Traditions of the North American Indians Volume III Part 12

But why did not the Indians approach? She listened, looked around, and soon saw them flying with the speed of frighted deer across the s.p.a.ce of cleared land, illuminated by the bright glare, to the covert of the wood. She did not pause to consider what had caused their flight; but, obeying that instinct which bids us shun the present danger, perhaps to encounter a greater more remote, she sprang from the tree, and rushed towards the river. She recollected a spot where the bank projected, beneath which, during the summer months, the bed of the river was nearly dry; there she should, at least, be secure from the fire.

And there she sheltered herself. Her feet were immersed in water, and she stood in a stooping posture to screen herself from observation, should the Indians return to seek her. In the mean time, her little boy slumbered peacefully, and regardless of surrounding perils. None of her fears or dangers disturbed his repose; and, when the morning light allowed her to gaze on his sweet face, lit up by the smiles of infantile joy, as he beheld the maternal eyes beaming love upon him, tears of bliss and thankfulness flowed fast down her cheeks that she had been enabled thus to shield that dear innocent from death.

Soon after the sun had risen she heard sounds as of people approaching, and soon recognised the voices of her friends from the garrison. She was conveyed, with her child, to the fort, which her husband had left, she learned, about sunset the preceding evening.

Nothing was known, or could be discovered, of his fate; no track nor trace remained to show whether he was to be reckoned among the dead or the living.

The husband of her, whose escape from the wrath of red men I have related to the Iroquois, was returning from the fort to his own habitation, soon after the damps of evening were abroad on the earth.

He was joyous and merry at the thought of embracing his beloved wife and child, and whistled and sang, as he went, like a lark in the morning. Just as he was entering the edge of a deep valley, which lay between his cabin and the protected dwellings of his friends, four Pequods rushed from the thick woods upon him. One of them seized his rifle before he had time to use it; while another struck him a blow on the head with his tomahawk, which deprived him of recollection, until near the return of the light.

When he did recover, he found himself lying at the foot of a tree, his hands bound, and an Indian guarding him. All efforts to escape he found would be vain, and he silently submitted to his fate. About mid-day the other three of his captors joined the one who guarded him, and, after conversing hastily a few moments, they began a hurried march. The prisoner perceived one of them examining him often and attentively, viewing him in various situations, apparently endeavouring to make out a recognition of one formerly known. At length, on the fourth day, as he was alone with the prisoner, he seated himself upon the smooth sward, and, bidding the other do the same, he addressed him in the following language:--

"Listen!"

"I listen," said the prisoner.

"Where hadst thou thy dwelling-place when thine arm was first able to bend a healthy sprout of a single season, and thy heart first began to count upon its strength to look upon the glaring eye-ball of a mad wolf?"

"Far from here," answered the prisoner, his eyes filling with tears, and sighs bursting from his heart, at the image of youthful love and bliss recalled to his mind by the allusion to his birth-place. "Upon the bank of a distant river, more than three suns travel from the spot where I became the captive of the red man."

"White men have forked tongues," answered the Pequod; "but thou shalt mark it out on the smooth surface of the white birch, that my memory may tell me if thou hast spoken true."

The prisoner, with a piece of coal taken from their fire, marked out the dwelling in which he resided at the period alluded to by the Indian. He seemed satisfied.

"It is well," said he. "Now show me the cabin to which thou wert going, when the red man paid a small part of his debt of vengeance on thy race, by taking thee captive."

The prisoner made a second drawing, representing his little field and his cabin, including the chesnut-tree.

"Was there another bird in the nest of thy father when thy soul first began to feel the proud confidence and conciousness of approaching manhood?" demanded the Pequod, eyeing him intently.

"There was," answered the captive--"a little maiden."

"And where is that bird now?"

"She is the wife of my bosom. _Is_, did I say--Alas! she may not be living--she has undoubtedly perished by the hands of the accursed beings who fired my dwelling, and chained the feet that would have carried me, with the speed of a deer, to her side--and bound the hands that would have unsheathed the sword of vengeance for her rescue."

The Indian made no answer to this burst of pa.s.sion, but looked for a moment kindly and compa.s.sionately on the poor captive, and then relapsed into silence.

Early the next morning, the prisoner was awakened by the same man, who motioned him to rise and follow him. The rest of the party were not in sight. He obeyed, and they set out on their return, retracing their steps with the ease and accuracy, which, in every clime, belong to the forest hunter. Travelling rapidly, in silence, for two days, they found themselves on the morning of the third on the banks of his own river, the dark rolling Merrimack. Before the sun had reached the highest part of the heavens, they came to a little hill, well and fondly remembered by the affectionate husband, though now conveying agonizing hopes and fears. It overlooked the little valley where once his cabin stood, and where the ripe wheat still bowed itself, in graceful undulations, before the light breeze of summer; and the mighty chesnut-tree, blackened by the smoke of his burning dwelling, still looked with lordly pride on all its less stately neighbours. "My wife!" he said, in an almost inaudible voice.

"Thy bird will meet thee on another bough," exclaimed the warrior. "A crust of bread, and a drink of cold water, offered to a famished Indian--a tear of pity, and a sigh of compa.s.sion, saved her and thee."

And his own dusky countenance exhibited a touch of feeling but seldom suffered to cross the face of him who deems it dishonour to betray an emotion of pity, or compa.s.sion, or grat.i.tude, or love(1).

"I do not understand you," said the white man, prisoner no longer.

"Listen," said the warrior--"The son of Annawan was caught, with the dove of his nest and her squab, far from his own dwelling, and among the men of thy colour. Thy race had killed or driven away the beasts of the chace; and there was nothing upon which the red archer could show the sleight of his hand and the truth of his eye. White men would give him no food, but drove him from their cabins, saying, 'You are an Indian.' At the door of thy father--"

"He was not my father," interrupted the other; "he was the brother of my mother."

"At the door of the brother of thy mother hard words were showered on the poor red man, and he was bidden to seek elsewhere the food for which his soul panted--not that he might eat it himself, but bestow it upon his famished wife and sick babe. Listen!

"There was a little maiden sitting at the door of the cabin--she was not grown to womanhood, nor dreamed yet of tender lovers--she was a fawn in its second season, a tree wanting but a few more suns to be clothed with the blossoms of maturity. By her side sat a boy, who might be two or three harvests older. The little maiden rose from the smooth sward where she sat, and throwing her white arms around the neck of her father, begged hard for the strangers. The boy came, and joined her in her prayers. The hardhearted man granted to the entreaties of his children what compa.s.sion would not bestow. The Indian was fed--his wife was fed--his babe was fed. Dost thou hear?"

"I hear," said the delighted hunter, grasping the hand of the n.o.ble warrior, while tears streamed down his sun-burnt cheek.

"That boy was the prisoner, whom the Pequods, four suns since, carried away from yonder vale--and the famished hunter was he who unbound thy limbs, and who saved that compa.s.sionate maiden, by the song he poured into the ears of his brothers, of an angry spirit, seen by the light of the blazing cabin among the boughs of the chesnut-tree.

"Learn, pale face, that an Indian can be grateful. A crust of bread, and a draught of water, bestowed upon the red man, or those he loves, weigh down the memory of a thousand wrongs--a kind look dispels the frown from his brow--a kind word checks the purpose of vengeance, which, unchecked, is like a fire carried by a high wind to a field of dry gra.s.s. Thou and thine did me a deed of kindness--preserved the life of her whose bright eyes are the light of my cabin--and of the boy who will, one day, bend the bow of a hunter, and be taught to utter the cry of vengeance on the hills--fear not, thou art safe in the land whence his fathers were banished. Thou and thine did this for the Son of Annawan, the Fleet Foot of his tribe, and he will never forget it--till the stars forget to shine, and the moon to become the lamp of the dark hours. Say, in the ears of the Fair Hair that I gave her cabin to the devouring flames, before I knew it was hers. But the season will soon come when the beaver will be sleek and glossy; and an otter worth more than an arrow--the spoils of the Fleet Foot's winter hunt shall rebuild the cabin of the flower of the the pale faces."

So saying, the Son of Annawan, the great chief, who once was the lord of those boundless regions, disappeared in the forest, and was seen no more among white men.

NOTE.

_Pity, or compa.s.sion, or grat.i.tude, or love._--p. 270.

The Indians are extremely cool and circ.u.mspect in every word and action; there is nothing that hurries them into any intemperate warmth, but that inveteracy to their enemies, which is rooted in every Indian heart, and can never be eradicated. In all other instances they are cool, and remarkably cautious, taking care not to betray on any account their emotions. If an Indian has discovered that a friend is in danger of being intercepted and cut off by one to whom he has rendered himself obnoxious, he does not inform him in plain and explicit terms of the danger he runs by pursuing the track near which the enemy lies in wait for him, but he drily asks him which way he is going that day, and, having received his answer, with the same indifference tells him that he has been informed that a dog lies near the spot, which might probably do him a mischief. This hint proves sufficient.

This apathy often shows itself on occasions that would call forth the fervour of a susceptible heart. If an Indian has been absent from his family and friends many months, either on a war or hunting party, when his wife or children meet him at some distance from his habitation, instead of the affectionate sensations that would naturally arise in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of more refined beings, and be productive of mutual congratulations, he continues his course without paying the least attention to those who surround him, till he arrives at his home.

He there sits down, and, with the same unconcern as if he had not been absent a day, smokes his pipe; those of his acquaintance who have followed him do the same, and perhaps it is several hours before he relates to them the incidents which have befallen him during his absence, though perhaps he has left a father, brother, or son, on the field, whose loss he ought to have lamented.

Has an Indian been engaged for several days in the chace, and by accident continued long without food, when he arrives at the tent of a friend, where he knows his wants may be immediately supplied, he takes care not to show the least symptom of impatience, or to betray the extreme hunger by which he is tortured; but, on being invited in, sits contentedly down, and smokes his pipe with as much composure as if every appet.i.te was allayed, and he was perfectly at ease; he does the same among strangers.

If you tell an Indian that his children have greatly signalized themselves against an enemy, have taken many scalps, and brought home many prisoners, he does not appear to feel any extraordinary pleasure on the occasion; his answer generally is, "It is well," and he makes very little further enquiry about it. On the contrary, if you inform him that his children are slain, or taken prisoners, he makes no complaints; he only replies, "It does not signify," and probably, for some time at least, asks not how it happened.

Their constancy in suffering pain exceeds any thing known of any other people. Nothing is more common than to see persons of all ages, and of both s.e.xes, suffer for many hours, and sometimes many days, together, the sharpest effects of fire, and all that the most ingenious cruelty can invent to make it most painful, without letting a sigh escape.

Accustomed from their youth to innumerable hardships, they soon become superior to a sense of danger, or the dread of death, and their fort.i.tude, implanted by nature, and nurtured by example, by precept, and by accident, never experiences a moment's allay.

V. THE CASCADE OF MELSINGAH.

The next night the ghost related to his eager listener the following tradition:--

A very long time ago, many ages before the feet of a white man had left their print on these sh.o.r.es, or the voice of his axe had been heard singing the song of destruction to the woods of our fathers, there dwelt in the Cascade of Melsingah, having his residence by daylight in the wave, and by night on the high rock which stood in its centre, a Spirit much reverenced by all the Indian nations. He was often seen by the Indian hunter, who pa.s.sed that way soon after the going down of the sun. When seen at that hour, he appeared under the figure of a tall and mighty warrior, with abundance of the gray plumes of the eagle on his head, and a gray robe of wolf-skin thrown around him, standing upright upon his rock in front of the waterfalls. In the day time his appearance was more equivocal. Those who supposed they saw him saw something swimming about the cascade, as a frog swims under the surface. But none were ever permitted to behold him near, and face to face. As the observer drew nigh, the figure gradually disappeared, sinking into a kind of fog or mist; and in its place he found only the white sheet of water that poured over the rock, falling heavily among the gathering shadows into the pool below. Sometimes, also, but more rarely, he was seen in the early twilight before sun-rise, preparing to retreat from the fountain; and fortunate was the hunter to whom he showed himself at that hour, for it was an omen of success in the chace. None of the spirits of the surrounding country were oftener beheld in dreams by the Indians that made their haunts above the mountains; and, when the forms of the dead from the land of souls came to their friends in the visions of night, they were often led by the hand of the gigantic warrior in the wolf-skin and the eagle-plumes. He was never known to inflict personal injury on any one, and, therefore, was always considered as a kind and beneficent genius, who would befriend mortals in all cases of distress, and loved to behold them peaceful and happy.

Several generations have pa.s.sed away--trees that were young and thrifty have become aged and mossy; and men have forgotten the number of the moons that have pa.s.sed since there lived among the tribe who owned the broad lands above the mountains[A], whose banks frown upon the rapid river, a beautiful maiden, the daughter of a proud chief, whose name has not reached my time. But this we are told, that he was the greatest warrior of his day, fierce as the panther, and cunning as the fox; and she more beautiful than the sky lit up with stars, and gentler than a summer day, or a young fawn. She had lost her mother in early childhood; and, ere the suns of ten seasons had beamed on her head, her father, who loved her tenderly, and had brought her up not to do the tasks which are generally allotted to Indian women and girls, fell by the hand of disease, and she was left alone. A remembrance of his affection, and of the agony she felt, and of the deep tears she shed, at his loss, infused into her heart a softness and pity which continued through life, and rendered her ever after an unwilling witness of the scenes of fire and torture to which the customs of war among her countrymen gave occasion. When her beloved, and to her, kind father, left the earth for the land of spirits, she lived in the lodges of the older warriors who had been his companions in arms and brother councillors in the cabin where men met to debate on war and peace. Not in the cabins of the aged alone was she met with joy. She was welcomed wherever she went with kindness and affection; endeared to them as she was by the memory of the wise and brave warrior, her father, and by her own gentle disposition. When they spoke of her, they likened her, in their language, to whatever was most beautiful, harmless, and timid, among the animals--the fawn of the wood, the yellow bird of the glades, a spring wind sweeping over a field of gra.s.s, a dove that had found its long absent mate.

[Footnote A: The pa.s.sage of the Highlands on the Hudson.]

The beautiful maiden, of whom I am telling my brother, had beheld in her childhood, when her foot was little, and her heart trembling, the Cascade of Melsingah, and the form of the Manitou had once been revealed to her, as the evening was setting in, standing in his wolf-skin robes before the waterfall. After that she saw him often in her dreams, and, when she came to that age at which the children of the forest choose their protecting spirit, she chose for her's the Spirit of the Cascade of Melsingah. It was not long before a circ.u.mstance took place which strengthened her reverence and that of her people for the good Spirit, and proved the interest he took in the welfare of his beautiful charge.

One day she went alone to his abode, to pay him her customary offerings in behalf of herself, the friends she loved, and her nation; she carried in her hand a broad belt of wampum, and a white honeycomb from the hollow oak; and on her way she stopped and plaited a garland of the gayest flowers of the season. On arriving at the spot, she went down into the narrow little glen, through which the brook flowed before it poured itself over the rock, and, standing near the edge, she dropped her gifts, one by one, into the current which instantly carried them to the waterfall. The pool, into which the water descends, was deeper than it is now; the continual crumbling and falling of the rocks from above, for many an age, having partially filled up the deep blue basin. The stream, too, at that time, had been lately swelled by profuse rains, and rushed down the precipice with a heavier torrent, and a louder noise, than she had ever known it to do before. In approaching more nearly to the edge, and looking down to see what had become of her offerings, she incautiously set her foot on a stone covered with the slimy deposit of the brook; it slipped, and she was precipitated headlong with the torrent into the pool below.