Chapter III: Part 3

He looked upon his well-earned fame as likely to be withheld from him; and also considered that his life might perhaps be demanded as the forfeit for this girl’s death, which would certainly be charged upon him. He looked upon himself as culpable, and supposed the accident to have been occasioned by his criminal desertion of his post, when the steamboat was approaching the village. Morning came, and he soon learned from some of his friends, the opinions of the wise men; and also the nature of the tribunal that was preparing for him; he sent to the prairie for his three horses, which were brought in, and he mounted the medicine lodge, around which, in a few moments, the villagers were all assembled. “My friends,” said he, “I see you all around me, and I am before you; my medicine, you see, is great--it is too great; I am young, and was too fast--I knew not when to stop. The wigwam of Mah-siah is laid low, and many are the eyes that weep for Ko-ka, (the antelope;) Wak-a-dah-ha-hee gives three horses to gladden the hearts of those who weep for Ko-ka; his medicine was great--his arrow pierced the black cloud, and the lightning came, and the thunder-boat also! who says that the medicine of Wak-a-dah-ha-hee is not strong?”

At the end of this sentence an unanimous shout of approbation ran through the crowd, and the “Hair of the White Buffalo” descended amongst them, where he was greeted by shaken of the hand; and amongst whom he now lives and thrives under the familiar and honorable appellation of the “Big Double Medicine.”

THE BRIDE’S RESCUE.

ANY years ago when the great valley of the Mississippi was rarely trodden by the white men, there lived upon the southern frontier of Kentucky, then nearly a wilderness, an old hunter, named Johnson. He was one of the pioneers of the region in which he had built his log cabin, and had long procured a comfortable subsistence for a wife and child by the aid of a good rifle and his snares. Mrs. Johnson had become accustomed to the privations of her situation; and her daughter, Sarah, having arrived at the age of young womanhood, contributed to relieve the monotony of a life in the wilderness. The cares of the family were slight. Their simple food and clothing were easily procured, and their wishes for the conveniences of civilized life had ceased, when it was found that they could not be gratified. In short, we may say, the Johnson family lived happily in their wilderness home.

Sarah Johnson was about eighteen years of age, when she was first brought to our notice. She was not handsome, but she was tolerably “good looking,” and possessed a stock of good sense, which is somewhat rarer than beauty. Old Johnson said she was a “likely girl,” and her mother thought she deserved a good husband. This desert seemed to be about to receive its reward. Two or three miles from Johnson’s cabin, lived another hunter, named John Blake. Like Johnson, Blake had long followed hunting for a subsistence, had married, and had one child. The wife was dead; but the child had grown to manhood, and Samuel Blake was now regarded as quite equal to his father in hunting.

As Johnson and Blake had been very intimate friends for a long time, their children were frequently thrown into each other’s company; and a strong attachment had sprung up between them. The fathers looked favorably upon this perpetuation of their intimacy, and it soon became a settled matter that Samuel Blake and Sarah Johnson should be man and wife.

Both the old hunters had always kept up a friendly intercourse with the neighboring Indians, and many of the latter had visited the cabins and partaken of their hospitalities. Johnson had obtained a great reputation among the red men for his skill in hunting. His company was sought by the young men of the tribe, and always with profit. Samuel Blake was also regarded as a brave and skilful hunter, and admired by the Indians. Among those who frequently visited Johnson’s cabin, was young Oconostota, son of the chief of the neighboring tribe. He was already distinguished as a warrior and hunter, and his personal appearance was so admirable that many an Indian maiden’s heart beat high with the hope that she might be the fortunate one who should share his wigwam.

But Oconostota’s eyes and thoughts were fixed elsewhere. He had seen and conversed with Sarah Johnson, and he burned with the desire to secure her for his wife. Sarah could not help seeing the admiring looks he gave her during his frequent visits; but she did not suspect the real state of his feelings; probably, because her thoughts found occupation enough in thinking of Samuel Blake.

At length, however, the young brave ventured to disclose his wishes to old Johnson, during a hunting excursion, in which they were engaged together. The old hunter was surprised; but considering that Oconostota might easily be irritated and dangerous consequences ensue, he calmly and deliberately made known to him that Sarah had long been engaged to Samuel Blake, and that that engagement could not be broken.

Love cannot listen to reason. Oconostota urged his suit still further, offering, with true Indian simplicity, two splendid horses for the hunter’s daughter. He increased the number to ten, but the hunter remained firm, and the young brave was forced to give up entreaty. When Johnson reached his cabin, he found young Blake and his father there, both having been invited by Mrs. Johnson to remain and take supper with them. The venison was broiling before the coals in the large fire-place, the table was neatly spread, and every thing had a cheerful appearance. Oconostota had refused Johnson’s invitation to spend the evening with him, and returned to his village. The hunter thought he would have done better to have accepted the invitation.

While old Johnson and old Blake talked over the doings of the day, and the adventures of many previous ones, young Blake, Sarah, and Mrs. Johnson, talked of matters less stirring, but more important to the females--cooking, house-keeping, &c. The pewter dishes soon received their smoking, savory weight, and all seated themselves around the table. Johnson then introduced the subject which had been troubling his thoughts for some time previous. The whole party was informed of the proposal of Oconostota, and of his rejection by the father on behalf of his daughter. The young couple were both surprised, and Samuel Blake laughed outright. The old men looked grave, and Mrs. Johnson troubled. They knew the Indian character well enough to know that the matter would not end there. In fact, serious consequences might be expected to result from the refusal.

Some discussion ensued, when old Blake recommended that Samuel and Sarah should be married as soon as possible, and then conciliatory measures might secure the agreement of Oconostota and his friends to what could not be changed. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson agreed to this proposition, and the young people almost “jumped” at it. Before that meal was concluded, the day for the wedding was fixed, and it was arranged that the parties should proceed to a settlement about ten miles from the cabin of Johnson, where the ceremony would be performed. Then a new cabin was to be erected between Blake’s and Johnson’s, spacious enough for Samuel and Sarah, and old Blake.

Meanwhile, Oconostota deeply felt the sting of rejected love. He strove to conquer his feelings, and thought of taking an Indian wife. But his nature was too passionate, and he resolved to gain the object of his love, either by fair means or foul. He visited the Johnsons several times afterwards, and was informed that the wedding day had been appointed; and nothing remained for him but to acquiesce, or strive to get possession of Sarah by force or stratagem. His plan was soon laid.

Ascertaining the particular day upon which the wedding was to take place, the young chief resolved to get the aid of a few young men of his tribe, and carry off the bride the night before it. The day approached and the happy couple were all joyful expectation. They believed that the wishes of long years were about to be gratified. Samuel Blake spent the day before the happy one, at Johnson’s cabin, arranging with Sarah things that had been arranged very frequently before; and he did not leave it until the shades of evening were thickening around. Old Blake intended to remain all night with Johnson, to be ready for the journey of the morrow. Sarah accompanied Samuel to a considerable distance from the cabin, and he reluctantly bade her adieu. She then turned to pursue her way home.

Oconostota, with his friends had been lurking around the neighborhood during the afternoon. He had seen the lovers leave the cabin together, and he followed them at a short distance, like a beast of prey, watching his opportunity. When he saw Samuel Blake leave Sarah, he gave a signal, resembling the voice of a well-known forest-bird, and collected his accomplices. He then stole silently to the edge of the wood near which he knew Sarah must pass, and waited for her. The young girl came on trippingly, as if she had no care in the world. Suddenly, she was seized, and before she could shriek, hurried into the wood. She saw the forms of the red men, and guessed their object. She shrieked for help, as they hurried her swiftly through the wood; but there appeared no help near. On they went, until they reached the end of the wood, where the prairie opened before them. Horses were waiting. The red men mounted, Oconostota placing the almost fainting form of Sarah upon the horse, before him. Away they went like the wind. It was a moonlight evening, and as Oconostota turned to see if any one was pursuing, he caught sight of a blaze, rising above the dark trees, and knew at once that one of his men, more devilish than the rest, had contrived to set fire to Johnson’s cabin. He thought he heard the sound of other horses’ feet far behind; but could not distinguish any one in the hasty glance he cast behind him. The sounds increased, and seemed to grow nearer. Then Oconostota turned and saw the forms of three mounted men urging their horses to the greatest speed.

At this critical moment, the young chief’s horse stumbled and fell, Oconostota, with Sarah in his arms, leaping to the ground just in time to save himself from being crushed. This checked the progress of the whole party, and ere Oconostota could resume his seat, he saw the pursuers were close upon his party. It was in vain to think of escape by flight. The Indians were six in number, and the pursuers were but three. The chances were in Oconostota’s favor. But the pursuers all had rifles, while two of the Indians had only bows and arrows.

On came the hunters, and a volley was exchanged. Two of the Indians fell from their horses, and it was evident that a third was seriously, if not fatally wounded. Samuel Blake received an arrow in his left arm, but it did not disable him. Old Johnson and Blake reloaded, and delivered their fire with an unerring aim. Then they rushed upon them with their rifles, clubbed and laid about them with tremendous effect. Oconostota, leaving Sarah upon the horse which he had ridden, and mounted that of one of his fallen friends. Young Blake soon distinguished his form and fired his rifle as he rushed upon him. The shot broke the arm of the young chief, but he gallantly drew his knife and closed with his antagonist. A desperate struggle ensued. The young men fell to the ground almost beneath the horses’ feet, and rolled over and over like wild cats in a death struggle. At length Blake obtained the knife, and plunged it into the breast of his foe. Then he arose to look around for his friends. But one of the Indians had escaped by flight; the rest were all dead. Johnson was unhurt, and standing beside his daughter’s horse. Old Blake was wounded in the shoulder, and leaning against his horse.

No time was to be lost. The Indian who had escaped would inform his people of the death of Oconostota, and a war-party might be expected to set out in pursuit of them. Samuel Blake first ascertained that Sarah was unhurt, then helped his father to mount his horse, and then mounted himself. Johnson placed his daughter upon his horse, and the party dashed off on their return. After a hard ride, they reached the edge of the wood, dismounted and hurried through it with almost the speed that the Indians had used in carrying off the bride. Their course was directed towards Blake’s cabin, where they intended to join Mrs. Johnson, and at once set off for the settlement. They passed, near Johnson’s cabin, and saw that it was almost reduced to ashes. They arrived at Blake’s cabin, and there found Mrs. Johnson, who was filled with anxiety for the fate of her child. Congratulations and tears of joy followed the meeting. But there was little time for indulging in these.

Things were soon arranged for starting for the settlement, though most of the party were suffering severely from fatigue. They started. We need not detail the trials and dangers of that journey. They were terrible, but borne with patience and fortitude. The whole party reached the settlement just after daylight, were kindly received by the inhabitants, and their wants supplied. Old Blake’s wound in the shoulder was not dangerous, and with the careful attention of his friends, he soon recovered. His son suffered much from the wound in his arm, which was too long neglected. Samuel and Sarah were married as soon as they could find it convenient to seek the minister of the village.

The Indians were for a short time much exasperated at the death of their young prince and his friends; but his father was a wise and noble man. He told his warriors that Oconostota had merited death by his treacherous conduct; and that they would have acted in the same manner as the white hunters did, had any of their children been stolen from them. He sent a messenger to Johnson, professing the continuance of his friendship, and inviting him and his friends to return to their homes, where he would ensure their protection. After some delay, they complied with the wishes of the generous chief, and returned to their cabins in the wilderness. Johnson’s old cabin was re-built; Blake removed to a clearing nearer Johnson’s, and occupied by Sarah and her husband.

It remains to be explained how the hunters received timely notice of the abduction of Sarah. When Samuel Blake left her to pursue his route homeward, he walked rather slowly, busy thinking of his happy future. Suddenly it occurred to him, that there was one little matter he had forgotten to mention to Sarah, and he returned swiftly with the hope of overtaking her before she reached her house. A shriek broke on his ear before he had proceeded far, and with strange conviction, he knew it came from Sarah. He hurried swiftly onward, reached the cabin, and inquired for Sarah. She was not there. The mother guessed the startling truth; because she thought she had seen the Indians lurking near the cabin during the day. Old Johnson, Blake, and Samuel grasped a rifle each; Mrs. Johnson was directed to take her two bold and faithful dogs, and an extra gun, and proceed towards Blake’s cabin, where she would be safer than in her own; and then the hunters hurried out, secured the horses which had been caught upon the prairie and kept in a small stable near the cabin, and proceeded through the wood towards the Indian village. They reached the prairie, caught sight of the flying Indians, and after a hard ride and fight, rescued the bride as before described.

The cabin was not set on fire until some time after the hunters had left it. Mrs. Johnson possessed a bold and masculine spirit, and she ventured upon her dangerous journey without fear. She met with no obstruction and reached Blake’s cabin a considerable time before the return of the pursuing party. Oconostota’s death was regretted by the young men of his tribe, but his father effectually screened the white men from their vengeance, and lived in peace with them until his death.

The young couple lived happily together in their forest home. Samuel Blake continued to hunt for a livelihood, and his rewards were sufficient to bring plenty and content to his household. He often visited the village of the tribe to which Oconostota belonged, and by favors and presents soon won the esteem and regard of the red men; they being fully convinced that the young chief was justly punished for a wilful wrong.

YONDEEGA’S GRATITUDE.

HE inhabitants of the settlement of Cocheeco, in New Hampshire, lived for a few years in large blockhouses, well adapted for the purpose of defence against the Indians. But a few of the bolder spirits, encouraged by the long peace with the red men, moved their families into log houses of their own construction. The furthest of the huts from the garrison was built by a Mr. Bray, an Englishman. On one occasion, Mr. Bray and his wife left home, leaving Rebecca, their only child, in charge of her Aunt Mary.

Little Rebecca was, of course, the pet of her aunt. When the work of the house had been completed, the latter would teach the little girl some mysteries of needle work, or explain some passages in the Scriptures for her benefit. One day, Aunt Mary had just finished reading the verse, in the fifth chapter of Matthew, which says, “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy,” when an Indian burst into the room, and throwing himself panting at her feet, exclaimed, in broken English, “for mercy’s sake, hide me, the warriors are on my path.”

Aunt Mary was not disposed to grant his request. In common with all the early settlers, she hated and feared the Indians. But Rebecca earnestly plead for him, saying that he would be killed by Major Waldron’s men from the garrison. A loud shout was heard in the distance, and the Indian renewed his entreaties for a refuge. “Blessed are the merciful, for they--shall obtain mercy,” repeated Rebecca, and Aunt Mary then expressed her wish to secrete the Indian from his pursuers. The little girl then took the red man by the hand, led him up into the loft, made him get into a box containing shelled corn, and then spread the corn over him in such a manner, that he could not be seen. She then descended, and resumed her reading to Aunt Mary as if nothing had occurred. A moment after, the door was burst open, and the pursuers entered, exclaiming, “Is the villainous redskin here?”

The little girl expressed her surprise, and asked what redskin.

“The Indian who has escaped,” answered a youth; “we have lost his track; but Mr. Gove says he saw the top of his head through the wood, and we came here.”

Rebecca strove to divert their attention by saying she heard a noise, just then, of something running around the house. Mr. Gove persisted in saying that he believed the Indian to be in the house, and to satisfy him one of the young men proposed that he should go up stairs and search for him. Rebecca accompanied him. Gove searched every nook and corner of the loft, and even lifted up some of the corn from the box where the Indian was concealed; but at length gave it up, descended the stairs and joined his friends. The pursuers then sought their victim elsewhere.

That night, Rebecca brought the red man from his hiding-place, and making him promise to spare the mothers and babes who might fall into his power, let him go, with a heart filled with gratitude.

In explanation of the Indian’s situation, we may say that the colonial government, fearful of another outbreak among the Indians, and jealous of their numbers, had ordered Major Waldron, the commander of the post, to put the strange red men, who came there, to death, and by a stratagem, the Major had succeeded in killing all but this one, who was preserved by the efforts of little Rebecca.

Time flew by, and Rebecca grew to be a fine specimen of feminine maturity. Her parents died, and she was left to the guardianship of Major Waldron. She resided with Aunt Mary, to whose care she had been confided by a mother’s dying breath; and though the major had made many efforts to convince them that the garrison was a much safer place, they still kept the old house. The flower in the wilderness did not “waste its sweetness on the desert air.” On the contrary, Rebecca’s charms had already made several captives, one of whom was the only son of Major Waldron.

George Waldron had been educated in England, had moved in refined circles, travelled three years, and returned to America, with personal advantages which might have made many a conquest in the field of love. He saw Rebecca soon after his arrival, and was immediately “smitten to the heart.” But the beauty could only give him a sister’s love; for her heart was in possession of another. Morris Green had been her playmate in childhood, and in riper years, her confidant and friend. They had not been formally plighted, but they felt that they were united by stronger bonds than words. A few days after Waldron’s arrival, Morris saved him from the gripe of a bear, that was about to spring upon him, by shooting the animal, and from that time the two young men became warm, self-denying friends. A few weeks after the adventure with the bear, George Waldron obtained for Morris Green, a midshipman’s warrant for his Majesty’s frigate Cyclops, then lying at Portsmouth, with orders to join the squadron in the West Indies.

Morris quickly and joyfully informed Rebecca of his good fortune, and prepared to start for Portsmouth. Hand-in-hand he and Rebecca visited the grave-yard, where slept the remains of her loved parents. There they exchanged vows of constancy, and parted sadly, though hopefully. Rebecca watched he retreating form of her lover until it was lost in the forest, and then, as she sank upon her mother’s grave, her tears flowed freely.

A voice near Rebecca, exclaimed, “A pretty scene, upon my word!” She sprang to her feet and faced the intruder. A mixture of scorn and fear was upon her features, and she at length turned to fly. But the bold intruder seized her hand, and said, “Now my pretty bird, this meeting is too opportune to part so soon. What with your own shyness, the constant watch of that old hypocrite, Waldron, who means to coax or force you to marry the sapient George, and the close attentions of that very sentimental youth who has just left you, I have not the smallest chance of urging my own suit.”

“Oh, that can never, never be,” answered Rebecca, hardly conscious of what she said, “for I already love another.”

“Hear me, Rebecca,” said the other, “your beauty would become a higher sphere than that stripling can give you to move in. At the death of my father, I shall become Lord Marsden; and at the death of my uncle, who is much his senior, his title of Marquis of Winchelsea will also revert to me. Think how different would be your position as Marchioness of Winchelsea, surrounded with wealth and splendor, than as the wife of that poor boy.”

“I have promised to become the wife of another,” replied Rebecca, “and I would not break the promise, if I could. I can love you as a sister, but never as your wife!”

“It is enough, Rebecca,” said the young man, “you reject the love of a man whom you could have moulded to your will. But I am not to be slighted with impunity. You are in my power, and shall rue the hour when you dared to scorn me.” As he uttered these words, he sprang towards her, but stumbled over the head-stone of her mother’s grave and fell headlong; while Rebecca, pale with terror, fled, and never paused until safe within the cottage.

Edward Sinclair, the intruder upon Rebecca’s privacy, had been residing at Waldron’s about a year; consigned to the Major’s care, it was whispered, by his father, as a sort of penance for certain conduct which was unbecoming the future Lord of Marsden Hall. Well-informed, frank, and jovial, he soon rendered himself a favorite with all those in the settlement, who considered eccentricity natural to a jovial companion, and did not question the justice of his acts. Being fond of hunting, Sinclair soon made friends of the Indians, with whom he would hunt for weeks at a time. They called him Neddo. That Sinclair was in love with Rebecca, the reader may gather from his language towards her. But there was ever a something evil in his nature which made her shun his presence.

A few days after Morris’s departure, when Rebecca thought him “far o’er the briny deep,” she was surprised to see him enter the cottage, covered with dust, and throw himself upon a chair. She and Aunt Mary expressed their surprise, and asked why he was not in the frigate. In reply, he handed Rebecca a letter, which, he said, would explain the matter better than he could. The letter was read as follows:

“If Morris Green really feels but half the love he professes
for Rebecca Bray, he will not, by leaving the country,
expose her to the schemes of a crafty villain. The writer of
this has heard from Waldron’s own lips that he only assisted
to get rid of him, and that before the frigate will have
joined the squadron, she will either by persuasion or force,
be made the wife of George Waldron. If you are wise, you
will act upon this warning of

“A Secret Friend.”

“At first,” said Morris, “I thought this all a hoax; but soon began to regard it as a timely and truthful warning. I was down at the shoals last week, and I knew that the ship would pass near the islands, that a good swimmer could easily reach the shore, where there were two or three fishing schooners anchored, which could bring me back. In the middle of the night, I slipped through a port, and swam ashore. As the ship sailed like a race horse, they will get so far before they miss me, they will not turn back for a single man.” Morris said much more to silence the fears of his anxious friends, who at length set about preparing food for the half-famished runaway, when the door opened, and Edward Sinclair rushed in, crying, “Run, Morris, run! the bloodhounds are at your heels.” Morris sprang to his feet, and rushed to the back door, which opened on the forest; but Sinclair pushed him back, and in a few moments a party of men entered, arrested Morris, as a deserter, and bore him off, leaving Aunt Mary and Rebecca wringing their hands, and crying bitterly. As soon as they had left the house, Rebecca fell on the floor in a fainting fit. When she recovered, Sinclair was bending over her, with compassion and respect upon his features.

Sinclair explained that he had tried to put the pursuing party upon a false scent, and save Morris; that the deserter would be condemned by a court-martial; yet in consideration of the motive, they would certainly recommend him to the mercy of his majesty; in which case he would appeal to his father, whose influence he represented as all powerful at court, and a pardon could easily be procured. Rebecca grasped eagerly at such a hope, and began to look upon the one who held it forth as a brother.

The court-martial was held in Boston harbor; the proof of desertion was positive, and Morris was sentenced to death, without a hint being given of any appeal to royal mercy. Rebecca received the terrible news, as the lily receives the blast of the tempest--it almost crushed her spirit. She did not--could not weep until the morning of the day that was to give her lover to the arms of death. Her feelings then found vent in tears. She left the cottage, and walked quickly towards the house of Major Waldron, where she found the old man writing. Throwing herself before him, she clasped his knees, and implored him to save Morris Green. Waldron answered that he could not. Morris had had a fair trial, and it would be unjust in him, supposing he could, to change the verdict. Rebecca continued--“You can if you will. I know you have wished me to marry George instead of Morris Green; and now I will promise, that if you will procure a pardon for Morris, the day he is free from prison I will marry George.”

This chimed in with Waldron’s schemes. It had long been his aim to bring about a union between his son George and Rebecca. He snatched eagerly the opportunity, and said he would try what he could do. A messenger was sent in all haste to Portsmouth, and the officers composing the court-martial were eagerly persuaded to reprieve the prisoner until a petition could be sent to the king. But months were to pass before an answer would be received, during which Morris must remain in prison, leaving the field clear to his rivals.

Sinclair now spent much of his time with Rebecca, who regarded him with the most friendly feelings, except when he urged his suit, when a revulsion of feeling made her suspect that self-interest was at the root of all his vaunted service for her and Morris. As for George Waldron, his feelings were in a state of confusion not to be described. He loved Rebecca, deeply--devotedly; and to secure her happiness and that of his friend Morris, he felt that no sacrifice could be too great. Yet he hoped to make Rebecca his wife, and could not resolve to break the engagement his father had made.

At length a vessel arrived, bearing a full pardon for the deserter; and Major Waldron now required of Rebecca the performance of her part of the contract. It was agreed that the marriage should not take place until the day after Morris’s return. Morris had been aware that a petition had been sent to the king on his behalf, but he knew nothing of the terms until the morning of his release, and then he felt that he would much rather have died than consented to live upon such terms. However, he resolved to see Rebecca once more, and then leave the country for ever.

He reached the cottage, where he expected to meet Rebecca, but found it deserted, and in the utmost confusion. Surprised, he turned from the cottage to seek an explanation, when a footstep caused him to raise his head, and he stood face to face with George Waldron. They each grasped the other’s hand; for friendship was still strong in both.

“I have been very wrong and wicked,” said George Waldron, “but I have suffered for it. Yesterday, after a long struggle, I resolved to release Rebecca from an engagement, into which I knew she had been forced. I did so. But now she is gone. Last night Aunt Mary awoke and found herself alone; she gave the alarm, and people have hunted for lier ever since. I fear she has been carried off by the Indians.”

Morris was almost stunned by this unlooked for calamity. At length he grasped the hand of his friend and said, “We are friends--brothers; together we will go and rescue her or share her fate.” A slight noise at this instant caused them to turn, and standing near them, his arms folded on his breast, his keen eye fixed upon them, was an Indian, whom they recognised as one who was often about the settlement.

“Has the pale-face’s council fire gone out, or are their braves turned squaws, that the foe enters the wigwam and steals their ‘Wild Rose,’ and no warriors start on the trail?”

“Do you know any thing of Rebecca Bray,” demanded Morris.

Yondeega’s eyes were open. Neddo’s trail and the Wild Rose’s trail were one.

George started. He knew that Edward Sinclair had two days previous, joined a hunting party; but he supposed that he had gone away to avoid being present at Rebecca’s nuptials. “The false-hearted villain!” said he, “I will follow him, and he shall yet feel the weight of my arm.”

“No, no,” said Yondeega, with a flashing eye and knotted brow. “No pale-face touch him. Yondeega’s tomahawk is sharp, and his rifle never fails it aim. Yondeega will kill him like a dog.” The features of the Indian then assumed an expression of sorrow. “Yondeega had a daughter; she was fair as the spring flowers, and cheerful as the song of birds. The Yengese came and spake with his forked tongue, the maiden listened, and her heart changed. She has left the wigwam of her tribe to follow the stranger.”

From this the young men gathered that Sinclair had been as false to his red as to his white friends, and having signified to the Indian that they would follow where he led, they set off in pursuit of the lost flower.

Rebecca had risen early, and was taking a short walk near the cottage, when she was seized and borne off by some Indians. They marched about eight hours, bearing Rebecca on a rude litter, until they came to a large sheet of water called Lake Winnipiseogee, where they embarked in a canoe and rowed to an island, on which stood two or three deserted Indian huts. In one of these, Rebecca was left, with two Indians. In a moment, the door opened, and Edward Sinclair, stripped of his Indian disguise, stood before her. He confessed that he had stolen her. But it was because he could not live without her, and he wanted to take her to Europe with him. In vain the young girl entreated, plead her attachment to another, and her want of affection for Sinclair.

“And do you think,” said he fiercely, “that I could bear to see you the wife of Morris Green? It was I who advised him to desert, and who attempted to prevent him from getting a pardon. But I will be revenged yet. In the meantime, you are in my power, and from this place you shall never go, except as my wife--”

The sound of light footsteps interrupted his words, and the next instant a young Indian girl, breathless with haste, rushed into the hut, exclaiming, “Fly, fly! the pale-faces are in pursuit.” Sinclair sprang forward, as if meditating flight; but a moment’s pause seemed to alter his intention, and he said, pointing to Rebecca, “Hide her, Yarro, and I will meet them here.”

The young Indian frowned, as she replied, “Yarro no hide her; pale-face no hurt her.” A deep-breathed curse escaped the young man, and a fierce glance shot from his eye; but the next moment it yielded to a mild, tender expression, as he spoke a few words to Yarro in her own tongue.

Yarro smilingly listened to his false words, which were, in fact, no less than a promise, that if she would hide Rebecca, he would marry her, join the tribe and become a great chief. She instantly advanced towards the white maiden, and in spite of her struggles, bandaged her mouth, and drew her into a covert close to the hut. Sinclair saw all this, and then taking his rifle, he advanced to meet Morris and George, who had just emerged from the forest into the clearing in front of the hut. “What is the matter, George?” he asked.

“Edward,” demanded George, sternly, “do you know any thing of Rebecca Bray?”

“How can I know any thing of her?” mildly replied Sinclair; “you know I started off to hunt the day before you were to be married but--”

The speaker paused; the bullet of Yondeega, who, having tarried behind to secure the canoe, had just caught sight of his foe, had started on its fatal errand; but it did not not reach its destined victim. Yarro, who saw all that had passed, gave a slight scream, and throwing her arms around the neck of her beloved, shielded him from danger by receiving the ball herself. They laid her upon the grass. Sinclair bent over her, grief and remorse painted on his features, while the rest of the party, including Rebecca, who had contrived to unbandage herself, stood looking on in mournful silence. Yarro opened her eyes, a smile of joy stole over her features, as she met the gaze of Sinclair, and she murmured--“Yarro very happy, for the Great Spirit has smiled on her;” and with that happy smile still lingering on her features, the poor girl passed to the “spirit land.”

A moment of silence ensued, and the next, Sinclair sprang to his feet, and darted into the forest, pursued by Yondeega, who soon, however, returned, completely baffled. This was the last that was seen of Edward Sinclair in this country; although a rumor came two years afterwards that he had fallen in a duel, in England, with an officer as reckless as himself.

Yarro was buried on the island, and then the party returned to the settlement. The remainder of the story is soon told. Major Waldron yielded to the entreaties of Rebecca and Morris, assisted by the virtuous energy of George, and consented to a union of the lovers, who amid all trials, had remained true to each other. At the-wedding, among the number of pale and red faces that of Yondeega was recognised, and many thanks were returned to him for his generous conduct.

“Pale-face no need feel grateful. Wild Rose hide Yondeega; Yondeega save Wild Rose; that all,” said the Indian. In answer to eager questioning, he then informed them, that he had known of Neddo’s designs in regard to Rebecca, and as soon as he saw her upon the island, he recognised her as the little girl who had saved his life, and resolved to save her. He hurried to inform her friends, and the result is known. When he had finished his story, Rebecca exclaimed, “I then found mercy by the very person to whom I had shown mercy.”

THE BURNING OF DEERFIELD.

HE destruction of Deerfield, Massachusetts, during the French and Indian war, which began in 1689, was one of the most daring exploits performed by the Indians during that exterminating struggle. In 1703, the plan was laid by the French and their savage allies, to cut off the frontier inhabitants of New England, from one extremity to the other; but the design was not fully executed. Though the eastern settlements from Casco to Wells were destroyed, yet the western ones remained unmolested. This lulled them into a fatal security. Colonel Schuyler, the noted English agent among the Indians, received intelligence of a design in Canada to fall upon Deerfield, he immediately informed the inhabitants of that settlement, that they might prepare for an attack. The design was not carried into execution during the summer, and the intelligence was considered as a false alarm. But their destruction was reserved for the winter of 1704, when they least expected it.

Deerfield was at that time the most northerly settlement on the Connecticut river, a few families at Northfield excepted. Against this place, M. Yaudrieul, governor of Canada, sent out a party of about three hundred French and Indians. They were put under the command of Hertel de Roueville, assisted by his four brothers, all of whom had been well trained in partisan warfare by their father, who had been a famous partisan in former wars. They marched by way of Lake Champlain, till they came to the stream, now called Onion river. Advancing up that stream till they passed over Connecticut river, and travelled on the ice till they came near to Deerfield.

The Rev. John Williams, the minister of Deerfield, was apprehensive of danger, and attempted to impress the minds of the people with a sense of it; but did not succeed. Upon his application, the government of the province sent twenty soldiers to aid in the defence of the town. The fortifications were some slight works thrown around two or three garrison houses. These were nearly covered in some places with drifts of snow.

On the 29th of February, Roueville and his party approached the town. Hovering near it, he sent out spies to gain intelligence. The watch kept the streets of the town till about two hours before day, and then, unfortunately, all of them went to sleep. Roueville, perceiving all to be quiet, marched silently to the attack. The snow was so high that they had no difficulty in jumping over the walls of the fortification; and they immediately separated into small parties so as to appear before each house at the same time.

The place was completely surprised; and the foe was entering the houses before the inhabitants, suspected their approach. The resistance was trifling in most parts of the town, but one block-house being able to hold out against the enemy. The whole settlement was in their possession in a short time after their arrival. Forty-seven of the inhabitants, some of whom fought bravely, were slain, and all the rest captured. For awhile, the village was given up to plunder, and then, to complete the work, it was set on fire. The victors, with their captives, hastily retreated an hour after sunrise. A small party of the English pursued them, and a skirmish ensued, in which a few were lost on both sides.

But the enemy could not be checked in their retreat.

The distance from Deerfield to Chambly, Canada, which was the nearest French settlement, was about three hundred miles. The number of prisoners was one hundred and twelve. Among the number was the Rev. John Williams. As the Indians entered his room, he took down his pistol and presented it to the breast of the foremost, but it missed fire. They then took hold of him and bound him, naked as he was, and thus kept him for an hour. In the meantime two of the children and a negro woman were killed. Mrs. Williams, who was hardly recovered from childbed, was, with the rest, marched for Canada. The second day, in wading a stream, Mrs. Williams fainted and fell, but was assisted along a little further when, at the foot of a hill, she began to falter, her savage master, with one blow of his tomahawk, put an end to her miseries. The party was twenty-five days on its march from Deerfield to Chambly. As they depended upon hunting for their support, the prisoners often suffered for want of food; and the severity of the season added to their trials. At length they reached Chambly, where they were humanely treated by the French and their governor, Vaudrieul. At different times, most of the prisoners were redeemed and returned home. Mr. Williams and fifty-seven others arrived at Boston, from Quebec, in 1706. One of the minister’s daughters, Eunice, married an Indian, and became a convert to the Catholic religion, which she never would consent to forsake. She frequently visited her friends in New England; but uniformly persisted in wearing the blanket, and counting her beads. Deerfield was rebuilt soon after its destruction, and became a flourishing settlement.

THE FIRE-WATER.

F the red men have been benefited by their intercourse with the whites, they have also received much degradation from the same cause. Created with strong and active physical powers, united with keen sensibility, they have an innate love of excitement, of which the white man has taken advantage to work their ruin. For a few bottles of any kind of ardent spirits, which the Indians term “firewater,” keen traders have purchased the produce of weeks of hunting and toil, and even the land which contains within its bosom the bones of the red man’s ancestors. How many of these noble children of the woods, whose native powers of intellect rivalled those of the most distinguished orators, statesmen, and warriors, among the civilized nations, have become degraded in mind and weakened in body through the influence of the evil spirit sent to them by the avaricious and wiser white men! See Logan, whose qualities of mind, and whose misfortunes have excited so much admiration and sympathy, spending the evening of his days in beastly intoxication! See the mighty Sagona, more widely known as Red Jacket, who maybe considered as the Demosthenes of his race; whose judgment and foresight guided his nation in many an intricate negotiation, and whose eloquence has been compared to the Niagara, near whose thundering tumult he was reared, weakened in body and mind by the “firewater” given him by those who feared his influence! This bane of the red man has ever been extended to him by the hand of civilization; and those tribes which inhabit the country nearest the citizens of the western states are fast melting away under its blighting breath. Occasionally a chief has arisen who despised the “fire-water,” and who indignantly denounced those who introduced it among his people. Of one of these we are about to speak.

Pontiac was a chief of the Ottawas, a tribe which inhabited the neighborhood of Lake Erie, in the territory now included in the state of Michigan. But at one time, he was the chief of a confederacy, consisting of the Ottawas, Miamis, Chippewas, Wyandottes, Pot-towatomies, Missisagas, Shawanese, Ottaga-mies, and Winnebagoes--all powerful tribes. Pontiac was gifted with a great and noble spirit, which fitted him for command. He possessed a daring courage, tempered and guided by wisdom and judgment. Fertile in the invention of means to gain an end, he was generally successful in his undertakings, and became a formidable enemy to the whites, whose encroachments roused his hatred.

In the Indian war, which broke out in 1763, which is justly denominated “Pontiac’s War,” the great chief appointed a commissary, and began to make and issue bills of credit, all of which he carefully redeemed. He made his bills or notes of bark, on which was drawn the figure of the commodity he wanted for it The shape of an otter was drawn under that of the article wanted, and an otter was the insignia of his nation. He had also, with great sagacity, urged upon his people the necessity of dispensing entirely with European commodities, of having no intercourse with the whites, and of depending entirely upon their ancient modes of procuring sustenance.

Some English traders, with a considerable quantity of brandy in bottles, were detected among the Indians, bartering “fire-water” for skins, and, by order of Pontiac, brought into his presence. The noble chief stood in state, gaudily dressed, and with a lofty mein, in front of his highly decorated wigwam. A guard of warriors were upon each side of him, and subordinate chiefs waited the command of the mighty forest king. The traders were bold men, but they trembled when led into his presence. They knew his power, the ferocity of the men whom he ruled, and the criminal nature of the business in which they were engaged.

Pontiac spoke the English tongue sufficiently well to make himself understood, and he asked the traders if they were not aware that he had forbidden his people to have any intercourse with the whites, and warned the latter to leave his territory. He then alluded to the many services he had done the whites, and the many acts of hospitality his people had performed. “And how have you repaid them?” continued he. “They gave you shelter and venison, and you gave them poison--fire-water, to burn away their strength, and blind their eyes, so that you could cheat them out of their skins and furs, and perhaps their land.”

The white traders attempted to excuse themselves, by saying that they had only given the Indians the liquor at their own earnest entreaty. But Pontiac indignantly commanded their silence. “You knew what the fire-water could do, what it has done, and what it will do; and yet you gave it to them.” The chief raised himself to his full height. He was a tall and noble-looking man. His brow was high and broad, his eye black, keen, and lively, and his nose aquiline and prominent. The compressed mouth expressed the firmness of his will. “For your fault,” said he, “you have deserved a severe punishment, and were you at the mercy of many of my people, death would quickly be your lot. I spare your lives now, and my warriors shall conduct you safely out of my country. But if you again are found upon this land, expect to burn at the stake. Go! Pontiac has said.” The white men concealed the joy which they felt at their escape from death. They had expected nothing less. Pontiac directed some of his warriors to accompany the traders and then retired to his wigwam. The traders, once safely out of his country were very careful not to revisit it while he lived. A war broke out soon after this event, in which Pontiac displayed the skill and courage of a great commander. He was victorious on many occasions, but was at last forced to conclude a peace, by the superior numbers and discipline of the whites. His exertions could not prevent his people from using the “fire-water” occasionally; and consequently, he could not prevent their becoming weakened, and so blinded to their own interest as to sell the land of their forefathers, and aid the encroachments of the whites. The people whom he governed, have either entirely melted away before the influence of war and the use of ardent spirits, or greatly reduced in numbers, have removed far beyond the Mississippi.

FARMER’S BROTHER.

NECDOTES of men who have been distinguished for their bravery, whether friend or foe, civilized or savage, seldom fail to excite an interest.

During the second war with England, the Seneca nation of Indians, who resided in the neighborhood of Buffalo, were employed by the American government, and attached themselves to the army, then about to enter Canada, under the command of General Brown. The principal chief of this tribe was “Farmer’s Brother”--a stout, athletic warrior. The frosts of eighty winters had passed over his head; and yet he retained his faculties in an eminent degree. He possessed all the ardour of his young associates, and was uncommonly animated at the prospect which a fresh harvest of laurels presented to his mind.

This celebrated chief, in the war between England and France, was engaged in the service of the latter. He once pointed out, to the writer of this account, the spot where, with a party of Indians, he lay in ambush--patiently waiting the approach of a guard that accompanied the English teams, employed between the Falls of Niagara and the British garrison; the fort had lately surrendered to Sir William Johnson. The place selected for that purpose is now known by the name of the “Devil’s Hole,” and is three and a half miles below the famous cataract, upon the United States side. The mind can scarcely conceive a more dismal looking den. A large ravine, occasioned by the falling in of the perpendicular bank, made dark by the spreading branches of the birch and cedar, which had taken root below, and the low murmurings of the rapids in the chasm, added to the solemn thunder of the cataract itself, conspire to render the scene truly awful. The English party were not aware of the dreadful fate which awaited them. Unconscious of danger, the drivers were gaily whistling to their dull ox-teams. On their arrival at this spot, Farmer’s Brother and his band rushed from the thicket that had concealed them, and commenced a horrid butchery. So unexpected was the attack, and so completely were the English deprived of all presence of mind, but a feeble resistance was made. The guard, the teamsters, the oxen, and the wagons, were precipitated into the gulf. But two of them escaped; a Mr. Steadman, who lived at Schlosser, above the falls, being mounted on a fleet horse, made good his retreat; and one of the soldiers, who was caught on the projecting root of a cedar, which sustained him until--assured by the distant yells of the savages--they had left the grounds. He then clambered up, and proceeded to Fort Niagara, with the intelligence of this disaster. A small rivulet, which pours itself down this precipice, was literally colored with the blood of the vanquished--and has ever since borne the name of “The Bloody Run.”

In the war of the Revolution, Farmer’s Brother evinced his hostility to the Americans upon every occasion that occurred; and with the same zeal, he engaged in the late war against his former friends--the British.