University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE CAPTURE.

On parting for new adventures at the Rendezvous Mount, as one
of the scouts appropriately termed the place, Colonel Danforth and
Edward embraced each other, and separated, as friends who are
about to encounter perils, with a great uncertainty of ever meeting
each other again on earth. Tears dimmed the eyes of both for the
time, and the farewell prayers for each other's safety were said in
tones tremulous with deep emotion. Each party had been assigned
their post for reconnoitring, and each cautioned the other against
unnecessary exposure. Carnele was to accompany Edward, Miller
the Colonel, Wade the Lieutenant, Hale (another of the scouts) the
Sergeant, and the two remaining scouts were to go by themselves.
By this arrangement, each party had an experienced woodsman to
act as leader, who perfectly understood the habits of the Indian,
and knew the caution necessary to succeed in their enterprise.
Thus, two by two, they led off, in different directions, for different
points of observation, and, in five minutes from the time of starting,
were effectually separated.

The night had set in dark and gloomy. Clouds driven from the
East overspread the heavens, and not a star was visible. The wind
still blew strong and cold, but seemed to be more damp than during
the day, an almost certain prognostic that a storm of rain would
follow soon. From Rendezvous Mount to the Piqua village, the
distance was about half a mile; and for a quarter of a mile, the
direction taken by Carnele and our hero, led them down a declivity,
from which the lights of the town were plainly visible. They then
came to a level but heavily timbered bottom, which extended to
the Miami, on the opposite side whereof they could dimly perceive
the wigwams of the Indians, by the light of their fires, scattered
along a high bank, that rose almost abruptly above the water, which
was here too deep to be forded.

“We'll hev to swim, or go below,” said Carnele; “and I think
we'd best go below, for it's powerful cold work swimming, and it
mought not be the wisest thing to come out of the water right under
the noses of the Injens.”

“You are right,” rejoined Edward; “but how will our friends
get across, unless they come below, also?”

“That's thar look out, and not ourn. May be they'll go above,
and may be swim. Ef we've got to look arter them, it'd been best
to had 'em with us; but sence they aint with us, it's best to look
arter ourselves. Yes, we must go below;” and as the old woodsman
uttered this, he glided away down the bank of the river, and Edward,
with gloomy feelings, followed in his steps.

A quarter of a mile brought them to a point where the current
ran swift; and cautioning Edward to be careful of his steps, and
not let the stream prove too much for him, the old scout entered the
water, and waded across, apparently without difficulty. Not so
Edward. Unused to fording streams, and the river in some places
being breast high, he found it exceedingly troublesome and laborious
to maintain an upright position himself, and keep his rifle, pistols,
and ammunition above water.

He succeeded, however, in gaining the opposite shore in safety;
but was so fatigued by his exertions, and benumbed with cold, that
for several minutes he was unable to proceed. But intense excitement,
caused by the reflection that he might now be near her he
loved, soon aroused all his faculties, and nerved him to new exertions;
and starting abruptly to his feet, he declared his readiness
and ability to go on without more delay.

When he came to the trial, however, he found that he had overrated
his power of locomotion; for a strange, cold numbness seemed
to change his nether limbs to the earth, so that it was almost impossible
for him to get one foot before the other. At length after going
a few rods, he sank down upon the ground, and in as loud a tone
as he dared to use, called to his companion, who was several paces
in advance, to come to his assistance.

“What's the matter?” inquired the old hunter, anxiously, as he
retraced his steps to where Edward was lying.

“I fear the water has so chilled me that I shall be unfit for further
service to-night,” replied Edward, with a deep sigh, that amounted
almost to a groan.

“That comes o' being' raised in the settlements,” rejoined the
other, with something like contempt. “I al'ays arg'ed they was
the places for spilin' all young chaps like you. They're only fit
for sich good-for-nothin,' soft-handed, meally-mouthed things as
doctors, lawyers, women, and them; and ef I'd got a boy—which
thank fortin,' I haint—I'd stripe his back, ef ever he staid over
night in one on 'em, till he was a man-grown. Oh, it's woful to
think what people now-a-days is comin' to! It's my opine the
men is all turnin' women, and that the world will disgenerate,
till thar won't be a man of as much account as a two-year old Injen
babby Now I've bin in the water when it war so cold it friz right
afore my eyes; and I've stayed in't for more'n a hour to time, and
never felt the wuss for't when I got out. But howsomever, I reckon
you think as how this here kind o'talk don't help your case none—

which is a fact—and so I'll set to work, and make a fire to warm
you up by.”

“But surely, Mr. Carnele—”

“Don't mister me?” interrupted the other. “I don't want none
o' them settlement fixins hitched to my name. I'm jest plain John
Carnele, and John's the shortest, and saves talk. Jest call me John
when I'm alone; and ef thar's another John along, why jest put on
the tother for a distinguishfier.”

“Well, John, surely it would be imprudent to start a fire here, so
near an Indian village. Why, we should have the whole town
upon us in less than an hour.”

“Tush! you're a boy, Ned—a settlement boy at that—and haint
follered by a few as many trails as I hev, nor laid out in the woods
quite so many nights, with howlin' imps all round ye. I said I'd
have to start a fire to warm ye by—but I did'nt say I war going to
raise a light for Injens to look at.”

“But where there is a fire, there must of course be a light,” persisted
the other.

“And that's whar you show your ignorance,” rejoined the scout,
“and your settlement raisin'. But wait a bit, and you shall see
what you never seed afore.”

Saying this, the old hunter leaned his rifle against a tree, and
drawing his hatchet from his belt, began to dig a hole in the hard
earth at his feet, scrooping up the dirt, and throwing it out with his
hands. When he had made an excavation large enough for his
purpose, he collected a few dry sticks, and placed them in the hole,
in the form of a coal-pit or cove, with a handful or two of leaves
at the bottom. These he next ignited by means of flint, steel, and
spunk, and then covered the whole over with the loose earth thrown
out, taking care to leave one or two small air-holes on either side.

“Thar,” he said, as soon as he had done—“thar, young man,
thar's a fire without a light; and ef you'll jest plant yourself on
top on't, you'll find the frost'll leave your legs right sudden.”

Edward immediately followed his directions, and in a very short
time the steam began to rise from his wet garments, while the warmth
restored an animated circulation of blood to his chilled and almost
frozen limbs. As he revived, he was profuse in his thanks to the
old hunter, for having, as he expressed it, given him renewed life.
In the course of fifteen minutes, he declared he was again ready to
pursue his adventures, and accordingly both set off toward the
town, Carnele leading the way, and charging the other repeatedly
to exercise great caution, and not make the least noise.

Less than a quarter of a mile brought them to the outskirts of
the Indian village; and by the aid of a few fires kindled outside,
they could plainly perceive the lodges of the savages scattered over
a large area of ground, and occasionally a dusky figure stalking
about in the uncertain light, which, together with the growling and

barking of a few restless mastiffs, warned them they were already
treading on dangerous ground, where a single wrong movement
might prove fatal to their hopes, if not their lives.

The night, however, disagreeable as it was, was favorable to their
adventure, by keeping most of the Indians closely housed; while
the sighing and moaning of the wind, prevented any ordinary sound
from being heard—or, if heard, proved a ready means of accounting
for it, without creating suspicion or alarm. The main thing to be
feared, was the watchful dogs, whose keen sense of hearing was
less easy to be deceived than that of their masters, while their
power of smelling, or scenting, would be almost certain to detect
the presence of strangers.

“It won't do to go into the village here,” said Carnele, in a
whisper. “No; we'll hev to go up a piece, and wait a spell.”

Our two friends accordingly moved away, and taking a circuitous
route through the forest, approached the town in the rear, or
rather on the side farthest from the river. Ascending a little hillock,
which was well covered with bushes, they found themselves
in a very comfortable position for overlooking the lodges of the
Indians, and noting every thing of consequence taking place within
their limits. Fearing the effects of the cold upon his companion,
whose garments were by no means dry, and thinking he might as
well enjoy the luxury of being warm now himself, Carnele immediately
set to work, and prepared another underground fire. This
done, both he and Edward seated themselves over it, with the design
of waiting till toward midnight, or until the savages should
have retired to their slumbers, before making any further explorations.

But they had not so long to wait as they at first anticipated; for
in less than half an hour, the storm, which had been so long brewing,
came on with fury, and the rain poured down in torrents, completely
drenching our spies, and extinguishing the fires about the
village. It was so cold, that the drops of rain often froze as they
fell, forming a kind of sleet, which the wind drove with such fury
against the faces, hands, and necks of our friends, as would have
rendered their situation almost too uncomfortable to be borne, had
not their spirits been cheered by the reflection, that the same peltings
would drive their enemies under cover, and consequently lessen
the danger of detection.

“Every thing so far favors our enterprize,” whispered Edward;
“shall we not venture now to enter the village?”

“Directly,” replied Carnele, “jest as soon as I can git my dog
feed ready;” and he unstrapped his knapsack from his back, and
began to fumble inside of it.

“What do you mean by dog-feed?” inquired Edward.

“Why, I've got a fixter here, that'll quiet dogs better nor all the
the pothecacs you could buy from the fust settlement to sunrise.

It's made from yarbs, and I made it myself—though I'll allow it
war an old Indian as fust showed me how to do it. It's made in
little balls like, about the size o'bullets; and all we has to do in
goin' into the village, is to scatter 'em around; and the fust dog as
comes about, will nose on 'em, and eat it; and it'll be the last
fodder he'll ever eram. It'll make him arful dry; and he'll break
for the drink; and the fust swallow he takes 'll do his business;
and ten to one but the stream takes his body down it; and that'll
be the end o' him. Ah! here it is, all right—so now we'll be for
a tramp. Cover your we'pons as much as you can, and mind your
powder don't git wet.”

Saying this, the old hunter replaced his knapsack on his back,
and rising to his feet, led the way into the village, treading very
cautiously, and scattering his unknown compound, for the destruction
of the canine race, in every direction. Either this latter worked
to a charm, or else the dogs, like their masters, did not care to encounter
such uncongenial weather, for not one of them approached
our friends, as slowly and cautiously they now moved about among
the huts, gradually nearing the centre of the village, where three or
four lodges larger than the rest, proclaimed them the abodes of the
chiefs of the nation. Most of the huts were dark inside; but occasionally
a ray of light gleamed out through the crevices made by
the swaying to and fro of the skins, which were hung at the doors
to protect the inmates against the inclemency of the weather.
Wherever a light of this kind could be seen, Edward or his companion
would approach the hut, and cautiously raise the skin a little,
and peer inside; and they would generally perceive a few Indians,
or one Indian and his family, either lounging about in careless attitudes,
stretched at full length on their rude pallets, or sitting near
the light, engaged in making wampum belts, mending or making
moccasins, and other similar employments.

The interior of some eight or ten huts had been examined in this
manner, without the occurrence of any incident worthy of note,
when, just as Carnele approached another, a large Indian suddenly
pushed aside the skin and came out. The old scout suddenly drew
back, and stood still, and the savage passed close to his person,
without perceiving him. Carnele then softly advanced to the rear
of the hut, where he remained in deep shadow till the Indian had
re-entered, when he heard him comment, in his own peculiar way,
upon the rough state of the weather. Then he drew a long breath
of relief; for he had been in great fear, lest Edward should be discovered;
but fortunately the latter had seen the Indian also, and
had exercised sufficient presence of mind to remain motionless till
the danger was past.

Some three or four more lodges were now examined in the same
manner as those described, which brought our party almost to the
centre of the village, and still no traces of the prisoners had been

found; and they were already beginning to think themselves deceived
by the information obtained from Posetha, and were debating
whether it were best for them to look farther or retrace their
steps, as they had even now exceeded the limits assigned to them at
Rendezvous Mount, when a long deep moan, followed by a sharp
reproof in broken English, proceeding from a darkened hut close
by, reached their ears, and turned their thoughts into an entirely
different channel, arousing both curiosity and sympathy, and, in
the breast of Edward at least, exciting emotions strange and indescribable.

Without speaking a word, and scarcely venturing a natural respiration,
our two spies, acting in concert, slowly and silently drew
near the hut whence the sounds proceeded, and listened. For some
moments all was still; and then several low moans succeeded, and
another sharp and angry reproof was given, which evidently came
from the lips of an old squaw, and, from the tenor of the language,
left no doubt in the minds of our friends that it was addressed to a
white female prisoner.

Oh! how wildly beat the heart of Edward; and what strange,
almost uncontrollable, feelings were excited in his breast, as these
few broken sentences reached his ear:

“Lie down! why you make noise? Me strike you, beat you,
take you scalp, you no be still and go sleep.”

What would he not have given then to know to whom they were
addressed? Could it be that he was so near his dear Lucy, and
that it was her groans, wrung from an agonized soul, that had
sounded in his ears, and caused those harsh threatenings in return?
And oh! if such were the case, how gladly would he now take her
place, and endure all the horrors of imprisonment, if by this means
she could be restored to liberty and happiness. Edward loved, and
loved truly, and there was no sacrifice too great for him to make
for the object of his affections.

All within had once more become still; but, without, the storm
was raging as fiercely as ever; and the wind moaned and whistled
among the lodges, and flapped the skins, and drove the rain and
sleet against them with a loud pattering sound. Taking advantage
of the noise, Edward now drew Carnele aside, and in low hurried
tones informed him that he had resolved upon the bold expedient of
entering the hut, and endeavoring to ascertain whether it contained
any one of the party of whom they were in search.

“Why, boy, it's a foolish risk, and no good can come on't,” was
the hunter's reply.

“At least, I can ascertain whether my hopes have any foundation.”

“And if they hev, what'll you do?

“Endeavor, by some means, to get the captive away.”

“Yes, and hev the whole village at your heels. No, it'll never

do for you to go, lad, for you've not had exper'ence enough; and,
besides, you'd be too nervous in sich a case to do things right. Ef
any body goes, it'd best be me; and ef thar's only one old squaw
thar, I'll try and still her.”

“Surely, you would not murder her!” exclaimed Edward, his
mind revolting at the thought of such extreme measures.

“Not ef I could get along without, sartingly; but ef thar's a
white captive in thar—and thar must be, else why did she speak
English to her?—I'd fetch her out, at all risks, or die trying.”

“Well, then, go, but for heaven's sake, do no violence, if it can
possibly be avoided!”

“Don't fear for me,” rejoined the old woodsman. “I'll be very
keerful—I al'ays is keerful. Here, take my rifle, and wait for me
at the door; but don't move nor speak till you hev orders from
me; and mind you keep the lock down, and don't let the powder
git too damp-like.”

“May heaven prosper this undertaking!” was the silent prayer
of Edward, as he retraced his steps to the lodge, preceded by
Carnele.

The latter now turned to his companion, put his mouth to his ear,
and said, in a whisper:

“Stand right still, and don't move. I'll jest slip round this old
shanty, and see ef thar's any other opening;” and the next moment
his dusky figure was lost in the darkness. Something like a minute
elapsed, when he again made his appearance, on the opposite
side of the hut, and added: “It's all right—be keerful, Ned, I'm
jest a going' to enter now—keep a good lookout;” and with these
words he dropped quietly to the earth, extended himself at full
length on the wet ground, and cautiously raising the lower part of
the skin, which hung at the door, put his head under, and slowly
and silently drew his body after him.

The moment of Carnele's final disappearance, was one of the most
mentally and physically painful to Edward he had ever experienced.
It seemed to him as if his blood had all rushed to his heart, and his
heart to his throat, producing a strange species of suffocation and
strangulation. For some moments, as he stood and listened, he
could not breathe; and then, with a degree of pain that almost
forced him to cry aloud, his heart seemed to leap back to its proper
place, and began a series of palpitations, that to him really appeared
audible; and which, to his excited fancy, threatened to force a
passage through his breast. Gradually he grew calmer; and then
he approached the hut, so as to place his ear against the skin at
the entrance, and listened, with every faculty of hearing exerted to
the last degree his will could give it. For a time, however, all remained
still within, and no sound, save that caused by the driving
strom without, could be heard. Suddenly, a quick, sharp Indian
ejaculation, followed by a stifled scream, smote upon his ear: and

and then he could distinguish sounds indicating a struggle, where
one is endeavoring to strangle another. Next he heard a voice,
that sent a thrill of joy and fear through every fibre of his frame,
exclaim—

“Oh! Heaven help us! What is taking place here? mercy!
mercy!—help! help!”

“Hist! hist!” cried the voice of the old hunter, “or you'll spile
all.”

“Who are you?” cried another female voice.

“A friend come to save you, and git ye cl'ar of these blood-thirsty
varmints. Be quiet, now, or else go out, where you'll find a
young chap ready to take you away.

“Quick, then, release us!” cried the first speaker—“for we are
bound by cords.”

“Ha! that voice—that voice!” almost shouted Edward, bursting
into the lodge. “Lucy! dear, dear Lucy! is it indeed you?”

“Edward! oh, merciful Providence!” was the response; and
then the fair speaker burst into tears.

“Quick! quick!” rejoined Edward—“where are you?—let me
cut you loose!—we have not a moment to lose!”

`You're mad—mad, boy—mad!” fairly groaned Carnele. “You
've ruined all by your foolish doin's.”

“What do you mean?” gasped Edward, as he cut the cord that
bound Lucy Danforth, and almost convulsively clasped her in his
arms.

“Your talkin' and yellin' has roused the Indians in the other
lodges, and they're hurryin' out in search of the cause.”

“But we may escape!” rejoined Edward tremulously. “Nerve
yourself, dear Lucy, for the effort, and lean on me;” and as he
spoke, he raised her in his arms, and made for the door.

“And what will become of me?” cried the other female prisoner.

“Hush! hush!” began the old hunter—“I'll—”

The sentence, if finished, was drowned by a loud, shrill whoop;
and Edward who had just gained the outside of the wigwam, with
Lucy in his arms, was laid senseless upon the earth by a blow from
a war club. At the same instant, some three or four savages, one
of them bearing a lighted torch, sprang over his body, burst into
the wigwam, and secured Carnele a prisoner.