Chapter 14

Many years passed away, and the swift and stealthy hunter had been succeeded by the patient and industrious white cultivator. Few traces of the Indian were remaining. The weak and irresolute--they who could see unmoved the dwelling-places of their fathers usurped by strangers, had found unhonoured graves in their own woods--the brave and resolute had gone yet farther into the forest. The rotten bow and quiver, and the rusted arrow, were frequently turned up by the plough, and little fields of scarce the breadth of an arrow's flight disclosed where the red man had once tasted his narrow enjoyments of home and shelter, and these were all that marked where he had been. The bitter persecutors of the rightful possessors of these wide-spread lands were in possession of every fertile spot, while the Indian roved in strange lands, a wanderer, and an outcast.

It was in the pleasant month when the birds build their nests on the boughs of trees, that a white man, seated on the margin of the river which swept along by the grave of the deceased maiden, saw a train of men slowly approaching, bearing a human corpse. He crept into a sequestered spot, and watched their progress. Approaching the little hillock where the dust of the maiden reposed, they deposited their load on the earth, and commenced digging a fresh grave by its side. When it was finished, they placed the corpse in it, together with the implements commonly buried with an Indian warrior, his bow, quiver of arrows, spear, pipe, &c. The white man, fearing discovery, retreated, and left them to finish their solemn labours unobserved. In the morning, the funeral train had departed, but the fresh earth and the low heap of stones revealed the secret. They remain there to this day, and the two little mounds are shown by the villagers, as the graves of the beautiful Mary and the faithful Pomperaug.

IV. THE SON OF ANNAWAN.

The son of the white man sat in his house on the border of the Indian nations, when there came a red man to his door, leading a beautiful woman with a little child in her arms, and spoke thus:--

"Dost thou see the sun?"

"I see the sun," answered the white man, haughtily.

"Three times," said the Indian, "has that sun risen, and thrice has he sunk from my eyes behind the dark hills of the west, since I or mine have tasted food. For myself, I care little--I am a man of the woods, a patient warrior; I can fast seven suns; I am not even now faint--but a tender woman has not the soul of a strong warrior, and when she sees not meat every day, she leans her head upon her hand, and when her child droops for food she weeps. Give me food."

"Begone!" said the white man, "I earn my bread and meat by the sweat of my brow--"

"On the lands of the Indian," interrupted the stern warrior.

"On my own lands--lands reclaimed from wildness--lands suffered to lie waste for ages, and only made to be of use to human beings when my race came hither with hard hands and patient souls, and felled the trees, and rooted out the obstacles which kept out the beams of the cherishing and invigorating sun. Begone to thy den in the wilderness!"

"Give me but food for the Sparrow and her little one, and the Hawk will go without. He has yet strength enough left to enable him to carry his feet to the wilds stocked with deer, and the Great Being will himself direct the arrow which is to procure the means to sustain life. But my wife and child, whose lives I value beyond my own, will faint and die, ere that distant spot be gained."

"You shall have no food here; I will not feed lazy Indians," answered the white man.

The Indian said nothing, but the pale and fainting mother looked on her sick infant and burst into tears.

There was sitting on the greensward at the Englishman's door a beautiful little girl not yet grown to perfect womanhood, but on its verge--a fawn far in its second season--a tree wanting but a few more suns to be clothed with the blossoms of maturity. She was the only child of the white man--the only pledge of love left him by a beloved wife who slept in the earth. She was most tenderly beloved by her father, and seldom asked any thing in vain. At her side sat a boy, perhaps two or three seasons older, playing with her the games of childhood.

"Father," said she, rising and approaching him in a supplicating manner, "suppose your daughter was cast friendless and hungry among the sons of the forest, and they denied her food. Would not the wrath of the Great Spirit be upon them for their inhumanity?"

The father looked thoughtful, but made no reply.

"Father, do you love your child?--If you do, permit her to feed the good Indian father who would starve himself so those he loves could be fed. Permit me to wipe the tears from the dark cheek of the mother, and to take a crumb of bread from your plenteous store to put in the mouth of the famished child."

The father could deny nothing to his beloved daughter, and, besides, the little boy pleaded for the famished Pequods also, and he yielded. With a light and bounding step the two children pursued the fainting Indians and brought them back. Food was set before them till their hunger was appeased; the little girl laid the little Indian babe on her own knee and fed it with her own hand, nor were they permitted to depart till refreshed by a rest of two days. They then returned to their own homes in the wilderness, and their little benefactors attended them to the skirts of the forest, two miles from the cruel father's dwelling.

* * * * *

Several seasons had passed away; the little girl, who had so kindly interposed to feed the miserable Indians, had grown to womanhood, and had become the wife of that boy and a mother. Her husband was a cultivator of the soil, and with the disposition to seek new lands, and try untried regions, which every where belongs to white men, he had built himself a cabin very far from the spot where he and his wife drew their breath. On the banks of a distant river, on a pleasantly situated little hill, which enjoyed the bright morning sun, he erected his cabin and sowed his wheat. He went not, however, to the wilderness alone: many other white men went with him, and, for protection against the red men of the forest, whose wrongs had stirred them to bitter hatred and revenge, they built a fort, to which they might retreat in case of danger. The cabin of the benefactors of the starving Indian family was at a distance of a mile from the fort--the husband being the first who had ventured to reside at such a distance from a garrison or fortified house.

"I shall return before dark," said he one day to his affectionate wife, as he was preparing to go down to the fort on some business. "There is no danger, my beloved," continued he, as he took up his little son, and, kissing him, laid him in his fond mother's arms.

"But my dreams, my husband--my frightful dreams of tall savages and shrill war-whoops!" said she.

"Oh! that should not frighten you," he replied. "Remember, you had been listening all the evening to dark and terrific stories of what had been done by the native warrior when he raised his arm in defence of his birth-place. Dreams are caused by that which most engrosses our thoughts--particularly just as we are going to sleep. There have not been any traces of the Indians discovered this season, and I should be sorry to raise an alarm among our friends merely upon account of a dream."

"But you know, my husband," said she, "that they are a secret, as well as a terrible enemy--they are, you know, eagles for daring, panthers for fierceness, adders for secrecy, and foxes for cunning." And she raised her mild eyes to her husband's face with that pleading expression when tears seem ready to start, and are yet checked by the fear of giving pain to the one beloved. A fond husband finds it impossible to withstand the tears of his wife, and he said, quickly, "I will not go to the garrison to-day."

"But you promised your father, and he will expect you," answered she. "You must go. I know my fears are the fears of a child, but they shall not make me wicked. I am too apt to think my security depends on your presence. I forgot that the One mighty to save can defend me, and that trust in Him is a shield to the believer. You must go."

"But I will not go without you," said her husband, who now began to feel the fears she was endeavouring to shake off. "Come, prepare the child, and we will go down together. If there has been any alarm, we will not return to-night, but pass it under the protection of the fort."

The wife paused a few moments, as if considering what she should do. I need not tell you, for you know that nothing is so difficult to explain--nothing so contradictory as the feelings and wishes of the human heart. A few moments since she would have thought that if she could accompany her husband she should be perfectly safe--that his presence would obviate every danger ere it arose. But now other considerations presented themselves to her mind. If he went not to the council, he might incur reproof for listening to a woman's fears and dreams; and dread of ridicule prevented her from accompanying him.

"I will have more fortitude," said she, smiling. "I will not make a fool of you, though I appear like one myself--you shall not have reason to be ashamed of your wife--I will not go." And she sat down resolutely, determined to conquer her fears. It was in vain that her husband urged her to accompany him. The more she saw his affectionate anxiety on her account, the more she laboured to suppress her fears, till finally she persuaded him, and herself too, that she felt no uneasiness at all from the prospect of passing a lengthened period alone, and he departed.

But she had affected resolution which she was far from feeling. She felt a presentiment that danger was nigh, and it weighed heavily on her heart. But she saw him depart without tears, and, after watching him from the door till he entered the forest, betook herself to the usual duties of a woman in the house of her husband. Yet she could not forbear going frequently to the door, and sometimes she would wander forth, and gaze all around their little field, and then watch the progress of the sun, with an expression of countenance, that, to an observer, would instantly have revealed the agitation and anxiety which her heart was suffering. But she saw nothing to inspire fears--indeed there was much to tranquillize them. Every thing abroad was in perfect quiet. There was scarcely a breath of air perceptible; and the waters of the beautiful Merrimack flowed without a ripple. The calm sky of the last month of summer looked of a deeper and more heavenly blue, seen as it was by her from a spot circumscribed by tall trees, now clothed with such a fulness of foliage as made the forest appear dark and almost impenetrable. Close around the house were planted corn and vegetables; and a field of wheat, in front of the dwelling, stretched in unbroken green to the river's brink. There was not a sound to be heard--save the chirping of a robin that had built her nest on a lofty chesnut which stood close to the south-east corner of the house--the only tree suffered to grow within the enclosure. The young birds were fully fledged, and, under the guidance of the parents, were about quitting their nest. The lovely wife watched their movements; the old birds now encouraging, now seeming to chide, their timid offspring, till finally they reached the woods, and all disappeared. Slight as the circumstance was, it touched her with a feeling of loneliness. "Even the birds have left me," said she to herself, and, pressing her boy closer to her bosom, she burst into tears. She might well be excused these tears and feelings, for, though a wife and mother, she had seen the leaves fall but seventeen times.

She watched the sun till it sunk behind the western hills, and then she watched its beams on the clouds till the last faint tints had departed: and, fixing her eyes stedfastly on that part of the forest, from which she expected to see her husband emerge, she sat at the door, with her child in her arms, watching, in vain, for his appearance. As the evening waxed later, and her fears increased, she sometimes imagined she saw strange figures and ferocious faces, with eyes beaming wrath and vengeance, such as she had beheld in her dream, moving about the dusky apartment. Ashamed of these fears, and knowing that her husband, when he came home, would chide her for thus exposing herself and her child to the evening dews, she breathed a short prayer to Him who stilled the tempest, and entered the house. Her first care, after placing her infant in his cradle, was, to light a candle, and then, more reassured, she took the sacred book from which white men gather their belief of the land of souls and of future happiness. That book is the "charm," and the protecting "medicine" of the white men. They believe that it guards them from evil, and guides them to good; its pages are a direction in every difficulty--its promises a resource in every trial. She read and prayed alternately, mingling the idea of her husband, his safety and return, with every thought and wish, but still he came not. She had no means of ascertaining the lapse of time, except by the stars, as there was no moon; but she conjectured that it must be past the hour of midnight. Again and again she went forth, and examined with a searching glance every thing around, but nothing could she see, except the dark forest in the distance, and, close around her dwelling, the black stumps that stood like sentinels on guard--while nothing was heard, save the soft murmur of the water, and, at times, a low rustling, as the breeze stirred the leaves of the chesnut-tree, or swept over the field of ripe wheat.

At length, as she stood at the corner of the cabin, beneath the shade of the chesnut, of which I have before spoken, looking earnestly towards the distant woods, she saw, or thought she saw, something emerge from their shadow. Whatever it was, it vanished instantly. She kept her eyes fixed on the spot. A bright starlight enabled her to discern objects distinctly, even at a distance, especially when her faculties were roused and stimulated, both by hope and fear. After some time, she again and plainly saw a human figure. It rose from the ground, looked and pointed towards her house, and then again disappeared. She recollected her light. It could be seen from the window, and probably had attracted the notice of the Indians, who, she could no longer doubt, were approaching. They had, as she fancied, waylaid and killed her husband--and were now coming to destroy herself and her child. What should she do? She never thought of attempting to escape without her babe; but in what direction should she fly, when, perhaps, the Indians surrounded the cabin? There was one moment of terrible agony, when the mangled form of her husband seemed before her, and she heard, in idea, the shrieks of her babe beneath the tortures of your race, till her breath failed, and reason seemed deserting her. But she made a strong effort to recall her wandering senses, and then, with her eyes and clasped hands raised to that place where the white man believes his God to reside, she took her resolution. With a noiseless step she entered her dwelling, extinguished the light, took her infant in her arms, and again stole softly forth, creeping along in the shadow of the house, till she reached the spot whence she had first seen the object which alarmed her. Here she stood perfectly still. Her infant lay on her bosom in profound sleep--as quiet and seemingly as breathless as though his spirit had already departed. She did not wait long before the same dark figure again rose, looked around, and then sank down as before. The moment it disappeared, she passed swiftly and softly, as a shadow, over the space that separated the cabin from the chesnut-tree. This tree was an uncommonly large one, and there was a separation of the trunk into two branches, about half the height of a tall man from the ground, where the shuddering wife thought it possible that she might conceal herself. She gained it, and placed herself in a position which allowed her to watch the door of her dwelling. All was silent for a long time--more than that space, which among my people, is called an hour, and she began to doubt the reality of what she had seen, imagining she had been deceived, and taken a stump for a human figure; and she was about to descend from the tree, where her situation had become uncomfortable, when suddenly a forest warrior stept by her, between the house and the tree. As another, and another, followed, it was with difficulty she suppressed her screams. But she did suppress them, and the only sign she gave of fear, was to press her infant closer to her bosom. They reached the door, and a sound of surprise at finding it open was muttered by the first who approached it, and replied to by the second. After a short consultation they entered, and she soon saw a light gleam, and supposed they had kindled it to search for her. Her pulse beat wildly; yet, still she hoped to escape. It was not probable that they would search a tree so near the cabin; they would rather suppose she had fled to a distance. Presently a crackling noise was heard in the cabin, and a bright light, as of flame, flashed from the door and window. Presently the Indians rushed out, and, raising their wild yell, danced around the cabin with their usual demonstrations of joy, when they have accomplished a purpose of revenge. The cabin was in flames.

Still the only sign she gave of fear was, as she unloosed the handkerchief from her neck and threw it over her child's face to screen his eyes from the glare of light that might awaken him, to press him closer and closer to her heart.

The house was unfinished; there was nothing to delay, for a moment, the progress of the fire which had been kindled in the centre of the apartment, and fed by all the combustibles that could be found in the dwelling. The flame very soon caught the rafters and boards, and it seemed that she had scarcely time to breathe a dozen times, before the blaze burst through the roof. The atmosphere, rarified by the heat around the burning building, suddenly expanded, and the cold and more dense air rushing in, it seemed as if a sudden wind was blowing violently. The current drove the thick smoke, and showered the burning cinders, directly on the chesnut-tree. She felt the scorching heat, while the suffocating vapour almost deprived her of the power of respiration. She grew dizzy; yet still the only movement she made was, to turn her child a little in her arms, that he might be more effectually shielded from the smoke. At that moment, one of the warriors approached, in the wild movements of his dance, close to the tree. An eddy of wind swept away the smoke; the light fell full on the pale face of the horror-stricken woman; her eyes, as if by the power of fascination, were rivetted on the tall and dusky form of the son of the forest; his fiery glance was raised toward her, and their gaze met. She gave a start; and the note of his wild war-song was shriller as he intently regarded his victim. Suddenly he turned away. Murmuring a short prayer to her God, the trembling woman resigned herself to death, as she heard them all send forth a prolonged whoop.

"My boy! My husband! We shall meet, we shall all meet in Heaven!" she cried.

But why did not the Indians approach? She listened, looked around, and soon saw them flying with the speed of frighted deer across the space 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.