University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

While our travellers are slumbering at “The Old Ringo
Tavern,” we will accompany Thayendanegea to the camp
of the White Eagle and Wilted Grass.

Having had many interviews with General Gage and
Sir William Johnston, Brandt had already resolved upon
the course he would pursue in the impending conflict.
And, whatever else may be said of the renowned chief by
poets and historians, it can never be truthfully alleged that
he was prompted in his action by either a mercenary motive
or a cruel disposition.

A frown contracted the young chieftain's brow as he
swept past the cultivated fields, and ever and anon the new
foundations laid for the future residences of the encroaching
white man. The hills and valleys, where his fathers
had chased the deer from remotest ages, were to be torn
asunder by the ploughshare; the gurgling streams, which
had furnished them the delicious trout, were to be dammed
by the millwright; and the majestic trees, which had sheltered
them in the solitudes of the forest, were to be laid
low, and the familiar haunts of the spirits of the great
departed were to be desecrated by the active cupidity of
European mercenaries. Such were the thoughts which
animated the young chief, as he pursued his solitary way,
and stimulated the resolve to be amply revenged.

It was near the hour of midnight when Brandt perceived
the glimmer of a light on an eminence to his left.
It was upon a knoll surrounded by ancient oaks, through
the interstices of which the sinking embers could be seen
at intervals. It had been one of the favourite camping-grounds
from time immemorial. Brandt had not revisited
it since the days of his early youth, and then Charles was
with him.

The young chief dismounted and drew near the sinking
fire. In peace or war, the Indians do not generally have
sentinels at night. Brandt found the two young men
steeped in slumber; but the light was not sufficient to distinguish
their faces. Their forms merely were discernible
as they lay together wrapped in their blankets. They had
made use of the decayed forks of the old camp, by placing
poles across and forming a shelter of bark. The rear of
the camp was protected by the fallen trunk of a gigantic
tree, and next to this were their heads, while their feet
reached nearly to the fire.

Brandt stood with folded arms, gazing intently. Had
he been an enemy, how easily he might have dispatched
them both! But such was not his mission. He was in
quest of friends and coadjutors. He made a single step
forward, as if to rouse them, but paused abruptly. In
the dusky gloom their features might not be distinctly recognised.
He turned away and noiselessly replenished
the fire. He then approached the open end of the camp,
and stood again with folded arms and a thoughtful brow.

Charles turned uneasily on his couch, and muttered in
his dream the following words:—“I am no Indian; I have
no savage blood in my veins.”

Brandt started forward with a horrible scowl, snatched
the tomahawk from his belt, and flourished it menacingly
over Charles's head. But the next moment the shining
weapon was replaced, and the young Mohawk resumed his
meditative attitude.

The dry wood was now crackling and blazing brightly,
and the whole scene became distinctly apparent. At
length a smile illuminated the handsome features of
Brandt, and, taking a reed from his bosom, played one
of the tunes familiar to the ears of Charles when gliding
over the smooth surface of the Ontario or floating in the
canoe on the waters of the gentle Wyalusing. At the
conclusion of the strain Charles rushed forth, and, with
the words, “Brother!” “My brother!” the young men
were locked in each other's arms. It had been five years
since they parted. Before that event, and for many years
previously, they had been inseparable. Charles had been
loved and treated quite as well as the lost son and brother
whose place he had been chosen to fill. No word of

lamentation for the dead had been uttered in the family
after the first month of his adoption.

After a prolonged silence, they sat down and smoked
the pipe which Brandt had filled, gazing with delight and
affection at each other.

Wilted Grass came forth and sat down beside them.

“Shawuskukhkung,” said Brandt, extending his hand,
“we, too, are brothers. We flow from the same parent
stream,—the Algonquin,—and come from the same Lenni
Lenappé family. Why should we widen the tract which
separates us?”

“Thayendanegea speaks the truth,” replied the Delaware
chief. “But streams never more run together when
parted by mountains. I will die where my fathers died.”

“But not live as they did. Your hunting-grounds are
turned into pig-pens.”

“There is a land beyond the grave—forests where the
axe never sounds. Such are the peaceful hunting-grounds
of my fathers, and thither I will join them.”

“True. But the same Great Spirit bestowed upon us
this beautiful land. Will it please him if we meanly surrender
it to the trafficking stranger, from whom the game
flies in horror and disgust? Can a coward enter the hunting-grounds
of the spirit-land?”

“Thayendanegea, I am no coward,” said the Delaware.

“Tschichohocki (Burlington) was once the village of a
thousand braves. But the Mantas came from the slimy
creeks, and licked them into another shape, and blew
their own breath down their throats, and swam away with
their squaws to Matinicunk, where their children became
frogs.”

“Frogs!”

“They still croak upon the banks of the Delaware
River; but when danger approaches they close their eyes
and dive down to the bottom.”

“And do you mean to call me a frog and a coward?”
demanded the young Delaware, rising indignantly, with his
hand on his tomahawk.

“I do not raise my hand against the Wilted Grass,”
said Brandt, with imperturbable composure. “When the
Great Council was held at the Forks of the Delaware,
your people were all women. Teedyuscung, your head

chief, spake without rising, like a squaw, until Tagashata
removed the petticoat which had once been worn at a treaty.
Then he was a great chief again.”

“He was always a great chief,” said the Delaware, resuming
his seat with a sigh. “At that council he removed
the French hatchets from the heads of the English. You
and I and White Eagle were present. We were too young
to listen; but we were told afterward by our fathers what
had been done. The nations listened to Teedyuscung, and
made solemn pledges of peace. The Delawares forget not
their pledges.”

“The Mohawks do not violate their treaties,” said
Brandt. “The Five Nations then signed a treaty of
friendship with their Great Father over the broad water.
They will keep their promise.”

“You forget what the Senecas have since done, instigated
by their chief Tagashata. Five years after the
meeting of the Great Council they murdered Teedyuscung,
and falsely said the English had perpetrated the foul
deed.”

“Not the English, but the Yankees, who were seizing
the Susquehanna valleys. And they say so still.”

“But they say falsely. The Minisinks loved Teedyuscung,
and it was known they would be revenged.”

“Let us not discuss those things, my brother,” said
Charles.

“No!” cried Brandt, springing to his feet. “The past
is gone forever. We who were boys are men, and our
fathers have gone to the hunting-grounds of the spirit-land
unarmed and in fetters. Let us follow them with our rifles,
that they may eat. It was you, my brother, I wished to
go with us. The Wilted Grass will bend over the graves
of his kindred. But the nations of the West will come in
multitudes, like the leaves and the stars. The blood of
our enemies will run into the sea, like the rushing streams
after a mighty storm. Let your face not be white.”

“The Great Spirit made it white,” said Charles.

“But that was when you dwelt beyond the broad water.
It was the Great Spirit also that made Thayendanegea call
the White Eagle his brother.”

“But who are the enemies you speak of?”

“They who brought the small-pox and the fire-water;

who stop our running streams and hack down our trees.
The elk and deer have fled to the mountains, the buffalo to
the plains near the setting sun. Our homes are desolate.
The wolf and the owl and the rattlesnake only remain.
We, the lords of the wilderness, to whom the Great Spirit
gave the whole country, now flit like dusky bats in the
shadows of the evening. My brother, scalding tears roll
down my cheeks. It is the last time. The Great Spirit
calls upon us once more to hurl the invaders from our
shores. It is the last call. Look up through the weeping
leaves at the stars. During many thousands of moons
they smiled on our happy people. The song of joy echoed
through the valleys around. The merry dance was prolonged
till morning beneath the boughs of these spreading
oaks. All is silent and desolate now; and the last chief
of a mighty race stands by a solitary camp-fire and mourns
in tears. My brother, I dash these woman's tears into
the ashes at my feet. The spirits of my fathers shall not
grieve for the bondage of their son. I will break the
chains the white man has drawn around me. I will die
with the tomahawk in one hand and a scalping-knife in the
other. I hurl away the pipe of peace. War is declared!”

“War against whom, my brother?” asked Charles.

“Against whom? Alas! I fear, against my brother, if
he will not fight at my side. Against the white man!
First, against those who fell our trees and dig our grounds;
next against the army of King George. The royalists and
the rebels shall slaughter each other, and we will slay the
survivors.”

“Ha! ha! Brandt, you are mad!”

“I am. And there is no time for idle delay. Will the
White Eagle return with his brother to the lakes?”

“No; not if my brother intends to come back and
tomahawk my father. But I will go with him if he will
remain at peace.”

“Peace! My brother does not seem to know that the
Five—or rather the Six—Nations have already sounded the
warwhoop. Only a few trembling Cayugas and Oneidas
remain with their women. And the great tribes of the
West are echoing the scalp-halloo from the war-paths of the
mountains. The royal governors of Pennsylvania, New
Jersey, and New York, have sent us arms and money.”

“I feared so,” said Charles, despondingly.

“Feared, brother?”

“Not for myself.”

“Who, then?”

“You, and thy devoted race. My brother, our Great
Father over the broad water is a bad man. His armies
will be beaten. The Americans will triumph, and the poor
Indian be the last victim.”

“Farewell, my brother. The day is dawning. I go alone,
unless Shawuskukhkung will accompany me.”

“I will die in peace by the graves of my fathers on the
sea-shore,” said Wilted Grass, his head drooping on his
breast.

Just then a hailing halloo was heard in the valley below,
where the path diverged from the main road, and the party
in the camp became singularly excited at so unexpected a
salutation. It proceeded evidently from a party of Indians
or from men familiarly conversant with their mode of shouting.
Brandt answered it; and a few minutes after three
men—two Indians and a tall white man—came trotting up to
the encampment. The white man was the famous Simon
Girty, who had been dwelling among the Western Indians
since the French war, and had been taken prisoner about
the time of Braddock's defeat. The others were the chiefs
of the Shawnees and the Ottoways,—Cornstalk and Pontiac.

“And you will join your brother, I suppose?” said Girty,
in the English language, to young Cameron.

“I shall remain at home in peace, if possible,” said
Charles.

“It will not be possible. You must be with us or
against us. And you will have to decide without delay.
Already preparations are being made in every direction.
I am now returning by night marches from a conference
with Lord Dunmore, the Governor of Virginia, and with
messages for the Western tribes. A secret treaty has been
concluded with the Ottoways and Shawnees, and we are
authorized to engage the Creeks, Cherokees, Potowottomies,
Wyandots, and all the other powerful tribes, to fall upon
the rebels. And the rebels are about to appoint George
Washington their general. There will be stirring times—”

“I will not stir, if I can help it. I will not take up
arms against the colonists, who have demanded nothing

but justice from their oppressor. And, Girty,” he continued,
in a low tone, “beware what you do. You know,
I, too, was a prisoner, and have had an opportunity to
learn something of the intention of the Indians.”

“I know what you mean. They propose assisting the
British to destroy the Americans, and then exterminating
their ally. You and I are aware of the impossibility of
such a thing. But, if it were practicable, it would be our
best policy to become red men.”

“Once more, my brother,” said Brandt, approaching
Charles, “I ask you to go with us.”

“No!” said Charles.

“Then, farewell! But, if we should meet again in
bloody strife, still, let us remember we were brothers.”

“I would have it so, Thayendanegea. But I have no
desire to spill any man's blood, and I hope this war may
be smothered in its birth. I go to see my gray-haired
father; after that, I know not what I shall do. I did
hope to fish and hunt with my brother on the head-waters
of the Susquehanna. But such may not be if the scalp-halloo
reverberates through the valleys. Give this to the
Brown Thrush, my sister. Tell her the White Eagle will
dream of her, although he may not see her.”

Brandt opened the casket which had been placed in his
hand, and glanced at the jewels that were to adorn his
sister's brow and writs; and then, gazing silently and
long at his white brother, turned slowly away and joined
the departing guests, who had completed the scanty meal
which had been placed before them.

And Charles and his Delaware companion followed soon
after. They had not proceeded more than a mile, however,
when they beheld Brandt returning at a brisk pace.

“My brother,” said Brandt, “when the Brown Thrush
shall look upon these presents, she will wish to know how
long the White Eagle means to stay away. She will ask
me if thou art betrothed to the lovely Antelope of whom
thou hast written more than once. What shall Thayendanegea
say?”

“Say I am not betrothed to the fair maiden: only
that she was as kind to me as a sister, when I had no other
friend. I will see the Brown Thrush again; I know not
when. You can speak for me.'

“The Antelope is very beautiful. I have seen her.”

“When?”

“Last night. And I saw thy tokens. But I will not
tell my sister. She would be broken-hearted, and sing no
more. Farewell—if thou wilt not go with me.”

“Farewell!” said Charles, and the chief rode furiously
away.