaming against the shore. In such emergencies
it was impossible to proceed, except by
means of the cordelle, a strong cable attached to
the boat, by which the boatmen, walking on the
shore, dragged it past these dangerous places.
The shores, on both sides, were inhabited by
Indians, and our labours were rendered the more
burthensome, by the necessity of keeping up a
continual watch to prevent surprise.
One day we reached a place where the river is
closely hemmed in by rock on either side, and the
stream, confined within a more narrow space than
it usually occupies, rushes with great impetuosity
through the strait. It is one of the most difficult
passes on the river for ascending boats. Here, of
course, neither oars nor poles could be of any
avail, and arrangements were made for using the
cordelle. My uncle and mother were in the foremost
boat—I had happened to be, for the moment,
in the other, which, by some accident, was detained,
so as to fall a short distance into the rear.
The leading boat passed round a little point of
immediately afterwards we heard the reports of
several rifles. The Indians had formed an ambuscade
at the point where they knew the crew
must land to use the cable, and had fallen upon
them at a moment when the difficulties of the
navigation absorbed their attention so entirely,
that they had forgotten their usual precautions,
and were not prepared either to fight or fly. On
hearing the alarm we endeavoured to hasten to
their assistance, aided by a breeze which filled
our sail, and bore us rapidly along. But we were
too late; and, on turning the point, beheld the
other boat moored fast to the shore, and in possession
of a hellish band of savage warriors, who
were dashing furiously about on the deck and on
the bank, uttering the most hideous yells. We
came near enough to see the bodies of our friends
stretched lifeless on the ground, or struggling in
the agonies of death—surrounded by the monsters,
who were still beating them with clubs, and gratifying
their demoniac thirst for blood in gashing
with their knives the already mutilated corpses.
Never did I behold a scene of such horror: language
has no power to describe it, nor the mind
capacity to obliterate its impressions. Men, women,
and children, were alike the victims of an indiscriminating
carnage. The hell-hounds were literally
tearing them in pieces,—exulting, shouting,
the remains of their wretched victims.
On our approach, they prepared for a new
triumph; for their numbers so greatly exceeded
our own as to render victory certain. We had
advanced so near as to be within the range of a
heavy fire which they poured in, and the foaming
current seemed to be dashing us upon the rocks
on which they stood—when our steersman, a cool
experienced man, suddenly threw the head of the
boat across the river, in the opposite direction,
and causing the sail to be trimmed suitably, shot
rapidly away from the scene of the massacre. A
shout of rage and disappointment burst from our
crew, who were thoughtlessly preparing to revenge
their friends. It was well that a more prudent
head directed our motions. The dead were beyond
the reach of our aid, and the infuriated
savages, mad with victory, greatly outnumbered
ourselves. We found safety on the opposite shore,
where we remained in painful suspense until the
murderers retired, when we repaired to the melancholy
spot, and rendered, in silent agony, the
last sad rites to the remains of the fallen. Not
one of all that crew had escaped. I recognised,
with difficulty, the mangled bodies of my mother
and my uncle; and kneeling beside the remains
of my parent, swore eternal vengeance against her
murderers—against that race who had poisoned
robbing her of all that made life dear, and of life
itself, had insulted her inanimate remains.
Enough of this. I cannot express the feelings
of a son under such circumstances—the only son
of a widowed mother—who had been almost her
sole companion, had shared her adversity, witnessed
her afflictions, and appreciated her maternal
fondness. I pass them over.
I began to lead a new life. I found myself at
Kaskaskia, a stranger. I had not a relative living,
and in this place I had no acquaintances. But my
story gained me much sympathy; I was kindly
received—every door was open to me, and every
heart seemed to feel that I had claims upon my
countrymen.
No degree of kindness, however, could soothe
my excited feelings. The determination to avenge
my mother's death,—to be revenged for the loss
of a father, a sister, and an uncle, was unalterably
formed, and thirst for the blood of the savage was
become an uncontrollable passion. I wandered
about in the woods and over the prairies—spending
my whole time in hunting, in increasing my
skill in the use of the rifle, and in rendering more
perfect my proficiency in the various devices of
the hunter. In my wanderings I became acquainted
with a Frenchman, who lived almost
entirely in the forest. He was a small, slender,
and inoffensive, he subsisted by hunting and fishing,
and had little communion with his own species.
He was never engaged in war, or in any kind of
altercation. Equally friendly with the whites and
the Indians, he visited the villages and the camps
of both, and was well received, although occasionally
suspected by each of acting as a spy for the
other. This suspicion was founded on the singularity
of his character, in which a great degree of
ignorance and childish simplicity was combined
with a remarkable shrewdness in matters connected
with his own vocation. The latter was
very naturally supposed to arise from native sagacity,
and the former to be the result of profound
dissimulation. What the truth might be, I never
knew; but, to me, Peter seemed to be the most
unsophisticated of human beings. How it happened
that I gained his confidence, does not now
occur to me; for he was unsocial in his habits—
and although, when he visited the French villages,
he cheerfully partook of the hospitality of his
countrymen, conversed freely, and was a delighted
spectator of their festivities, he soon wandered off,
and was not seen again for weeks, or even months.
To this singular being I attached myself, and
became the companion of his voluntary banishment
from society. We retired far from the settlements,
avoiding equally the hunting grounds of
Sometimes we encamped at a secluded spot on the
margin of a river, and spent our time in fishing.
Then we wandered away to the pastures of the
deer, living upon venison, and drying the skins of
our game. Again, we sought the retreats of the
beaver, and, setting our traps, reposed quietly in
the neighbouring coverts to witness the success of
our arts. Occasionally we crept upon the elk or
the buffalo, and engaged, with the hunter's ardour,
in the pursuit of these noble animals; and sometimes
we circumvented the cunning of the wild
cat, or planned the destruction of the wolf or the
panther. To add variety to our meals, we plundered
the hoard of the wild bee; and Peter soon
taught me to trace the industrious insect through
the air, from the flowery prairie, to his distant
home in the forest. When our supply of furs
became considerable, we collected them from their
different places of deposit at some point on the
river, and, embarking in a canoe, floated down to
the nearest village, where we exchanged them for
powder, lead, and other necessaries.
But I did not spend all my time in hunting and
fishing. Naturally observant, the little education
I had received had quickened my mental powers,
and rendered me keenly inquisitive into all the
arcana of nature. I noticed every thing around
me;—the appearances of the clouds, and the
and the growth of the multitudinous vegetation of
the wilderness—the habits of animals, and the
various notes of the inhabitants of the forest,—
but especially all the appearances of nature—all
the varieties of sunlight and shade—all the diversities
in the aspect of the natural scenery, from
midnight to noon, attracted my attention. Peter,
although not a naturalist, was an admirable teacher
in these studies. Accustomed to observe nature
from his infancy, he had become acquainted with
the secrets of the great volume, which all profess
to admire and but few understand. He could anticipate
the changes of the weather. He knew
when the moon would rise, and when the deer
would be stirring. He could select, with ready
tact, the most suitable pool for fishing, and could
tell the hour at which the fish would bite. His
ear was acute in distinguishing sounds: if a wolf
stole past in the dark, he could detect the fall of
his stealthy footstep in the rustling of the leaf or
the cracking of the twigs; and when the owl
hooted at midnight, he knew whether that scream
denoted the presence of an intruder, or was the
ordinary note with which the solitary bird solaced
his hour of recreation. There were few appearances,
and few sounds, which Peter could not
explain. He knew the points of the campass
and the landmarks of the country, and could find
and under a clouded atmosphere as easily as in
the blaze of noon.
Under such tuition, I soon became also an expert
woodsman. With an enterprising mind, a
frame naturally vigorous, and habits formed from
infancy upon the frontier, I had little to learn. I
only needed experience, and this I now gained in
the school of practice. The backwoodsman acquires
great skill in the use of the rifle, because he
employs that weapon not merely in sport, but in the
pursuit of a serious occupation. It was particularly
so in those early times. If he made war, it was
usually at his own cost; if he hunted, it was to procure
a livelihood. In his long marches through the
woods, when he is absent several days, or perhaps
weeks, from home, he can carry but little ammunition,
and has no means of renewing his supply
when it becomes expended. Powder and lead are
scarce and costly in these secluded neighbourhoods.
He is therefore cautious not to throw
away a charge, and seldom fires at random. He
creeps upon his enemy, or his game, gains every
available advantage, measures his distance, and
takes his aim, with great deliberation and accuracy.
In any attainment, it is not practice
merely which secures perfection, but it is the
habit of careful practice, of always doing well that
which is to be done, and of aiming continually at
who seldom discharge their rifles unnecessarily,
and who feel their own characters, and that of
their guns, at stake in every shot which they fire.
There was one subject, however, which occupied
my mind especially—one master purpose,
to which every feeling of my heart, and every
employment of my life, was subservient. My
thirst for revenge was unbounded. It filled up
my whole soul. I thought of little else than
schemes for the destruction of the savage. I was
maturing a stupendous plan of vengeance, and
bringing all the resources of my mind to bear
upon this one subject. The feet of men are swift
to shed blood. I improved rapidly in the arts of
destruction. I practised all the deceptive stratagems,
by which the hunter conceals himself from
an enemy, or baffles the instinct of the brute. I
could lie for hours so still, that a person, within a
few feet of me, would not have suspected that a
living creature was near him; and concealed myself
so successfully, that even the Indian would
not have discovered me, unless he stepped by accident
on my body. I could swim, and dive, and
lie all day in the water, with my head hidden
among the rushes, watching for prey. I learned
especially that patience, that forbearance, that
entire mastery over my appetites, fears, and passions,
which enables the Indian to submit to any
all his plans are ripe, however alluring may be
the temptation for premature action.
I concealed my design from all, even from my
companion, Peter, while I was every day getting
from him the information requisite to advance
my purpose. I ascertained the names of the surrounding
tribes, their dispositions in respect to
the whites, and the location of their villages. I
obtained the names of their most celebrated
warriors, and particularly of such as were distinguished
by deeds of violence against my countrymen.
But the information to which I listened
with the most thrilling interest, and treasured in
my inmost heart, related to the massacre of my
mother. I learned from the Frenchmen, that the
party which perpetrated that bloody deed, consisted
of a number of desperate individuals from
different villages, led by a lawless chief, who still
occasionally assembled the band for similar out-rages.
I treasured with pertinacious care the
names of those Indians, and the distinctive marks
by which they might be known. More than once,
when I heard that they were hunting in our neighbourhood,
I left my companion, silently tracked
their footsteps day after day, laid concealed by
the path along which they passed, or crept
secretly upon their camp; until by close observation
I made myself acquainted with their persons.
aware of the indignation which that unprovoked
murder had excited, avoided the white people, and
were constantly on their guard against surprise.
But what vigilance can guard against the watchful
cunning of revenge—revenge for the cold-blooded
butchery of a mother, a sister, and a
father, and the disruption of every tie which binds
a young and generous heart to existence!
At length the long sought opportunity presented
itself. In the fall of the year succeeding that of
the massacre, I discovered that the hated band
were hunting on the margin of the Mississippi,
and were in the custom of retiring for safety,
every night, to an island in that river—first
making their fire, and arranging their camp on
the shore of the main land, as if with the intention
of spending the night there, and then secretly
stealing away to the island under the cover of
darkness.
I went to the nearest settlement—where my
story was well known, and had awakened a generous
sympathy—and laying aside my usual reserve,
boldly announced my plan, and asked for a band
of volunteers to assist in its execution. Such a
call was, at that period, seldom made in vain.
Warlike in their habits, and inveterately hostile
to the savages, the people of the frontier were
always ready for excursions of this character.
easily kindled, because others had been bereaved
of relatives and friends, in the same catastrophe
which deprived me of my last parent, and all were
indignant at that outrage. The plan was well
matured, and rapidly executed. A company was
raised, equal in number to the Indians, all picked
men, and completely equipped. At midnight,
we assembled secretly on the bank of the river,
far above the island, and embarking in canoes,
floated quietly down. The night was cloudy, and
so perfectly dark, as to render it impossible that
we should be discovered from either shore. The
stream bore us along, and the noiseless paddle
accelerated and directed the motion of the canoe,
without creating the slightest sound which could
awaken alarm. We landed on the island without
confusion, and pursued the meanders of the shore
until we found the canoes of the enemy. These
we cut adrift, and pursuing a dim path, came to
the camp where the savages were lying asleep,
around the embers of a fire,—all but a sentinel,
who, half awake, sat upon a log. Each man
selected his object, in accordance with a preconcerted
plan—took a deliberate aim, and fired;—
and then drawing our tomahawks, we rushed in,
and grappled the astonished savages as they
sprung to their feet. So complete was the surprise,
that they had not time to grasp their arms
few seized the nearest weapon, and fought with
desperation. But the conflict was soon over:—
not one of that fated band escaped to tell of their
defeat. Morning dawned over a scene reposing
in beautiful and majestic quiet; its rosy light
streaming over the variegated foliage, and glancing
from the eddies and ripples of the turbid river
—and there we sat, a grim and bloody company,
brooding over the gashed and mutilated bodies of
the slain, while a few scouts were busily exploring
the island, to ascertain whether any of the
enemy were yet lurking in the bushes. Not one
was found; and we departed in triumph,—in that
silent and subdued triumph which the sight of the
slain inspires in the bosom of the generous victor,
but yet with the emotions of satisfaction which
men feel, who believe that they have performed a
duty.
I had supposed, previous to this event, that the
gratification of my revenge would give peace to
my bosom; but this is a passion which grows
stronger by indulgence; and no sooner had I
tasted the sweets of vengeance, than I began to
feel an insatiable thirst for the blood of the savage.
Resuming my secluded habits, but without rejoining
my former companion, I now lived entirely in
the woods, occupied with my own thoughts, and
pursuing, systematically, a plan of warfare against
animosity. I followed the footsteps of their hunting
parties, eagerly watching for an opportunity
to cut off any straggler who might wander away
from the others. For whole days I would lie concealed
by the paths which they travelled, or near
a spring which they frequented; and if a single
Indian presented himself, I shot him down without
remorse, as I would have slain a wolf, or crushed
a rattlesnake. Sometimes I met a single warrior
openly, and we fought manfully, hand to hand:
that I was successful in those conflicts, is proved
by the fact that I am alive—for those single combats
are usually fatal to one of the parties. But
more frequently I sought to engage them under
every advantage which might ensure success, not
feeling the obligation of any point of honour
which obliged me to meet an Indian on fair terms.
It happened, of course, that the advantage was
sometimes on their side; occasionally, I fell in,
accidentally, with several of their warriors, or was
tracked and pursued by a party—and then I
eluded them by cunning, or escaped by superior
swiftness of foot. They soon learned to know me
as their enemy, and scoured the woods in search
of me, with an eagerness equal to my own; but
while they sought my life by every artifice known
to savage warfare, few of them were willing to
meet me single-handed; for it is well understood,
of hostility, he is superior to the Indian, because
his physical powers are greater, and his courage
of a higher and more generous tone.
At length, tired of the monotony of the life I
led, and sated with carnage, I retired from the
woods, and betook myself to farming, living a
quiet and industrious life, and only resuming my
former habits to join a hunting party, or to assist
with others in the defence of the frontiers, in case
of an alarm. Once in a great while, however,
after a longer interval of quiet than usual, I took
my rifle, and strolled off to the woods to kill an
Indian, as another man would seek recreation in
hunting a deer or a panther.
It seems unnatural that a man should pursue
a life that may appear so ferocious and even
unprincipled. But you must not forget that I had
been raised upon the frontier; that I had been
accustomed from infancy to hear the Indian
spoken of as an enemy—as a cowardly, malevolent,
and cruel savage, who stole upon the unprotected,
in the hour of repose, and murdered without
respect to age or sex; that many atrocities
had been perpetrated within my own knowledge,
or related, to me by those who had seen them;
and that I had suffered more than others by this
detested race. Those who know the relations of
mutual aggression, and continual alarm, which
the first settlement of the country, can easily
imagine that the hatred they felt towards each
other was intense and permanent; and that an
individual, who considered himself more deeply
injured than the rest, might naturally have supposed
himself justifiable in seeking a more than
ordinary measure of retaliation.
I come now to a circumstance which changed
the tone of my feelings, and the whole colour of
my life. One day, towards the close of summer,
I had gone out bee-hunting. Our practice was to
find the bee-trees, at our leisure, during the summer,
and mark them with a tomahawk; each
hunter used his own mark, and respected those of
others; and at the proper season, we went out
with some axe-men, and proper vessels, cut down
the trees, and collected the honey. I had set out
early, and spent the day in roaming over a wild
unfrequented tract, in search of trees. To find
them, I watched the bees, observing, as they left
the flowers, clogged with honey, the course they
flew—or I set bee-bait, usually a little salt and
water, in an open vessel, which these insects sip
greedily, and then marked the direction of their
flight. The bee, in returning home, always flies
in a direct line; and the experienced hunter, having
observed the course, can follow it so accurately,
that he seldom fails to find the tree. This
kind of trees to examine, and partly by the
acuteness of his eye and ear, which enables him,
when near the place, to see the insects hovering
about it, or to hear the hum of those busy
labourers.
I delighted in this employment. I loved to sit
in the edge of the prairie, and gaze upon its undulating
surface, to see the waving of the tall
grass as the wind swept over it, to mark the
various colours of the flowers, to follow the laborious
bee in her active flight along the plain, to
behold the celerity and skill with which she
gathered her harvest of sweets from this immense
garden, and to trace her through the air as she
darted away, laden with spoil, to her forest home.
I loved the quiet of this solitary sport. The
admirer of nature always reaps instruction in gazing
upon her scenes of native luxuriance. The
wisdom of Providence is so infinite, the ingenuity
displayed in all the arcana of the animal and
vegetable creation is so diversified, that every day
thus spent discloses new facts, and suggests a
novel train of reflection. In the few years I had
spent at school, I had read enough to excite
curiosity, and to invigorate the powers of thought;
and so indelibly were those studies impressed upon
my memory, that the classic images of the
ancient writers arose continually in my mind, and
appearances by which I was surrounded.
On that day, my mind, thus calmed by an agreeable
train of association, had wandered back to
the period of childhood, and I thought of the sister
who had been my companion, and whose death I
had so amply revenged. I tried to recall her features,
and the sports in which we had engaged
together. I speculated on what she might have
become, had the ruthless hand of the savage
spared her to grow up to maturity. She would
now have attained the bloom of womanhood, and
her softness would have restrained those fierce
passions, the long indulgence of which had hardened
my heart, and thrown a gloom over my
mind. She would perhaps have been a wife and
a mother; my affections would have become entwined
with those of other beings, and, instead of
being a solitary man, standing alone in the world,
like the blasted and wind-shaken tree of the
prairie, I should have grown up surrounded by
hearts allied to my own, and have struck down my
roots into the soil, and interlocked my branches
with those of my kindred.
I had begun, very recently, to doubt the propriety
of cherishing those feelings of implacable
resentment, which I had indulged through my
whole life, of brooding over the melancholy disasters
of my youth, and of pursuing that systematic
imbued in blood, and my mind agitated
by the tempest of passion. Not that I questioned
for a moment my right to destroy the savage:—
that was a principle too deeply ingrained in my
nature to be eradicated—the dreadful maxim of
revenge was pricked upon my heart with the point
of a sharp instrument, and the characters stood
there indelibly recorded. Filial piety sanctioned
the promptings of nature; and I believed that in
killing a savage I performed my duty as a man,
and served my country as a citizen. But I had
begun to discover the injurious effects of my mode
of life upon my own character and happiness. It
had rendered me moody and unsocial. It kept
me estranged from society, encouraged a habit of
self-torture, and perpetuated a chain of indignant
and sorrowful reflections. I saw that others forgave
injury, and forgot bereavement; the cloud
passed over them, like the storm of the summer
day, black and terrible in its fury, but brief in its
continuance, and the sunshine of peace beamed
out again upon them—while I had disdained consolation,
had fled the kindness of fellow-creatures,
and had repelled the healing balm which Providence
pours into the wounds of the afflicted.
Occupied by such thoughts, the day wore away,
the sun was sinking in the west, and I entered a
thick wood, for the purpose of making my camp
meandered through it. Habitually cautious, I approached
the place with noiseless steps, when I
perceived, on the bank of the stream, the hunting-lodge
of an Indian—a slight shelter, made by
throwing a few mats over some poles which were
stuck in the ground. I examined the priming of
my rifle, loosened my knife in its sheath, changed
a little my direction, so as to advance against the
wind, and crept stealthily upon the unguarded
hunter. He was stretched on the ground, lazily
sleeping away the afternoon, and was not armed
nor painted—having evidently sought this quiet
spot, with his family, for the purpose of supporting
them by fishing. His wife, whose back was towards
me, was busily engaged in some domestic
employment; a child, perfectly naked, was wallowing
in the sand, and another, an infant, was
lashed to a board which leaned against a tree near
the mother. All were silent. I crept up with
the noiseless motion of a disembodied spirit, intending
to despatch the hunter as he lay inert
upon the ground. I had never yet spared a
warrior of that race; and, as my contempt for
them prevented me from feeling any pride in such
exploits, I exulted in the prospect of an easy
victory. All the reasoning of that day faded at
once from my mind; but the recollections of my
childhood, which had been called up, gave a freshness
a blow against a woman or a child; they were
sacred from any violence at my hand. But when
I saw that Indian father, with his wife and his two
children, the coincidence in the number and ages
of the family reminded me of the fireside of my
father, as it must have been when desolated by his
death; and I felt a malignant delight in the idea
of invading this family as mine had been invaded,
and blasting their peace by crushing their protector,
there, on that very spot, in the presence of his
innocent and helpless dependents. He was completely
in my power: I could shoot him from the
spot where I stood. There was no chance for his
escape. But I approached still nearer. We were
separated but a few paces, and I stood behind the
trunk of a large tree, which completely concealed
me. Once he expanded his nostrils, as if the scent
of a white man had reached him—and once he
turned his ear towards the ground, as if the sound
of a footstep vibrated upon it; but his indolence
prevailed over his vigilance.
I was about to raise my rifle, for the purpose of
firing, when the woman turned her face towards
me and stood erect. I had before remarked that
her stature was taller than that of the squaws, who
are usually short, and that her hair, which hung
plaited in one thick roll down her back, was not
black,—and I now saw that she was not of Indian
the weather, her features and complexion were
those of my own countrywomen. But what struck
me most, and almost deprived me of my self-possession,
was her likeness to my deceased mother.
Had it not been for the difference of age, I should
have been persuaded that my parent stood before
me. The height, the figure, the complexion, the
expression of countenance, were all so similar,
that, notwithstanding the Indian costume in which
the female before me was clad, she was the exact
representation of my mother, as I recollected her
in my early years—not as I remembered her in
after times, when broken down by widowhood and
suffering.
A thought rushed across my mind. The age
of that young woman corresponded with the years
to which my sister would have attained, had she
lived. What a gush of feeling overwhelmed and
almost burst my heart, as this suspicion arose—
what delight, what indignation! Could it be possible
that my sister had survived, and that I found
her thus—the wife of a savage, the mother of a
spurious offspring of that degraded race! My
arm sunk, the gun rested on the ground, and I
leaned against the tree. I stood for a long while
watching the group with intense interest—pursuing
the female especially with an eye of eager
curiosity. In what slight circumstances do we
was the air of my mother; if she spoke to her
children, there was the voice; if she smiled, there
was my mother's smile. My parent had been
handsomer than most women, and this young female,—though
her features were hardened by toil
and weather, though the wildness of the Indian
glance was in her eye, and the vacancy of ignorance
was in her countenance,—was yet beautiful,
and like my mother!
Convinced that I saw my sister, conflicting
emotions took possession of my mind, and I became
irresolute of purpose. At one moment I
felt more determined than ever to slay the Indian,
whose alliance with my only relative I considered
a new insult, and a deeper injury than all others;
then I melted into tenderness as I gazed on her.
I looked at her children, and recoiled at the idea
of the unnatural union which had brought them
into existence—I looked at herself, and felt the
stirrings of a brother's affection.
At last I determined to resolve my doubts; and,
subduing every appearance of emotion, I emerged
from my concealment and walked slowly towards
the lodge. On discovering me, the woman, without
betraying her surprise, uttered a low admonition
to her husband, who arose to receive me,
watchful, yet assured by the pacific manner of my
approach. I seated myself on a log—the Indian
indifference, while his vigilant eye wandered
covertly to my gun, and then to the lodge where
his own was deposited. The woman, with a similar
expression of apathy in her countenance, threw
her glance hastily into the forest, and listened, as
if to discover whether other footsteps were approaching.
There was a silence for some minutes
—all parties were equally jealous, but all assumed
the same careless air of indifference. At last the
Indian, who spoke English tolerably well, said,
“Is the white man hungry?”
I replied, “No.”
“Does the white man require a cup of water?”
“I am not thirsty.”
“Is the white hunter seeking for a place to
sleep? There is my lodge, and the night is
coming.”
“I am not tired, and I never rest in a wigwam;
when I sleep, the earth is my bed and the heavens
my covering; I am not a fox, to hide myself in a
hole.”
“The white stranger is wise,” said the Indian
with a mock gravity.
“I come,” said I, “with the words of peace in
my mouth—I wish to hold council with a friend.”
“It is not usual for friends to talk together,
when one of them holds a gun in his hand.”
I took the hint, and laid down my rifle.
“Let us smoke,” said I, “I have something of
great importance to say.”
The Indian made a sign to his wife, who went
into the lodge and brought a pipe. It was lighted;
each smoked a few whiffs in silence, and passed it
gravely to the other.
I now enquired into the lineage of the female,
who had so much interested me, but found both
herself and her husband very unwilling to communicate
any intelligence on the subject. They
affected to misunderstand my questions, and gave
vague and cold replies. Determined to unveil the
mystery, I threw off all reserve, told them I had
lost a sister, and repeated some of the circumstances
of her capture. They listened attentively,
and the woman became interested. They admitted
that she had been stolen from the whites when a
child, but at first disclaimed all knowledge of any
of the facts. At length the woman, giving way to
her curiosity, which became excited, began to repeat
some reminiscences which she said remained
dimly impressed on her mind. She thought she
remembered a little boy that used to play with
her, and repeated some circumstances which I
well recollected. She distinctly remembered that
she was playing with her little brother near a
small stream, in a valley, when the Indians seized
her and carried her away. Other facts were
related, which had been gathered from the Indians
of the house, and the capture and escape of
the mother—and it was rendered certain that I
had found my long lost sister! The recognition
was mutual; all parties being satisfied that we
were indeed the children of the same parents.
This conversation lasted until night, when I declined
an invitation to sleep in the lodge, and set
out in a direction towards home; but no sooner
was I out of sight of the Indian camp, than I made
a circuit through the woods, and having reached
a spot directly opposite to the course on which I
started, prepared to rest until morning. Such
was my habitual caution, and such my distrust of
an Indian, even though married to my sister.
Early in the morning I sought their camp.
They were not surprised to see me—having understood,
and no doubt applauded, the caution which
induced me to lodge apart from them. We break-fasted
together; and my sister conversed with me
more freely than before. The Indians had treated
her kindly, and she was satisfied with her condition.
When I asked her if she was happy, she
cast an enquiring glance at her husband, and
shook her head, as if she did not understand the
question. I desired to know if her husband
treated her kindly, when she replied, that he
was a good hunter, and supplied her well with
food,—that he seldom got drunk, and had never
deserved it; to which the husband added, that she
behaved so well as to require but little correction.
As the restraint, caused by my presence, began to
wear away, and I was left to converse with her
more freely, I invited her to forsake her savage
companion, to place herself under my protection,
and to resume the habits of civilised life. She
received my proposition coldly, and declined it
with a slight smile of contempt.
The whole interview was painful and embarrassing.
I could not look at the Indian husband
of my sister without aversion, and her children,
with their wild dark eyes, and savage features,
were to me objects of inexpressible loathing.
Between my sister and myself there were no
points of sympathy, no common attachments,
nothing to bind us by any tie of affection or
esteem, or to render the society of either agreeable
to the other. The bond of consanguinity
becomes a feeble and tuneless chord, when it
ceases to unite hearts which throb in unison; like
the loosened and detached string of a musical
instrument, it has no melody in itself, but only
yields its delightful notes when attuned in harmony
with the other various affections of the
heart. There had been a time, when the name of
sister was music to my ear, when it was surrounded
with tender and romantic associations,
love, respect, and gallantry, with which we regard
a cherished female relative. But I had seen her,
and the illusion was destroyed. Instead of the
lovely woman, endued with the appropriate graces
of her sex, I found her in the garb of the wilderness,
the voluntary companion of a savage, the
mother of squalid imps, who were destined to a
life of rapine; instead of a gentle and rational
being, I saw her coarse, sunburned, and ignorant
—without sensibility, without feminine pride, and
with scarcely a perception of the moral distinctions
between right and wrong. I left her. We
parted as we had met, in coldness and suspicion.
She gave me no invitation to repeat my visit, and
I had secretly resolved never to see her again.
In sorrow did I begin to retrace my steps
towards my own dwelling. Slowly, and under a
sense of deep humiliation, did I wander back to
the habitations of my own people. My heart was
changed. A shadow had fallen upon my spirit,
which gave a new hue to all my feelings. I could
feel that I was an altered man.
I reached the edge of the prairie, and seated
myself upon an elevated spot, under the shade of a
large tree. The wide lawn was spread before me,
glowing with the beams of the noon-day sun. A
gentle breeze fanned my temples that were throbbing
with the excitement of deep emotion. The
storm of the soul had ceased to rage. Revenge
was obliterated. The blight of disappointment
had fallen upon me, and withered all the currents
of feeling. The past was a dream—a chaos.
New-born feelings struggled for existence. I pronounced
my sister's name, and burst into tears.
How grateful it is to weep when the heart is
oppressed! How soothing is that gush of tenderness,
which, as it pours itself out, seems to relieve
the bursting fountains of sensibility, and to draw
off a flood of bitterness from the soul!
A more calm and a more wholesome train of
reflection succeeded. I had long cherished a
vision, which one moment had destroyed. In the
place of an infant sister who was lost to me, I had
created the image of an ideal being, who became
invested with all the loveliness which an ardent
fancy could depict—and giving the rein to my
imagination, I had alternately revenged her death,
or had indulged the fond anticipation of meeting
her again, not only in the bloom of womanhood,
but in the possession of those virtues and attractions
which give dignity and beauty to the female
character. She had been the companion of my
childish sports; and while I cherished an intense
fondness for my early playmate, could I doubt that
her heart, if still in existence, throbbed with a
responsive feeling? I had seen her, and the illusion
and our father had taken her to their bosoms, and
her destiny was linked with theirs. She was the
wife and mother of savages.
Yes—my sister,—she, for whom I would have
willingly offered up my life, and whose image had
so long been treasured in my memory, was contented,
perhaps happy, in the embraces of a
savage, at the very time when I was lying in
ambush by the war-path, or painfully following
the trace of the painted warrior, to revenge her
supposed wrongs. And she had witnessed from
childhood those atrocious rites, the very mention
of which causes the white man's blood to curdle
with horror, and had grown familiar with scenes
of torture and murder,—with the slaughter of the
defenceless prisoner, and the shriek of the dying
victim. She had assisted in decking her warrior
husband for the battle field, and received him to
her arms, while the guilty flush of the midnight
massacre was still upon his cheek. She had
heard him recount his exploits. She had listened
to the boastful repetition of his warlike deeds,
wherein he spake of the stealthy march towards
the habitations of the white man—of the darkness
that hung around the settler's cabin—of the silence
and repose within—of the sudden onset—of the
anguish of that little family, aroused from slumber
by the flames curling over their heads, and the
clinging to their mother, and the wife slaughtered
upon her husband's bosom—with all the revolting
particulars of those demoniac scenes of carnage.
She had been an attentive and an approving auditor,
for her husband was the narrator and the
hero, and her children were destined to acquire
reputation by emulating his achievements.
It was enough to have met her in that hated
garb—to have seen her sallow cheek, her wary
eye, and her countenance veiled in the insipid
ignorance of an uncivilised woman—to have found
her the drudge of an Indian hunter—to have
learned that she had forgotten her brother, and
become estranged from the people of her blood—
but the conviction that she was the willing companion
of murderers, the wife of a trained assassin,
weighed down my heart with a pang of unutterable
anguish.
“But if they were murderers, what was I?”
I was startled. I looked around; for it seemed
as if a voice had addressed me. But there was
no one nigh—no form was to be seen, and not a
footstep rustled the grass. It was conscience that
asked that question. It was the inward moving
of my own spirit. There was nothing around me
to suggest it. I looked abroad upon the plain,
and all was silent, and beautiful, and bright. The
sun was shining in unclouded lustre over the
splendour, the bee was busy, and the bird sang.
The face of nature was reposing in serene beauty,
and every living thing was cheerful, except myself.
And why was I unhappy? A blight had fallen
upon my youth, and every tie that bound me to
my race was severed. True: but others had
been thus bereaved, without becoming thus incurably
miserable. They had formed new ties, and
become re-united to humanity by other affections,
while I had refused to be comforted. They had
submitted to the will of God, while I had followed
the devices of my own heart.
These reflections were painful, and I tried to
resume my former train of thought. But conscience
had spoken, and no man can hush its
voice. We may wander long in error, the perverted
mind may grope for years in guilt or in
mistake, but there is a time when that faithful
monitor within, which is ever true, will speak.
That small still voice, which cannot be suppressed,
again and again repeated the appalling question:
“If they are murderers, what are you?”
The difference, I replied, is that between the
aggressor and the injured party. They burned
the home of my childhood, and murdered all my
kindred. I have revenged the wrong. They
made war upon my country, ravaged its borders,
But had they suffered no injury? Was it true
that they were the first agressors? I had never
examined this question. Revenge is a poor casuist;
and, for the first time in my life, I began to
think it possible, that mutual aggressions had
placed both parties in the wrong, and that either
might justly complain of the aggressions of the
other.
That which gave me the most acute pain, and
which was the immediate cause of the self-accusatory
train of reflection into which I had fallen,
was the conviction that nearly my whole life had
been passed in delusion. I had imagined the
death of a sister who was living—I had punished,
as her destroyers, those who had treated her with
kindness—I had spent years in a retaliating warfare,
which, so far as she was concerned, was
unjust. I had watched, and fought, and suffered
incredible hardships, for one who neither needed
my interference, claimed my protection, nor was
capable of feeling any gratitude for the sacrifices
which I had made. If, in respect to her, I had
been thus far deluded, might I not have been in
error in regard to other parts of my scheme?
Admitting that it was justifiable to revenge the
murder of my parents, had I not exceeded the
equitable measure of retaliation? It is one of the
that it is directed by no rule, and bounded
by no limit. The aggrieved party is the judge of
his own wrong, and the executioner of his own
sentence; and the measure of recompense is seldom
in proportion to the degree of offence.
When once the heart is disturbed by suspicions
of its own rectitude, and the work of repentance is
commenced, there is no longer any neutral ground
upon which it is satisfied to rest. It must smother
the suggestions of conscience, or carry them out
to complete conviction. Adopting the latter
course, I went mournfully home, resolved to study
my own heart. Resorting to that sublime code of
morals, some of whose precepts had been impressed
upon my infant mind by the careful solicitude
of a mother, and testing my conduct by its
unerring rules, I learned to look back with horror
upon the bloody path which I had trod through
life; and I determined, by the usefulness of my
future years, to endeavour to make some atonement
for my former guilty career of crime and
passion.
The garb I now wear, and the employment in
which you find me, sufficiently explain the result
of my reflections, and the extent of my reformation.
| Tales of the border | |