 | CHAPTER XV.
TEDIOUS CAPTIVITY. Clara Moreland, or, Adventures in the far
South-west |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
TEDIOUS CAPTIVITY.
I AM not writing a journal of daily transactions; but
rather throwing into a connective narrative such important
incidents and events of my life as will be most likely to
interest the reader and conduce to the denouement of my
story. Hence I trust I may be permitted to arrange my
narrative, with regard to time, scene and dialogue, according
to my judgment of what is most effective in description,
or necessary to be told to a true understanding and
comprehension of the whole.
If, therefore, I endeavor to compress into a few pages
what occupied months in reality, the reader must not think
I have conducted him thus far in my adventures, to insult
his good nature and perseverance by slurring over the
remainder; but rather that I dismiss with a few words
what might otherwise prove tedious, in order to do justice
to his expectations, by portraying scenes and events of a
character not less exciting than any he has witnessed.
I recovered gradually, but slowly, and weeks rolled away
ere I fully regained my wonted strength. I saw Clara
and Dundenah daily—so that the time passed less tediously
than it otherwise would have done.
The more I saw of Dundenah, however, the more was I
convinced that my suspicions, regarding the motive of her
peculiar conduct toward Clara and myself, were well
founded; and yet to combat these suspicions was the fact,
that she permitted us to meet daily, and converse without
jealousy which seldom fails to be aroused by the presence
of a powerful rival. Perhaps she had seen enough to be
convinced that my affections were unchangeably fixed upon
Clara, and that in her absence she would have no more
hope of my returning her own passion than as matters
now stood, and therefore thought it best to silently
acquiesce in a decree of fate beyond any power of hers
to alter.
Be this as it may, it was not without painful interest
that I beheld the brown hue of her cheeks gradually
change to a sickly pallor; that I saw her proud, haughty
look gradually give way to dejection and melancholy;
that I perceived the fiery expression of her dark eyes
gradually superseded by a mild, tender gleam; and that I
noted an unusual languor in her steps, and a sad abstraction
in her manner. Something had certainly occurred to
produce so wonderful a change; and what that something
was, I fancied I knew too well.
During her intercourse with me, I learned, at different
times, somewhat of her own history, and that of her tribe
—which, not to weary the reader with detail, I will
compress into the smallest possible space.
It appears that many years ago, at a friendly council
of several of the western tribes, a number of young braves,
of the different nations, banded together for a grand buffalo
hunt, choosing one of the party to act as leader. The
hunt over, and being well pleased with each other, they
conceived the idea of remaining together, and forming
themselves into a distinct tribe. The leader chosen for
the hunt was formally declared to be chief; and for laws
of government, they selected such as were most popular
among the different tribes to which they formally belonged.
They named themselves Wepecoolahs, signifying
of different members assimilated, and words became
added, till at last they might be said to have a distinct
tongue of their own.
When they first united, they were all young and single;
but most of them soon took wives after the Indian fashion,
and in course of time became fathers of numerous offspring.
For some reason Kenneloo was the last to marry; and
then he chose for his bridal bed a white captive, taken in
one of his expeditions against the frontier settlements of
Texas. The only living issue of this union was Dundenah,
who inherited her mother's beauty with much of her
father's fierceness, while she had peculiarities belonging to
neither. The Wepecoolahs had no permanent abode—
but, as their title indicated, led somewhat of a roving
life. They had located themselves in this valley three
several times; and it had so chanced that here it was the
Leaping-Fawn first saw the light.
The mother of Dundenah had died when she was quite
young; but the daughter still remembered her, and spoke
of her with tenderness. From what I could gather from
Dundenah—for on this point she was not inclined to be
communicative—I conjectured that the captive wife of
Kenneloo must have led a sorry life of it; and doubtless
death came a welcome messenger to summon her to a happier
existence. That she loved her child, is not unreasonable
to suppose; but I do not think that one of the refinement
I conceive her to have possessed, could ever have
regarded the vindictive and bloodthirsty Kenneloo in any
other light than that of a savage master and tyrant. Yet
Kenneloo, in his rude way, might have loved his gentle
captive; for Dundenah said that at her death he was
greatly agitated, and for a long time after seemed very
much dejected.
It appears that the mother of Dundenah, in the course
of her captivity, learned the language of the Wepecoolahs,
so as to speak it fluently; but her daughter, and her only,
she taught her native tongue, the English; and this probably,
partly from the habit of talking to her in infancy
in the language most natural to her, and the rest that she
might have one ear into which she could pour her sorrows,
and not be understood by the others of the tribe, who
would not be likely to sympathize with her in her misfortunes.
But though Dundenah had first learned of her mother
sufficient English to converse with her in that language to
some degree, yet it remained for Langee to perfect her in
that freedom of thought and expression—I may call it
poetical fluency—of which the sentences already recorded
form a very fair specimen. And as this brings me to
Langee, I will, as next in order, proceed to speak of that
strange being.
Who he was, or whence he came, was not known to my
informant. He had first appeared among the tribe while
her mother was living, bringing with him a Pawnee to act
as interpreter; but finding the wife of Kenneloo could
speak English, he soon dismissed his Indian attendant,
and addressed his conversation to her, and through her to
the tribe, receiving his answers from her lips. In a very
short time, by close application and retentive memory, he
was able to converse in the Wepecoolah tongue.
His counsels, it appeared, were ever good; but his conduct,
unfortunately, too often reprehensible; and as example
goes farther than precept, he failed in producing the
good effect he might otherwise have done. He had some
good traits of character, and many bad ones. He was
honorable in the keeping of his word, but a man of most
ungovernable passions, which oftentimes made him appear
and from what I gathered from Dundenah, I do not think
that he was at all times sane. Woman seemed to be the
cause of his frenzy; and when in one of his moods, he was
the terror of all the females of the tribe, with the exception
of the mother of Dundenah, whom he never failed to
respect. Several times was he on the point of losing his
life, which was only saved by the interference of Kenneloo,
through the intercession of his wife or daughter.
To Dundenah, as a child, it seems he took a great
fancy; and he would sit and talk with her for hours in
English, telling her strange tales of distant lands, and
always correcting her pronunciation and language whenever
either were wrong in her replies. He never taught
her to read or write; but from what I have recorded, the
reader can see that in speech at least she became under
his tuition quite a proficient in the English tongue. She
respected him; but rather feared than loved him; for his
manner at times was so wild and strange as to cause her
uneasiness and even alarm.
Langee remained several years among the Wepecoolahs,
and then went to a neighboring tribe; where, for some
criminal act, he was seized, tried, and condemned to death
—but effected his escape. On the day previous to my
capture, an Indian scout had accidentally discovered his
retreat; and subsequently communicating the information
to Kenneloo, the chief resolved, for purposes of his own,
to take him prisoner. Accident having thrown Clara and
myself into the hut, we were seized also at the same time;
and the rest is known to the reader.
When I had so far recovered as to be able to walk
about, and in some sort endure fatigue, Dundenah informed
me that I should now be obliged to pass through
the ceremony which would transform me from a pale-face to
when I learned that one part of the proceeding was to
shave my head, leaving only a single tuft of my fine head
of hair, it may readily be believed I was in no degree
elated at the contemplated metamorphosis.
But I was in the hands of Fate—or at least in those of
the Indians—resistance would have been worse than useless—and
so I submitted with what grace I could. My
hair was accordingly all shaved off, with the exception of
the aforementioned tuft or scalp-lock, and the place of
tonsure was immediately bedaubed with a thick coating
of black pitch. I was then stripped of my clothing, by
some half a-dozen rough warriors, and painted from head
to heels a dirty brown. To increase my savage beauty,
my face was next streaked with red; which so transformed
me, that I doubt if my own father would have known me.
I was then costumed in the real savage style, and led out
upon the common, where the whole tribe was waiting to
take part in the concluding ceremony. This consisted in
forming a large ring around me, dancing wildly in a circle,
whooping, shouting, screeching, and yelling, and singing
some kind of a refrain, of which of course I understood
not a word.
When this to me heathenish gibberish had lasted some
two hours—during which I had been pulled and hauled
by one and another till I was fatigued and sore—I was
triumphantly escorted into the Council House, where Dundenah,
who had taken no part in the proceedings, appeared
to inform me that I was now installed a regular
member of the tribe of Wepecoolahs, with all the immunities
and privileges of other savages. It seems needless
to add, that I was particularly proud of my new position.
Autumn ran into winter, and winter passed tediously
away, notwithstanding I saw and conversed with Dundenah
by way of variety, I accompanied my brother warriors in
a hunt for game among the neighboring mountains.
During this time, I learned so much of the Wepecoolah
language, that I could hold some conversation on the most
ordinary topics. I was uniformly well treated, and could
not perceive that I was regarded with an eye of suspicion;
and had it not been that I felt in honor bound to remain
with the tribe, for reasons known to the reader, I should
certainly have made an attempt at escape.
I had never forgotten Langee, and the “Hope” he had
left behind him on the earthen floor of the Council
House; but as months passed on, and I heard nothing
from him, I felt indeed that my hope in that quarter was
written in sand.
The winter here proved very disagreeable—not so much
on account of ice and snow, as cold, sleety rain-storms,
and sudden, piercing blasts from the snow-capped mountains
of a more northern latitude. It would sometimes be
so warm at night as to render a fire unnecessary; and
before morning I would be shivering with the cold, and
chilled to the very bone. In consequence of these sudden
and severe changes, and exposure from the want of
such clothing as we had been accustomed to, both Clara
and myself took violent colds, which more than once
threatened each of us with serious illness, but from which
latter affliction kind Providence spared us.
During this period, the deportment of Dundenah toward
me was ever kind; but toward the last she appeared more
reserved and abstracted—and it pained me to observe the
deep melancholy which had come over her. She would
often remain pensive and silent for hours; and many a
time, when I turned suddenly toward her, did I catch the
glance of her dark eyes, which had been fixed upon me, but
would instantly mantle her features. It was impossible
for me to be mistaken as to the cause of this change; but
so far from feeling any exultation, it was a source of
regret to me that her affections had not been centered upon
an object that could reciprocate them. Clara, however,
seemed to suspect nothing of the kind; and believing it
better for her to remain ignorant thereof, I kept the secret
close-locked in my heart.
I felt really grateful to Dundenah for her kindness—
and more especially, that I saw it extended to my companion
in captivity. Clara was immediately under her
charge—both occupied the same lodge—and my heart
warmed toward the unfortunate Indian maiden, when,
instead of displaying jealousy toward her companion,
because of her affection for me, I saw her use every means
in her power to render her contented and happy in her
captivity. Clara was grateful also; and more than once,
when speaking to me of Dundenah, I saw the tear of
heartfelt emotion dim her eye.
Poor Dundenah! with all her faults, she was indeed
worthy of a better destiny; and my heart bleeds as I
recall her untimely end.
But let me not anticipate.
It was with no pleasant feelings that, toward spring,
when the weather had become more mild and agreeable, I
saw the Wepecoolahs begin to make preparations for
another expedition against the frontiers of Texas. They
sharpened their knives and tomahawks, put their bows and
arrows in order, painted their persons as hideously as
possible, and held their war-dance on the common, in
which all were obliged to participate, Clara and myself not
excepted. They did not carry matters so far as to attempt
to force me to go with then—neither did they slight me
number.
At length, when all was in readiness, they set out—on
horseback, as before—numbering no less than sixty athletic
warriors, with Kenneloo at their head—leaving some ten
or fifteen trusty braves to look after the women and
children, and protect the village in their absence. It was
now that, but for the promise involving the life of Dundenah
and Omema, which bound me to remain, I should
certainly have attempted to make my escape.
But it often happens that the plans which, in our human
wisdom, we have laid, would, if carried out, prove disastrous
to ourselves; and it as often happens that Providence
is secretly working for our good, when, in the despair of
tribulation and adversity, we are led to think ourselves
forgotten by Him who notes even the fall of a sparrow.
| CHAPTER XV.
TEDIOUS CAPTIVITY. Clara Moreland, or, Adventures in the far
South-west | |