University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE ATTACK.

The Wepecoolahs, headed by their vindictive chief, had
been gone upon their war-path some two or three days,
when, having passed a restless night, I arose one morning
before the break of day, and went out to take a walk in
the open air. All was dark and quiet in the village—for
the fires had burned down, and no one was stirring.

I strolled up the valley some quarter of a mile, in a
troubled mood—for I was thinking of friends far away,
and of the feeble prospect of my ever seeing them again—
and then turned aside, and began to ascend a steep hill
to the right, with no definite purpose in view, unless it
were to note the breaking of day, and the rising of the
sun, which had often been a delight to me in happier
times.

Having reached a height which gave me a fair view of
the eastern horizon, I seated myself upon a rock, and
fixing my eyes upon the point where the sun would first be
visible, I let my thoughts wander to far-off scenes, and
reflected that the great luminary which I should soon
behold, was already shining upon my native soil, and that
even now friends dear to me might be gazing upon it, and,
peradventure, wondering what had become of the wanderer
who had so often been a welcome partaker in their scenes
of festivity and joy.

Would they ever behold me again? or would I ever
again behold that happy land? which time, distance, and

the peculiar circumstance in which I was placed, now
rendered as dear to me as the sacred spot which holds the
mortal remains of some dearly loved friend is to the
afflicted mourner.

While buried in reflections like these, and just as the
first golden streaks of morn began to shoot up in the
orient, I was startled by hearing loud Indian yells,
screeches of terror, and reports of fire-arms. I bounded
up from the rock, and for a few moments stood bewildered,
like one who hears some joyful news and yet is afraid to
credit his senses, lest he light the beacon of hope only to
have it quickly extinguished in the gloomy waters of
disappointment.

But the sounds still continuing—shrieks, yells, shouts
and reports of musketry commingled in one terrific din—I
knew that the village was attacked; and, as I had good
reason to believe, by my countrymen—for the Indians of
this quarter seldom fought with fire-arms.

It was therefore with feelings strange, wild, and indescribable,
that I uttered a yell a little less savage than
those of my late companions, and set off for the scene of
contention, a prey to a thousand alternate hopes and fears.
Thoughts whirled through my brain with a wild, dizzy
sensation; but above all rose the image of Clara; and
fearful of what might be her fate in this scene of strife and
dire confusion, I went bounding down the steep mountainside
to the valley, like a stag pursued by the hounds.
How I escaped without injury was almost a miracle; but I
reached the valley in safety, and continued my course
toward the village, with unabated exertions, and scarcely
unabated speed.

The dull, leaden hue of early morning was just beginning
to chase away the darker shades of night; so that
objects could be seen at some distance, but only distinctly

when within a few feet of the eye. By this dim light,
therefore, as I neared the clustering huts of the Wepecoolahs,
I could faintly perceive dark figures flitting to and
fro—some evidently flying in terror to save their lives, and
pursued by others eager for blood and vengeance—while
above the agonizing shrieks and groans of the assailed,
and the cheers and shouts of the assailants, I heard a
hoarse voice, saying:

“These are the heathen that know not God! Slay, and
spare not! let the curse of eternal damnation be upon
them!”

As I drew close upon the huts, running with all my
speed, an Indian passed me, making for the cover of the
mountain, followed by a white man in eager chase, who
seemed to be gaining upon his victim at every step.
Neither took any notice of me; but hearing a yell of
agony a moment after, I naturally turned my head to
learn the result; and I had just caught a glimpse of the
Indian and white man falling,

when my foot, striking against the dead body of another
Indian, I came to the ground with almost stunning force.
At the same moment a ball from a pistol, aimed at my
life, whizzed over my head; and the person who fired the
shot, finding he had missed his mark, sprung toward me
with gleaming knife, to take advantage of my accident,
either to despatch or secure me a prisoner.

Somewhat bewildered with my fall and previous excitement,
I still had sufficient presence of mind, as I saw my
assailant rushing upon me, to exclaim:

“In the name of Heaven, man, would you murder one
of your own countrymen?”

“Eh! what!” he cried, stopping suddenly—“who are
you?”

Heavens! what a thrill went through me, as I heard
that voice! Could it be possible? I started to my feet, and
looked him in the face. Yes, it was he; I was not
mistaken; and fairly shrieking forth my joy—for it was
too excessive to yet find vent in words—I threw open
my arms, and rushed toward him. He sprang back,
mistaking my purpose; and instantly presenting a revolver,
cried:

“Two good shots yet: yield you a prisoner, whoever
you are, or I'll lodge both in your body.”

“What!” cried I, in astonishment, now finding my
tongue—and forgetting, in my excitement, that my Indian
costume, shaved head, and painted face and body, was a
disguise which neither the eye of friend nor foe might
penetrate—“is it possible that Morton Harley has forgotten
me?”

“In the name of all the saints!” cried he, thunderstruck
in return—“what—why—how—no—yes—this
greasy face—can it be?—Harry, is it you?”

“It is I, Morton—truly I—Harry Walton, your old
friend.”

Down went knife and pistol, and the next moment we
were locked in each other's arms, weeping and laughing
alternately, and feeling very happy and very sad, and a
great deal more that I cannot describe. When our first
transports had so far subsided, that we could again find
speech, Harley said:

“I came to seek you, Harry, it is true; but not finding
you in the onset, I concluded the savages had put you to
death, and I was for taking deep revenge on the accursed
race. In fact, my dear friend,” he added, his eyes filling
with tears at the thought, “I was nigh revenging you on

yourself; for mistaking you for an Indian returning to
the affray, I fired; and had you not fallen as you did, I
fear my shot had been fatal, for I seldom miss my mark.
Great Heaven! only to think how near I was to slaying
my best friend! Ah! it makes my blood run cold!”

“But in the name of all that is wonderful!” cried I,
a thousand questions rushing upon me at once, so that I
scarcely knew which to put first—“how came you here?”

“Do you hear that noise?” said Harley.

And again, above the shrieks and din of strife, I heard
distinctly the words:

“ `Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay!
Slay, and spare not! for the curse of Heaven is upon the
heathen that know not God!”

“It is the voice of Langee,” said I.

“Man, madman, or devil—I know not who he is—but
he it was that guided us hither,” replied Harley.

“In the name of humanity!” cried I, “let us stay the
massacre! See! the fugitives are flying in every direction,
and the pursuers seem to spare neither age nor sex.
And Clara!” shrieked I, as the thought of her danger
again recurred to me. “Holy Saints! perhaps she, too,
has fallen a victim! for in her Indian costume she might
easily be mistaken for one of the tribe;” and I bounded
away between the huts to the common, where the scene of
human butchery that met my gaze made me shudder with
horror.

No less than fifteen dead bodies, mostly women and
children, mutilated and gory, lay scattered about, having
been indiscriminately slain, as they rushed from their huts
on the first alarm. The first I gazed upon was Omema,
my Indian mother, who lay weltering in her blood, shot
through the heart. I uttered a cry of horror and grief,
for she had been very kind to me, and looked eagerly at

each of the others, trembling with fear, lest my senses
should suddenly be appalled by a sight of the gory form
of her I loved best.

But Clara was not among the slain, so far as I could
discover; and I hurried to the lodge of the chief, which
she had occupied with Dundenah.

The common was at this time deserted by all the living
save Harley and myself; but the cries of pursuers and
pursued could be heard in various directions, each moment
growing more distant, as the bloody chase led away from
the village. I looked into the lodge of Kenneloo; but
finding it deserted, I ran, half-distracted, to the Council
House, Harley keeping close to my side, but neither of us
exchanging a word. As I was about to enter this building,
I felt myself rudely seized, and a knife gleamed before
my eyes. I was too much taken by surprise to have
spoken in time to save my life; but Harley, who was
pressing in with me, instantly seized the uplifted arm, and
cried:

“Hold! hold! it is Henry Walton.”

“Good heavens!” cried my assailant—“is it possible!”
and stepping back a couple of paces, he regarded me with
astonishment.

I was no less astonished to recognize in the speaker the
person of Walter Moreland; but bent on finding Clara, I
only greeted him with:

“Your sister! your sister! where is she?”

“There,” he said, pointing to a distant part of the
building, “in the arms of her father.”

“What!” cried I, still more astonished, if that were
possible—“Colonel Moreland here also?” and I darted
away to a group of three figures, whose outlines I could
just distinguish by the dim light.

As I approached, I recognized the Colonel, who was

seated upon one of the benches, supporting his daughter
in his arms, whose pale features and apparently lifeless
form led me to infer the worst. Dundenah, who was
standing beside the others, had turned toward me on hearing
my voice; and as I came up, she clasped her hands
and exclaimed, in a tone of deep emotion:

“The Dark-Eye is safe—thanks be to Wandewah!”

But I had no thought for any thing but Clara; and in
my excitement, I fairly shrieked forth:

“Is she dead? is all over? Who did the deed?”

“What intrusion is this?” cried the Colonel, sharply,
looking fiercely at me.

“It is Henry Walton,” said Harley, coming up behind
me, in company with Walter.

“It is not easy to recognize a friend in such disguise,”
said the latter, “and I was nigh putting an end to his life,
mistaking him for one of the savages.”

“And I also,” chimed in Harley.

“Perhaps it would have been a just judgment of Heaven,
if one of you had succeeded,” said the Colonel, in a
cold, dry tone, as he bent over his inanimate daughter,
and commenced chafing her limbs.

I was so thunderstruck by this answer, that I stood
staring upon the speaker, and wondering if I heard aright.
Not so Harley.

“What means this language to my friend?” he quickly
demanded, with flashing eyes. “Is this the reception you
give one who has unfortunately borne a long and tedious
captivity with your daughter?”

“If I had not entrusted my daughter to his care, and
he been false to the trust, the affliction I have endured on
her account had been spared me,” replied the Colonel, in
the same harsh, chilling tone.

“Who says I have been false to my trust, utters a lie!”

cried I, forgetting every thing in my excitement but the
foul aspersion cast upon my character.

“Hold! hold! Mr. Walton!” interposed Walter, soothingly,
taking hold of my arm. “Say nothing rash now—
all will be right in time. Let father's words pass: he is
excited, and his mind has been poisoned against you.”

“I know by whom,” returned I—“that villain Warncliff—but
we shall meet again, perhaps.”

“Sooner than you expect, probably,” said Walter.

“How! is he here too?”

“Yes, he is the leader of this party.”

“Then that may account for their hellish ferocity,”
returned I. “Their acts are worthy of such a leader, and
prove them villains of the same stamp—for none but such
would slay defenceless women and children.”

“Hush! hush! for if overheard, it may be the worse
for you.”

I was about to continue in the same bitter strain—but
my eye falling upon Clara, I forgot every thing but her.

“Is she dead?” cried I. “Oh! tell me—is she dead?”

“No, only in a swoon,” answered Walter. “Her joy
at meeting us, combined with excitement and alarm,
proved too much for her nerves, and she fell senseless into
her father's arms, who bore her here from the scene of
horrid strife, accompanied by this damsel, who seems to
be a captive also.”

“The white man is wrong—Dundenah is no captive—
she is the daughter of a chief!” exclaimed the Indian
maiden, looking from one to the other with that air of
proud defiance which she had been wont to exhibit on my
first acquaintance with her.

At this moment a slight motion of Clara, accompanied
by a groan, drew the attention of each to her; and while
we were all gazing upon her, in anxious suspense, Langee,

followed by Warncliff, burst into the Council House, exclaiming,
in that hoarse voice which I had heard above
the din:

“Slay! slay! slay! Let the blood of the heathen run
in rivers! for they are unworthy to live;” and he came
bounding toward us, gnashing his teeth, frothing at the
mouth, and his hollow eye, glaring with maniacal wildness.

“He is insane!” cried I: “he must be secured!”

“Here is another heathen—let him be slain!” he
shouted, rushing at once upon me with uplifted knife.

I sprung back to avoid the blow; and at the same
instant Dundenah, with the speed of lightning, darted
between us; and, ere any one was aware of her purpose,
buried her knife to the very hilt in his heart. As he fell,
she exclaimed:

“The curse of Wandewah be upon Langee for a vile
traitor!”

Astonishment for a moment paralyzed us all. Warncliff
was the first to speak.

“Seize her!” he cried: “she has slain our guide, and
her life shall answer for his;” and he sprung toward her,
knife in hand, with the evident intention of dispatching
her on the spot.

It was now my turn to interfere; and, rushing hard
against him, I threw him to the ground, exclaiming:

“Coward! villain! would you slay a woman?”

“Who are you?” he cried, regaining his feet with great
dexterity, and confronting me with a fiendish look.

“Your mortal foe, Henry Walton.”

“Ha! have at you then!” and drawing a revolver, he
discharged it full at my breast—but, fortunately for me,
missed his mark.

The next moment he was seized by Harley and Walter,
while the voice of Colonel Moreland thundered:

“Peace all! there is blood enough spilled already; and
the first who renews this quarrel, makes me his foe for
life.”

At the same moment Clara started up and cried:

“Merciful Heaven! where am I?”

“Here, my child, in your father's arms,” said the
Colonel. “Fear nothing—you are safe.”

During this excitement and confusion, Dundenah had
effected her escape from the Council House; but while
Harley and Walter were still holding Warncliff—who, too
insane with passion to heed any thing that was said, was
still struggling to free himself—Dundenah reappeared at
the door, with a drawn bow in her hand.

“Take this!” she cried.

There was a loud twang of the bow; and an arrow,
sped with certain aim, passed through the right arm of
Warncliff, and made a slight incision in his side. He
uttered a yell of pain; and the Colonel starting up,
cried:

“Secure that she-devil, or we shall all be murdered!”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when we
heard the crack of a rifle; and Dundenah, who had turned
to fly, fell back into the Council House, with a groan. I
ran to her, and lifted her in my arms. There was a deep
wound in her breast, and the warm blood was flowing
freely. Her eyes were closed, and I thought she was
dead. I spoke her name, and it seemed to recall her
spirit back to earth. She looked up, fixed her dark eyes
mournfully upon me, and said, in a feeble voice:

“Farewell! May the great Wandewah bless you!
The race of Dundenah is run.”

And as she said this, she gave a convulsive gasp, and
expired.

As I gently laid her down, with tearful eyes, some one
darkened the door, and a hoarse voice exclaimed:

“Here's another of the —— red niggers—knock him
on the head;” and, again mistaken for an Indian, a tomahawk
was hurled at me by the same hand that had slain
poor Dundenah.

It barely grazed my face, but did me no other injury;
and ere any further violence could be offered, Harley interposed,
and informed the ruffian that I was one of the
captives the party had come to liberate.

“Oh! that alters the case,” he said, with an air of
brutal indifference. “Thought he was a Injun, by——!
She's one on 'em, arn't she? (pointing to his bloody
victim)—for I'd hate most powerful to know I'd shot a
white gal, though she did sling an arrer in here. Eh!”
he added, looking down the Council House: “Eh! what!
the Cap'en hurt?” and swinging his rifle over his shoulder,
he deliberately picked up his tomahawk and strode away
toward his leader.

I was still bending over the corse of the poor Indian
maiden, half stupified with the conflicting emotions which
the events of the last half hour had excited, when the
voice of Clara, close beside me, exclaimed:

“Merciful God! they have murdered our kind protectress!
Poor Dundenah! poor Dundenah!” and kneeling
beside her, she paid a grateful tribute of tears to her
memory; at the same time murmuring: “Father in
Heaven, give peace to her soul!”

“Amen!” said I solemnly.

“And you are saved, dear Henry!” she added, turning
upon me a look that expressed even more than her words.

“It is a woful deliverance, Clara; and but for your
sake, I could wish that mine had not been bought at such
a price.”

“Come, daughter,” said the voice of Colonel Moreland,
sternly, who had come up behind us—“this is no fit sight
for one of your weak nerves.”

“Nor for the sight of any one born in a land of civilization
and Christianity!” said Clara, quickly, and with
spirit. “Oh! father, could you not have prevented this?”

“No! and if I could, she deserved her fate—for she
had already killed our guide, and wounded our leader.”

“Your leader, father?” cried Clara, in surprise. “Is
there one above you, then, in command of this expedition?”

“Yes! this party was raised by Warncliff, who wished
to have the honor of rescuing his betrothed.”

“Warncliff?” repeated Clara, with a visible shudder.
“Oh! I would sooner remain in captivity than owe my
s deliverance to him.”

“Ungrateful girl! what means this language?” cried
her father, angrily. “But it is easily seen who has been
your tutor;” and he glanced pointedly at me.

“My own heart has been my tutor,” rejoined Clara,
with spirit; “and sooner will I suffer death than be the
wife of such a man.”

The Colonel bit his lips, and his eyes flashed fire. He
seemed about to make an angry reply, but checked himself,
and merely said:

“Come, this is not a time and place to discuss such
matters;” and taking hold of Clara's arm, he led her away.

They met Warncliff a moment after, who came forward
with his arm bleeding, the arrow having been extracted.
He stopped and spoke to them; but I could see that Clara
treated him very coldly. He then came up to the bloody
corpse of Dundenah; and after gazing upon it, with a
grim smile, muttered, between his set teeth:

“Hell's curses on you and all your friends!” and he

looked at me in a way to show that I was included in this
malediction.

It was with the greatest difficulty I could restrain myself
from striking him to the earth; and perhaps I should
not, but that I felt Harley's warning grasp on my arm.

Warncliff then turned to the ruffian, who came stalking
up behind him, and added:

“Tom, this is the best piece of work you ever performed,
and I will make it prove so;” and with another
savage glance at me, he went out.

“Be prudent, Harry,” whispered Harley; “this is no
place to quarrel; but he shall not escape the chastisement
which is his due.”