Part 7

“It was a bright afternoon in September, and Mary had taken her knitting-work and was sitting beside her mother’s arm-chair at the door of their cottage; but she could not work, for her eyes were continually wandering off in the direction of the Seekonk road; and, at every waving of the trees, or the least unusual sound, she would start from her seat, and say, ‘They are coming!’ and then run to make some addition, or alteration, to the furniture of a small round table, white as snow which was spread with bowls and spoons, brown bread and baked apples, and a pan of new milk; and then, returning to the door, she would expect to find them near; but when she looked in every direction, she saw only the few quiet looking houses of the Plantation—the wide and almost unbroken forest, and the broad road before her—but no father or brother. She had repeated this act several times, and at each successive one she was more sure that they were coming; until, at last, the continued disappointment was more than she could bear; and, clinging round her mother’s neck, she burst into tears.

“Mr. Gray and William had sent word, by some men belonging to the town, that they should be at home the night before, and they had not come. Might not some terrible accident have happened?

“Mrs. Gray had been sitting silently, with her arms folded upon her breast, struggling within herself to bear the approaching trial as became a Christian; for she knew better than Mary did how full of disappointment life is, and she knew also that the times were peculiarly uncertain and hazardous. She had appeared calm, notwithstanding, for she did not wish to check the fond anticipations of Mary; but when she saw that even she could not hope any longer—when she felt the sweet child weeping upon her breast, for an instant her calmness forsook her, and she wept with Mary.

“‘Do _you_ believe, mother, they will not come?’ sobbed the child; ‘do _you_ believe they will not come to-night?’ And shaking away the curls from her face, and a flood of tears with them, she looked upon her mother as if she would read her thoughts before she spoke.

“‘They will come, my child,’ said Mrs. Gray, speaking with much difficulty; ‘they will come when it is God’s pleasure;’ and putting the child from her arms, she went to her room and shut herself in, for her distress was so great that she could not bear to have Mary see it.

“The child, being left to herself, wept without restraint; but still she did not actually believe that her father and brother would not come very soon, and she dried her tears and thought she would run out a little way on the Seekonk road, and perhaps she might meet them. When she had got a little way from the house she saw a person approaching, and she hastened along, hoping to hear something of her father and brother; and when she got near she saw it was Rachel. Mary was very glad, for she had not seen Rachel for a long time, and she knew the Indian woman was a good friend to her, so she ran toward her and put her little arms around her; but her heart was so full she could not speak. Rachel did not know her at first; but when she saw that it was Mary, she held her in her arms, repeating, all the while, some words in the Indian tongue, which Mary knew were a kind of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit.

“‘Child, I was seeking thee!’ she said, at last, in imperfect English; ‘I have bad news—thy brother is fallen among his enemies!’

“‘Will not my brother come home?’ said the child, bursting into tears; ‘will he never come home? Is he dead?’

“‘He is yet alive,’ replied Rachel, ‘but his hours are counted. This night he is to die!’’

“‘Where is he? Let me go to him!’ said the child.

“‘It was for that very purpose I came to thee. For thy sake he may yet live—he is in the hands of Anawon.’

“‘O, let us go this instant! Let us run! Let us fly!’ said Mary, seizing the hand of Rachel; and she ran forward a few steps—then, stopping short, she said, ‘I must run back and tell mother; I cannot go without telling her!’

“‘Thou must not go back,’ said Rachel; ‘let her not know his danger till it is over—if thy brother lives, we will return with the earliest light; if he dies, it will be soon enough to break her heart—as mine is broken,’ she added, beating her breast, while her eyes shone like fire.

“‘I cannot go,’ sobbed Mary, ‘I cannot go without telling mother.’

“‘Then thy brother will die!’ said Rachel; ‘then he will die—they are singing the death-song! The fire is kindling now!’

“‘O let us go then!’ said the child, with a piercing cry, ‘let us hurry! let us go!’

“‘The pledge of Anawon, is it about thee, child?’ asked Rachel; and Mary drew from her pocket the bracelet of the chief; and they went on.

“Their way lay directly through the woods. Mary’s poor, little, bare feet, were dreadfully scratched with the briers; and she was so tired with running, and hurrying, and crying, that sometimes Rachel was obliged to take her up and carry her. At length it grew very dark; and, at first, Mary could hardly tell where to step; but when she got used to it she did not mind it at all—for she was not thinking of herself, but of her father, and mother, and brother.

“After they had gone several miles they saw a light at a great distance: and, when they came near, they saw it was a large fire—and when they got still nearer, they saw a great many Indians, with painted faces and tomahawks in their hands, dancing about it, singing, and shouting, and uttering terrible cries.

“One of the Indians, who was stationed to keep watch, saw little Mary and her guide; and as soon as he knew Rachel he shouted ‘Namoina!’ And all immediately rested their tomahawks on the ground, and, ceasing to sing and dance, they awaited her approach with all the respect due to the daughter of so mighty a chief as Anawon.

“Mary Wallace saw but one thing. As the ring opened she beheld her brother standing in the midst, beside a large pile of light fuel, which was all ready to be kindled; his hands were bound behind him and his head was bent down. Mary gave one spring, and, fearing not the terrible looking men around her, she bounded to the side of William; and clinging round his neck, she sobbed as if her little heart was breaking. William was pale as death when he saw Mary. A few hot tears fell on his cheek; but he spoke not; he bowed his head upon her neck awhile—and then his heart was melted—and he sobbed aloud. This relieved him, and he whispered, ‘Sister, wipe my tears away and leave me—thou must not see me die.’

‘Thou wilt not die! Thou shalt not!’ said Mary, wringing her hands; and, losing all fear, but that of her brother’s death, she ran wildly from one to another crying out, ‘Will my brother die? must William die?’

“Anawon, who sat apart on a rock higher than those around, saw and heard the tumult; but he knew not its cause; and, in a deep and somewhat angry tone of voice, he gave orders for the noise to be hushed, and the awful ceremonies of death to be resumed. In an instant the place was still—and then a low murmur ran among the crowd, ‘The Child of Sunrise!’—‘The Bird of Peace!’—‘The Red Man’s Friend!’ and such was the strong love Mary had excited among the Indians, that, for a moment, not a hand was lifted, even at the command of their chief—then slowly they prepared to obey.

“As Mary’s almost distracted features were turned to the glaring light of the death-fire, Anawon saw her; and the long, deep, agonizing groan he did not try to suppress, told that she was recognized. The next moment she was at his feet. The bracelet was clasped about his arm. ‘Father, will he die!’ was all that she could speak; and poor little Mary fainted away.

“Anawon took the child in his own arms, and administered something which revived her; and when he saw her beautiful blue eyes again, he wiped the heavy drops of sweat from his brow, and gave orders for the release of the prisoner. Mary was then almost wild with joy—and she laughed and wept—and sang and danced—and ran from one to another—and they feared she would go into fits; but in a few minutes she was completely exhausted; and Rachel took her in her arms and held her.

“William wanted to go home immediately, because he knew his parents would be very much distressed about their children. One of the Indians said he would carry little Mary in his arms, and, accompanied by Rachel, they set out.

“It was about sunrise when they came in sight of Providence; and just then they met Simon Gray, at the head of a small band of men, going out in pursuit of his children. He was very much overcome at meeting them so unexpectedly; and he forgot not to fall on his knees and bless God for their restoration. Then he embraced them affectionately, and learned the particulars of their escape.

“During this time the men ran on before to the settlement and told the news; and as they entered the town the people came running out of their houses, all uttering expressions of joy, and blessing God for their happy deliverance. But the mother’s heart was most severely tried. She had given them up, and had become almost calm; but when the news of their safe return reached her, her agitation was so great that she fell into fits; and from their effect she never recovered. She lingered, however, in a weak state nearly a year; and then she took an epidemic fever and died; and Mary Wallace was once more—an orphan!

“During this time the poor Indians were mostly subdued. King Philip was killed; Anawon was taken by Captain Church, and, during the absence of that good man, was shamefully put to death. Mary was much distressed, and refused to be comforted, when she heard of the cruel death of her good old friend, (though William often told her that the white people never could be safe while he lived,) and when she was alone she would weep at thinking of it.

“One day, a short time after her mother’s death, she went to visit a friend about five or six miles from the Plantation; and in the afternoon she walked out alone, thinking she would go and see the rock where Philip and his men had once concealed themselves. She soon found the place; for the main rock, which the Indians called Quinsniket, or Rock-house, was larger than, and different from, all others around. This rock projects over to the southwest, and under that side of it the Indians had found a home. Mary went there and examined the place, and she found a great many arrow-spikes made of flint, and some pieces of wampum; and the ashes of their fires were still visible. She then climbed to the top of the rock, and sat down under the shade of a tall sugar-maple; and there she could not help thinking how cruel it was for the poor Indians to be killed or driven from their lands, and their houses, and their fathers’ graves.

“As she was returning, a little way from Quinsniket, she saw a woman sitting on a flat stone, in the midst of a square where the earth seemed to have been blackened with fire, and where the grass had never since grown. When Mary came nearer, she saw that it was Rachel. Overjoyed, she was just going to spring to her arms, for she had not seen her friend since the morning of her brother’s release, when she saw the poor creature was weeping. As soon as Rachel saw Mary, she hid her head in her blanket. The child looked at her a moment sorrowfully, then springing to her lap she folded her little arms round her neck, and putting her soft cheek close to hers, wept with her. This act of tenderness softened Rachel; and wiping away her own tears with a corner of her blanket, she held up the child and gazed mournfully upon her face; then she said, ‘Weep on, my daughter! weep on!—for thy tears are cool and pleasant; but mine—O! they are drops of fire!’ Then she spoke of her father’s death and the downfall of her race, till her voice was choked—and she wept like a heart-broken child. Again she was silent, and began to pluck the blades of grass and weave them into basket-work, keeping her face all the while turned from Mary.

“Suddenly she looked upon the child, and exclaimed, with much energy, ‘Here—here! on this very spot ’twas done!’

“‘What, mother? what was done’? asked Mary, with a trembling voice.

“‘My babe—my babe!’ Rachel could say no more for an instant; and then she added, ‘I will tell thee: Namoina was the daughter of a mighty chief; many chiefs sought her in marriage—but she said, “No!” for her heart beat quick only at the step of Mohaton the brave. Anawon, the great chief, said, “Go!” and Namoina took the hand of Mohaton, and went from her father. We had one babe—it was beautiful and dear—and it went as quick from my arms as the blossom from the corn-leaf. The white man came—Mohaton fell by our own door! and my babe—they trod upon it! It saw me—it tried to lift its little arms—it tried to open its little eyes—it could not. I took it in my arms—it was cold—still—dead. I saw not that all my brethren had gone—I saw not that I was alone. I held my little one till night came and made everything as dark and cold as my own bosom, and then I laid it in the ground—here!’ As she spoke she stretched out her hand, and rested it an instant on a little mound beside her; then she stretched out her arms and fell upon it, and wept and groaned fearfully.

“After a short time she arose, and dashing the tears away from her cheek, she became terribly calm, and continued: [9]‘At last the hope of vengeance possessed me. I rose from this grave and vowed to kill the first white child I could find. I found thee, my child—I brought thee here—to the very spot where my own darling bled; but thy smile was so sweet—thy voice was so soft and pitiful—thy little arms clung around my neck so tenderly, I could not kill thee; and the spirit of my little one whispered to me constantly, “Let Mary lie in thy bosom and warm it again!” So I kept thee, and when three moons[10] were gone, it was cold, and thy little limbs trembled, and thy cheek was blue. I saw that the child of the Pale-face should not dwell in the wilderness. I gave thee meal and corn; but the food of the red babe was not for thee. I was afraid that thou too wouldst die. I sought thy mother to give thee up. She had gone, with her broken heart, over the great waters.[11] Namoina knew how to pity her. Thy father was slain in battle. She was a motherless widow. On my way back Simon Gray found me; and when I saw thee among thy own people, I could not take thee away. Thy smile was as the sunlight to me—thou wert the only thing that made life pleasant, and yet I left thee.’ She paused, and Mary hid her face in the faithful creature’s bosom and wept without restraint.

“Again she resumed—‘The mother I found thee is gone, and now I will give thee back the other—thy own!’

“‘Where? where?’ asked Mary, lifting her hands quickly. ‘Where is my mother?’

“‘Be patient, and I will tell thee. Go to Seekonk on the next day thy people meet to worship the Great Spirit—I have promised to send thee—she will be there; a tall woman, and slender and graceful as a reed upon the hill-side. Her brow is fair as the coming of light, fair as thy own, my child: and her dark hair falleth over it as the shadows of evening upon snow. There she is,’ continued Rachel, taking a small miniature from her own neck, and giving it to Mary, ‘some some cunning[12] man of thy people hath put her face here; but not all. The kind look, and the tears, and the sorrow are not here!’

“Mary took the picture and looked upon it, and kissed it, and thanked God that again she was not an orphan—that again she was to find a mother.

“‘Go,’ continued Rachel, ‘remember all I have told thee; observe the scar over her left eye. She will know thee by thy little playthings—by thy sweet voice, and by thy father’s soft blue eye.’ As she spoke she gave some little toys to Mary, and then, motioning her away, she added, in a thick and tremulous voice, ‘now go, and let Namoina—die!’

“‘Die!’ repeated Mary, ‘Die! what can my mother mean?’

“‘Come hither, child, at the rising of the sun, and thou wilt know what I mean. Thrice hath the sun risen and set since food hath passed the lips of Namoina; and when she eateth again, it will be among her fathers in the hunting-grounds afar off.’

“‘I will bring thee food and drink; I will go now,’ said Mary, bursting into tears.

“‘Go, but come not again! go, and return not! Namoina will find it hard to die while the eye of her nursling is upon her.’

“Mary sprang back again to the side of Rachel. ‘O, my mother!’ she said, ‘thy hands are cold, and thy brow—what shall I do for thee? What shall I do?’

“‘If thou wilt not go, sit down at my feet and listen to my death-song; but touch me not—speak not, or the soul of Namoina will be a coward and refuse to die.’

“Mary fell, rather than sat, down at the poor creature’s feet, and listened to her with a bursting heart. I will repeat the song to you, not exactly as it was chanted by Namoina, but as it has since been put into verse. It still, however, retains its original spirit and meaning.

THE DEATH-SONG OF NAMOINA.

‘I hear the voices of the brave from yonder fair southwest— They welcome poor Namoina unto her place of rest. The hills are glad with living things—the valleys bright with corn, Beyond the beautiful blue sky where all the brave are gone.

‘The earth is cold—the hills are lone—the pleasant places sad, And everything is desolate that once could make me glad. The white man’s corn is growing now upon our fathers’ graves— And Cowtantowit’s[13] children flee unto the western waves.

‘’Tis time Namoina should go—she cannot longer stay— For as the rainbow from the cloud her tribe hath passed away; Her heart is throbbing at thy voice, O wait thee, Mohaton! She hears her father, too—the brave, the mighty Anawon; She hears her little baby’s voice, soft as the wind at even— And all her brethren beckon her unto the far-off heaven!

‘Child of the Rising-sun![14] my Flower! Namoina cannot stay; For all the voices of her tribe are calling her away. But one tear falleth on her cheek—it is to leave thee now Within a world whose fearful blight may gather round thy brow— But at the coming of thy steps may pain forever flee; And He thy fathers worship, prove a way of light to thee.

‘My native hills! and vales! and streams! ye will not be less bright When poor Namoina hath gone unto the realms of light! But stranger voices even now your sweetest echoes wake, And stranger hands will spoil you all! O haste my heart and break!

‘I never knew, till this dark hour, ye were so very dear! But, ah! why do I linger so? my brethren are not here! The bosom now is desolate where sun-light used to dwell— ’Tis getting cold! my burning eye—’Tis dark! O! Fare ye well!’

“Her voice died away gently, till only a low murmur was audible. The setting sun flashed a moment over her features, and as it faded away, they turned to a livid hue. She looked earnestly at Mary, as if she would speak; her lips quivered in the attempt just once; her head sank upon her bosom; and when Mary threw her arms about her, she knew, by the chill, that poor Namoina was dead.

“The child sat down again at Namoina’s feet and hid her face in her lap, and sobbed and wept passionately. And there she sat till it was almost dark; and there her friends, who, alarmed at her absence, went in search of her, found her.

“They removed the body to the house, and Mary watched by it through the night; and the next day poor Namoina was decently buried. Her funeral was respectably attended, and Mary mourned for her.

“But the child was now awakened to new hopes; she could think of nothing but her mother. She was longing to see her, and yet she was almost afraid; for she had loved her adopted mother so dearly she thought she could not, perhaps, like her own mother as well; and the thought was distressing to her. But, between the different agitations of hope and fear, the two days that remained between the burial of her Indian friend and the Sabbath, seemed to her the longest days she had ever known. She had begged her father’s permission for William to take her to Seekonk on the next Sabbath, and he had willingly granted her request; but she said nothing of her hopes to her father or brother, from a delicate regard for their feelings, because, at the best, she knew it would distress them. They and the dear departed one who had nursed and loved her from infancy, had been so long all-in-all to her, that her heart was reluctant, even in secrecy, to cherish a hope independent of them. Then poor Mary was perplexed by a thousand fears; she thought that it might rain—or that her mother might be sick—or that there might be some misunderstanding—or that, perhaps, the whole was but a raving fancy of Namoina—or if the whole was true, (and this Mary firmly believed when she looked in love upon the sweet features that never left her bosom, but to be kissed and wept upon,) a thousand unthought of difficulties might occur. In short, her fears, and doubts, and anxieties, were innumerable. She could neither take food or rest, nor attend steadily to her daily occupations; and she kept by herself as much as possible, and spent most of her time in prayer.

“At last the Sabbath came. It was a beautiful October morning. The sun went up gloriously and melted away the bright frost from the foliage; and the forest—you have seen our woods in the autumn, children, and you know how beautiful they are when the frost has turned the leaves.”

“Yes,” said Ann, “and do you remember the lines upon ‘Autumn,’ you gave me the other day, where the sweet poet we love so dearly, compares our autumn foliage to ‘a flood of molten rainbows?’ A beautiful thought—is it not, grandmother?”

“True, my child,” said Mrs. Gray, turning an affectionate glance to the bright eyes that were lifted up; “but your brother and cousins, I see, are more interested about the fate of Mary, than the beauties of autumn.

“I said it was a lovely morning, and Mary would have thought so too at any other time; for not even you, my dear Ann, have more poetry in your heart, than Mary Wallace had. Her taste was not cultivated, it is true; but the God of nature had dealt bountifully by her. She never looked on the beauties of creation without beholding the Creator; and this spirit is one of the highest and richest sources of poetry.

“But, as I said, or was going to say, her mind this morning was full of other thoughts; and she could hardly have told even what season of the year it was, though she loved the autumn dearly, and its beauties were never before unmarked.

“She counted the toys Namoina had given her over and over again, that she might be sure they were all there; and then she put them into a little bag with a medal she had worn in infancy; and before William had begun to dress, or the horse was brought to the door, she was quite ready and waiting for him in the passage. She thought William had never been so long in dressing before; and she kept calling to him, and hurrying him. Her father, wondering at her unusual impatience, stepped into the passage with a thought to chide her; but she stood there—such a beautiful, bright creature, that he could not; and he paused and looked upon her in silence. The excitement of her hopes had risen from her heart to her face; the maple leaf was not richer than the bloom upon her cheek, or the sunlight brighter than the flashing of her eye. A short green mantle hung from her shoulders, and her light, straw grassy bonnet could not hide the luxury of her brown hair.