Part 5

With savage yells some gathered round me, whilst others hastened to prepare the stake, and others to collect the implements of torture. I had seen the operation once in my life, and remembered it well. In that case, the victim was stripped naked and tied with a grape vine to the top of a pole, having a free range on the ground of ten or fifteen feet. At the foot of the pole was a flaming fire of pitch-pine, and each Indian held in his hand a small bundle of blazing reeds. The death-signal being given he was attacked on all sides, and driven to the pole for shelter; but, unable to endure the flames that scorched him there, he again rushed forth and was again driven back by his tormentors. When he became exhausted water was poured on him and a brief respite given, that he might recover strength for new endurements. The same scene was acted over again and again, until they had extracted the last thrill of anguish from his scorched and lacerated body.

Similar preparations were now making for me, and I watched them with shuddering interest as the fire was kindled and the faggots distributed. Just as they were about to drag me to the stake, however, Luten interposed. But all his appeals and entreaties were unheeded; and when at last he begged them, if they must have a victim, to take him and spare his young friend, Tamaque rudely repulsed him, and ordered him to be carried away to his tent. My last hope of escape was now extinguished, when lo! a figure glided suddenly into the arena, arresting the attention of all, as if she had been a messenger from Heaven. Can the daughter control these wild spirits who have rebelled against the authority of the father? She binds her white handkerchief round my arm, and then whispers in the ear of Tamaque. The words, whatever they are, act like a charm on him. His stern countenance relaxes almost into a smile, and he stands for some moments absorbed in meditation. Again she whispers a few earnest words; upon which he comes forward, takes me by the arm, and leads me, in silence, to the outskirts of the encampment.

“Now go!” he cried, pointing toward the east; “you are indebted for your freedom to one I love better than you. See that you make a good use of it; for, if you should be retaken, and brought here again, not even _her_ entreaties shall save you from the torture. Away! and here,” he continued, handing me a red belt, “bear to the false-hearted cowards you came from this token of the hatred and defiance of Tamaque and his warriors.” He waved his hand to prevent my replying, and stalked away.

I was now free, but by no means satisfied with the manner in which my liberty had been procured. What meant this mysterious influence of a fair young Christian girl over a haughty savage chieftain? What were those whispered words which had wrought the sudden charm? Had she yielded to some request, or given some pledge in order to make her prayer effectual? My mind was racked with torments scarce less poignant than those which just before had threatened to assail my body. I resolved at all hazards to see the end of it; and, therefore, in defiance of fire and faggot, concealed myself at a point close by, which commanded a full view of the neighborhood.

I had not been long in my hiding place when I saw a procession, with Tamaque at its head, move from the camp in the direction of this mountain. I conjectured at once that they were coming here to consult the conjurer, and resolved to follow them. When they had descended the face of the precipice to the spot where we are now sitting, I crept cautiously forward on the rock above, and found myself in full hearing of their consultation.

“How often have I warned you,” said the conjurer, “against the teachings of the white men. I told you they only wished to rob you of your courage that they might destroy you the more easily; but you refused to listen to me.”

“Well, well,” said Tamaque, “that is past; there is no help for it now. Let us talk of the future.”

“Last year,” continued the conjurer, “when no game was to be found, and when the corn all withered away, I told you the Great Spirit was angry because you were forsaking the customs of your fathers; but you turned a deaf ear to my words.”

“I remember it all,” said Tamaque, “but go on, and tell us of the future.”

“They promised you,” persisted the conjurer, “that if you would worship their God you should go to their heaven when you died. I told you that your spirits and theirs could never live in peace in the same spirit-land; but you would not believe me.”

“Come, come, I am tired of this,” said Tamaque.

“No forests, no rivers, no deer, no hunting and no war,” continued the conjurer, “what would the Indian warrior do in the white man’s heaven?”

“Cease your babbling!” cried Tamaque, in a tone no longer to be disregarded. “If you can foretell our fortunes in this war speak; if not, out on your boasted wisdom!”

The conjurer seemed to feel that it was necessary to come to the point. After a long pause, he asked:

“What have you done with the white stranger that came to your camp last evening?”

The old impostor had no doubt seen me at the same time I had seen him as I crossed the mountain, but he was determined to make a mystery of it. Tamaque seemed puzzled.

“How did you know of his coming?” he inquired.

“Tamaque doubts the conjurer’s wisdom,” he replied.

“No!” said Tamaque, “you would not tell me what I come to hear. Go on, now, and I’ll believe you.”

“Has the stranger been put to death?”

“He is gone,” said Tamaque.

“It was wrong,” said the conjurer; “he should have died at the stake. The Great Spirit calls for a sacrifice. The missionary and his daughter must die.”

“No!” said Tamaque, “it is impossible.”

“It must be so,” replied the conjurer; “they must die before sunset.”

“It cannot be,” said Tamaque firmly; “command me to do any thing but that.”

“I command you to do that,” replied the conjurer, “or I will call down confusion on your war-party.”

“I tell you,” said Tamaque fiercely, “they shall not die. Say no more about it.”

“Obstinate man!” said the conjurer, “you dare not disobey me. They shall die, and you shall kindle the fire beneath them.”

Tamaque now sprang forward and seized the conjurer by the throat. “Villain!” he exclaimed, “I warned you to speak of that no more. Name it again, and I will toss you headlong down the mountain.”

Finding that Tamaque could not be overawed, the wily conjurer now changed his tactics.

“You might safely spare them,” he said, “on one condition; but I dare not name it.”

“Go on,” said Tamaque, “you have nothing to fear, if you do not speak of their death.”

“The anger of Tamaque is dangerous,” continued the conjurer; “and who can tell what words will rouse it?”

“No, no!” said Tamaque mildly, “I will hear you patiently; and if you require me even to leap down this dizzy precipice, I’ll obey you.”

“Listen, then,” said the conjurer; “and if my words sound harsh in your ears,” said the old hypocrite, “let not your anger be kindled. They shall live if you choose, but then the white maiden must become Tamaque’s wife.”

I was looking over, at the moment, from the rock above, full at Tamaque. He started convulsively; his whole frame shook with emotion; whilst a gleam of joy absolutely lighted up his dark features. My own sensations were not less violent, perhaps, though somewhat different in their character.

After a pause Tamaque asked, in a tone of affected indifference:

“If I consent to this, do you promise success to our expedition?”

“Yes,” said the conjurer, “you will conquer all your foes, and reestablish the power and glory of the red man. Behold! a vision of the future rises up before me. I see Tamaque great and powerful, the ruler over many nations; and far off, for many generations, I see his children’s children walking in his footsteps.”

“Your words are good,” said Tamaque.

“So will be your deeds,” said the conjurer. “Strike boldly, and fear nothing.”

“Tamaque knows no fear,” replied the haughty chief. “To-morrow he will go forth with his warriors, and thus will he rush upon the foe.” As he spoke he heaved from its resting place a huge fragment of rock, which bounded down the mountain roaring and smoking, and crushing all before it, until, with a loud plunge, it disappeared beneath the bubbling waters.

I had now heard and seen enough; and there was no time to be lost if I wished to save _her_ from—from what? Confusion on the thought! My head reeled, and I came near falling down amongst them. But I soon rallied, and made all possible haste to reach the camp before Tamaque.

Suddenly, as I emerged from a clump of trees yonder on the bank of the creek, I saw her whom I sought close before me, kneeling on a mound of earth,—doubtless her mother’s grave. I stood entranced, and listened, in spite of myself, to the broken sentences which she uttered aloud.

“And save, oh, merciful Father,” she murmured, “save his white hairs from the dangers which surround us.” Her filial words here became inaudible. The next sentence that reached my ears related to a different person. “May thy powerful arm protect us from the cruel rage, and the still more cruel love of that dreadful man!” My jealous ears drank in these words with ecstasy. They were a balm to my wounded spirit; a compensation for all my sufferings. Again she spoke aloud: “And him, the stranger, who wanders, unprotected, through the wilderness; oh! guard his steps from harm, and grant, in thine own good time, that—” her voice now died away into a gentle whisper. When it rose again she was saying, “And for me, in mercy, give thy unhappy child, here, in this hallowed spot, a peaceful grave.” I began to feel that my listening, however inadvertent, was little less than sacrilege; and, therefore, quietly stole away out of hearing.

As soon as I discovered that she had risen to her feet, I again drew near. Great was her surprise and consternation at seeing me.

“Oh! why do you linger here,” she cried. “You should, ere this, be far on your way toward home. Fly instantly, and look not behind you; for, if you should be taken by these cruel savages no human power can save you from a dreadful doom.”

“I know that well,” I replied; “but can you think me so careful of my own life as to run away and leave you to their tender mercies?”

“Fear nothing for me,” she said; “they do not rank me among their enemies, and will not harm me.”

“But although you may be safe from their hatred, have you nothing to fear from their friendship?” said I.

The tide of confusion mounted to her brow at these words, and she trembled in every limb. But, quickly recovering herself, she said: “Come what may, I share the fate of my father.”

“But go,” said I, “bring your father quickly, and we will all escape together.”

“No,” said she, sadly, “he is old and feeble; his absence would soon be noticed; they would certainly pursue us, and easily overtake us.”

I could make no reply to this, for I knew that we could not take her father with us, and I felt sure that she would not go without him. With the dogged resolution of despair, therefore, I said:

“Your own fidelity teaches me my duty. I shall remain in these woods to watch over your safety. Seek not to change my purpose. Better endure all the torments these fiends can inflict than the shame and remorse I should suffer if I left you.”

I spoke in a tone that could leave no doubt of my sincerity or firmness. She evidently felt it so, and stood for some minutes with her eyes fixed on the ground in silent meditation. Then, at length, raising her head, she abruptly asked:

“Can you paddle a canoe?”

I replied that I could with considerable skill.

“Then go down immediately to the mouth of the creek,” she continued; “I will bring my father there, and it is possible that we may yet escape across the river. It is worth the trial, at least, and is our only hope.”

I hastened to the place designated, where I found two canoes moored to the shore. In a few minutes Mary appeared, almost dragging her father along. When the old man understood our purpose he refused to get into the boat.

“No,” said he, “I cannot leave these poor children, whom I have so long taught and prayed for. Deserted by their pastor, they would soon return to their old habits, and the labor of long years would lose all its fruits.”

“But, sir,” I replied, “they have already withdrawn themselves from your authority. You cannot safely remain amongst them, for they now regard all white men as their enemies.”

“I will stay,” he answered, “and bring them back to the fold from which they are wandering, or else lay down my life among them.”

“But your daughter,” I continued; “surely this is now no place for her. Come! let us place her in safety, and then, if you choose, you can return.” I saw that he hesitated; and so, taking him by the arm, I led him, with gentle violence, into the canoe.

“Are these the only canoes at the station?” I asked.

Being answered in the affirmative, I directed Luten to hold fast to the empty one, and then pushed off from the shore. My intention was to cut off pursuit by carrying the empty canoe some distance into the stream and then setting her adrift. The river was then about at its present height, and dashed over these rapids with the same violence as now. It was certain that no boat could drift through them without being swamped or broken to pieces.

Accordingly, when we had attained what I thought a sufficient distance from the shore, I directed Luten to let go his hold. Scarcely had he done so when a shriek from Mary, whose face was turned toward the shore, was immediately followed by a plunge, and then another, into the water.

“It is Tamaque and another Indian,” she exclaimed, “and they are swimming for the empty canoe.” I cast a hasty glance behind me, and saw all the peril of our position; but I had no time for making observations. My business was to ply the paddle.

“Now,” continued Mary, “they have almost reached it; and now they have caught—but see! they have upset it in trying to climb in. No! it has come right again; and now Tamaque has got in safely, and is dragging his companion after him. But it is too late; they are almost at the falls, and they cannot stem the current. Look! Merciful Heaven, they will go over, and be drowned!”

Obeying the gentler impulses of her nature, she thought only of their danger, forgetting that _that_ was our only chance of escape.

“Oh! how they do struggle for their lives,” she continued; “and now they are standing still—no, they are moving—they are coming—faster and faster—they are coming toward us!”

I again looked back for a moment, and, truly, they were coming, and evidently gaining on us. Luten meanwhile sat in the bottom of the canoe in a fit of total abstraction.

“I will not leave them, nor return from following after them,” he muttered; “they have gone astray, but I will bring them back, and they shall yet be the instruments, under God, of regenerating the whole Indian race.”

But the state of things was now becoming critical, and Mary cried out in terror:

“Oh, father, help!—take that other paddle and help, or we are lost.”

The old man roused himself up, took the paddle, and went to work in the bow of the canoe. But he was unskilled in the business, and did more harm than good. I begged him to desist, but he only replied by increasing his well meant exertions. At length, however, he rocked the boat, and threw her out of her course so badly, that I was obliged to command him, peremptorily, to sit down; and he was soon again lost in meditation.

Meanwhile our pursuers were rapidly gaining on us. Under the guidance of her two powerful and well-trained workmen, their canoe bounded forward at every sweep of the paddles like a race-horse. I now saw that it was all over with us. We were still a long way from shore, and they were almost upon us. Nor could it avail us any thing even if we should succeed in landing first. They would capture us on the land if they did not on the water. My heart sickened at the thought. To me captivity would bring unutterable torments; and to my innocent and lovely companion a fate still more deplorable. Was there any alternative? I looked the whole subject steadily in the face for one minute, and then my resolution was taken. With a single dexterous sweep of the paddle I brought the head of the canoe directly down stream, and then urged her forward toward the roaring cataract. Tamaque uttered a loud yell of rage and disappointment; and, the same moment, his tomahawk whizzed by within an inch of my head. But the current now drew us on with fearful rapidity. Mary sat pale and silent, gazing anxiously in my face; whilst her father continued unconscious of all that was passing. Now and then I could hear his voice amid the tumult of the dashing breakers mournfully bewailing the apostacy of his neophytes.

We had now reached the very brink of the foaming precipice, when my eye caught a narrow streak of blue water, which evidently descended in a gradual slope. I directed the canoe toward it, and she went down, plunging, I thought, entirely under; but she rose again filled with water, but still afloat. I threw my hat to Mary; and, whilst I kept the canoe steady in her course with one hand, I seized my hat in the other and commenced bailing. In a few minutes all danger of sinking was removed. We had now a free course before us, and an impassible barrier (so it was deemed) between us and our pursuers. We felt that we were safe;—all but Luten; to whom our danger and our safety seemed equally indifferent. His thoughts were far away in the land of dreams, where he had so long dwelt, and from which he would not yet depart. We spoke to him, but he made no answer. At length his head began to sink slowly down, and Mary hastened to support it. An ashy paleness now came over his features; his breathing grew short and difficult, and his mutterings became inaudible; except once, when the name of Tamaque trembled on his lips. Then his eyes became fixed; his lips ceased to move; his hand dropped heavily down at his side; and now,—the hot tears that rain from the eyes of his dutiful child fall on the brow of death.

It was now near sundown; and when we reached the nearest white settlement it was near morning. There we buried Luten; and his daughter being now an orphan, and without a protector in the world, why, of course,—but I need not relate what followed. Suffice it to say that I was no longer jealous of Tamaque, but even felt a pang of regret when I heard, soon after, that he had fallen in battle.

* * * * *

THE RECONCILIATION.

BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

The midnight shadows deepen on, the earth is still and lone, And starry lamps in heaven’s blue hall are fading one by one, For cold gray clouds wreathe o’er them like a dim and misty veil, And through their foldings peers the moon—a spirit wan and pale.

As far away the gentle breeze is sighing mournfully It seems a murmur from the shore of olden memory, And while its cadence floats afar _thy voice_ I seem to hear— Like music in some troubled dream it steals upon my ear.

My heart beats faster as the sound fades out upon the night, And pants to drink again that tone of rapture and delight; At such an hour it cannot deem that voice is cold and strange, In such an hour it will forget that hearts like thine can change.

No—never, it shall _not_ be so—the thought is burning pain, Which like the levin’s blighting fire comes crushing through my brain; It cannot be our friendship’s bright and glowing dream is o’er, It must not be that we _shall meet_ as we _have met_ no more.

Have I offended?—then _forgive_—’twill be the nobler part— And oh, _forget_ that I have wronged thy warm and generous heart, For careless words though lightly said come keenly to the mind, To chill its glowing depths with tones like winter’s frozen wind.

Ah! “cast the shadow” from thy heart, and mine shall glow with thine In purer flames, whose fairy gleams in rainbow beauty shine, Its thoughts of thee shall brighten then though all around be sad, Its every dream of thee be sweet—its every vision glad—

* * * * *

UNHAPPY LOVE.

BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.

’Tis vain, ’tis vain, these idle tears! Thou art far distant now; No more, oh never more my lips May press thy pale, sweet brow; And yet I cannot, cannot burst The deep and holy spell that first Bade my strong spirit bow With all of passion’s hopes and fears Before thee in our happier years.

Those eves of love, those blessed eves— Their memory still comes back A glory and a benison O’er life’s bewildering track, Their light has vanished from our lot Like meteor-gleams and left us—what? The sigh, the tear, the rack! And yet upon their visions blest Still love can turn and sink to rest.

I know thou lovest me, I know Thine eyes with tears are dim, I know that stricken love still chants To thee its mournful hymn; I know the shadows of love’s dream In the deep waves of memory’s stream Like soft star-shadows swim; But oh! the fiend of wild unrest Is raging in my tortured breast.

Forgive me, gentle one, forgive My burning dreams of thee; Forgive me that I dare to let Forbidden thoughts go free; My torrent-passions madly sweep On, darkly on, and will not sleep But in death’s silent sea; And I—a mouldering wreck—am still The victim of their stormy will.

Ah, dear one, suns will rise and set, And moons will wax and wane, The seasons come and go, but we Must never meet again; That thought, whene’er I hear thy name, Is like a wild and raging flame Within my heart and brain; But none, save thee, shall ever know The secret of my living wo.

Oft at the sunset’s holy time, Our spirits’ trysting hour, I wander to commune with thee Beneath the wildwood bower; And o’er me there thy tone of love, Like the low moaning of a dove, Steals with a soothing power; ’Tis gone—my voice in anguish calls, But silence on the desert falls.

I gaze on yon sweet moon as erst We gazed on that dear night When our deep, parting vows were said Beneath its mournful light; And then with tones, low, sweet and clear, Thou breathest in my ravished ear And risest on my sight— I call thee, but the woods around With mocking voice repeat the sound.

I look on each memento dear, The tress, the flower, the ring, And these thy sweet and gentle form Back to my spirit bring; I seem to live past raptures o’er, Our hands, our hearts, our lips once more In one wild pressure cling— It fades—I mourn the vision flown And start to find myself alone.