The brake hung low on the rifted rock
With sweet and holy dread,
The wild-flowers trembled to the shock
Of the red man's stealthy tread;
And all around fell a fitful gleam
Through the light and quivering spray.
While the noise of a restless mountain-stream
Rush'd out on the stilly day.
The traveler who has stopped at Catskill, on his way up the Hudson,
will remember that a creek of no insignificant breadth washes
one side of the village, and that a heavy stone dwelling stands a little
up from the water on a point of verdant meadow-land, which
forms a lip of the stream, where it empties into the more majestic
river. This farm-house is the only object that breaks the green
and luxuriant beauty of the point, on that side, and its quiet and entire
loneliness contrasts pleasantly with the bustling and crowded
little village on the opposite body of land. There is much to attract
attention to that dwelling. Besides occupying one of the most lovely
sites on the river, it is remarkable for an appearance of old-fashioned
comfort at variance with the pillared houses and rustic cottages
which meet the eye everywhere on the banks of the Hudson.
There are no flowers to fling fragrance about it, and but little of
embellishment is manifest in its grounds; but it is surrounded by an
abundance of thrifty fruit-trees; an extensive orchard sheds its
rich foliage to the sunshine on the bank, and the sward is thick and
heavy which slopes greenly from the front door down to the river's
brink.
The interior of the house retains an air of substantial comfort which
answers well to the promise conveyed without. The heavy furniture
has grown old with its occupants; rich it has been in its time, and
now it possesses the rare quality of fitness, and of being in harmony
with surrounding things. Every thing about that house is in perfect
keeping with the character and appearance of its owner. The occupant
himself, is a fine stately farmer of the old class—shrewd, penetrating,
and intelligent—one of those men who contrive to keep
the heart green when the frost of age is chilling the blood and whitening
upon the brow. He has already numbered more than the
threescore years and ten allotted to man. His habits and the fashion
of his attire are those of fifty years ago. He still clings to
huge wood-fires, apples, and cider in the winter season, and allows a
bevy of fine cows to pasture on the rich grass in front of his dwelling
in the summer. All the hospitable feeling of former years remains
warm at his heart. He is indeed a fine specimen of the
staunch old republican farmer of the last century, occupying the
house which his father erected, and enjoying a fresh old age beneath
the roof tree which shadowed his infancy.
During a sojourn in this vicinity last season, it was one of our
greatest pleasures to spend an evening with the old gentleman, listening
to legends of the Indians, reminiscences of the Revolution, and
pithy remarks on the present age, with which he loved to entertain
us, while we occasionally interrupted him by comparing knitting-work
with the kind old lady, his wife, or by the praises of a sweet
little grandchild, who would cling about his knees and play with the
silver buckles on his shoes as he talked. That tall, stately old man,
and the sweet child made a beautiful picture of "age at play with
infancy," when the fire-light flickered over them, to the ancient
family pictures, painted in Holland, hanging on the wall behind us,
in the old-fashioned oval frames, which, with the heavy Dutch Bible,
which lay on the stand, secured with hasps and brass hinges, ponderous
as the fastenings of a prison-door, were family relics precious
to the old gentleman from antiquity and association. Yes, the picture
was pleasant to look upon; but there was pleasure in listening
to his legends and stories. If the one here related is not exactly as
he told it, he will not fail to recognize the beautiful young Indian
girl, whom he described to us, in the character of Malaeska.
At the time of our story, the beautiful expanse of country which
stretches from the foot of the Catskill mountains to the Hudson was
one dense wilderness. The noble stream glided on in the solemn stillness
of nature, shadowed with trees that had battled with storms
for centuries, its surface as yet unbroken, save by the light prow of
the Indian's canoe. The lofty rampart of mountains frowned against
the sky as they do now, but rendered more gloomy by the thick
growth of timber which clothed them at the base; they loomed up
from the dense sea of foliage like the outposts of a darker world.
Of all the cultivated acres which at the present day sustain thousands
with their products, one little clearing alone smiled up from the
heart of the wilderness. A few hundred acres had been cleared by
a hardy band of settlers, and a cluster of log-houses was erected in
the heart of the little valley which now contains Catskill village.
Although in the neighborhood of a savage Indian tribe, the little
band of pioneers remained unmolested in their humble occupations,
gradually clearing the land around their settlement, and sustaining
their families on the game which was found in abundance in the
mountains. They held little intercourse with the Indians, but hitherto
no act of hostility on either side had aroused discontent between
the settlers and the savages.
It was early in May, about a year after the first settlement
of the whites, when some six or eight of the stoutest men started
for the woods in search of game. A bear had been seen on the
brink of the clearing at break of day, and while the greater number
struck off in search of more humble game, three of the most
resolute followed his trail, which led to the mountains.
The foremost of the three hunters was an Englishman of about forty,
habited in a threadbare suit of blue broadcloth, with drab gaiters
buttoned up to his knees, and a hat sadly shorn of its original
nap. His hunting apparatus bespoke the peculiar care which all of
his country so abundantly bestow on their implements of sport.
The other two were much younger, and dressed in home-made cloth,
over which were loose frocks manufactured from the refuse flax or
swingled tow. Both were handsome, but different in the cast of
their features. The character of the first might be read in his gay
air and springy step, as he followed close to the Englishman, dashing
away the brushwood with the muzzle of his gun, and detecting
with a quick eye the broken twigs or disturbed leaves which betrayed
the course of the hunted bear. There was also something characteristic
in the wearing of his dress, in the fox-skin cap thrown
carelessly on one side of his superb head, exposing a mass of short
brown curls around the left ear and temple, and in the bosom of his
coarse frock thrown open so as to give free motion to a neck Apollo
might have coveted. He was a hunter, who had occasionally visited
the settlement of late, but spent whole weeks in the woods, professedly
in collecting furs by his own efforts, or by purchase from the tribe
of Indians encamped at the foot of the mountains.
The last was more sedate in his looks, and less buoyant in his air.
There was an intellectual expression in his high, thoughtful brow,
embrowned though it was by exposure. A depth of thought in his
serious eye and a graceful dignity in his carriage, bespoke him as
one of those who hide deep feeling under an appearance of coldness
and apathy. He had been a schoolmaster in the Bay State, from
whence he had been drawn by the bright eyes and merry laugh
of one Martha Fellows, a maiden of seventeen, whose father had
moved to the settlement at Catskill the preceding summer, and to
whom, report said, he was to be married whenever a minister, authorized
to perform the ceremony, should find his way to the settlement.
The three hunters bent their way in a southwestern direction from
the settlement, till the forest suddenly opened into a beautiful and
secluded piece of meadow-land, known to this day by its Dutch title
of "the Straka," which means, our aged friends informed us,
a strip of land. The Straka lay before them of an oblong form,
some eight or ten acres in expanse, with all its luxuriance of trees,
grass and flowers, bathed in the dew and sunshine of a summer's
morning. It presented a lovely contrast to the dense wilderness
from which the hunters emerged, and they halted for a moment beneath
the boughs of a tall hickory to enjoy its delicious freshness.
The surface of the inclosure was not exactly level, but down the
whole length it curved gently up from the middle, on either side, to
the magnificent trees that hedged it in with a beautiful and leafy
rampart. The margin was irregular; here and there a clump of
trees shot down into the inclosure, and the clearing occasionally ran
up into the forest in tiny glades and little grassy nooks, in which
the sunlight slumbered like smiles on the face of a dreaming infant.
On every side the trunks of huge trees shot up along the margin
beneath their magnificent canopy of leaves, like the ivied columns
of a ruin, or fell back in the misty perspective of the forest, scarcely
discernible in its gloom of shadow. The heavy piles of foliage,
which fell amid the boughs like a wealth of drapery flung in masses
to the summer wind, was thrifty and ripe with the warm breath of
August. No spirit of decay had as yet shed a gorgeous breath
over its deep, rich green, but all was wet with dew, and kindled up
by the sunlight to a thousand varying tints of the same color. A
bright spring gushed from a swell of ground in the upper part of
the inclosure, and the whole surface of the beautiful spot was covered
with a vigorous growth of tall meadow-grass, which rose thicker
and brighter and of a more delicate green down the middle,
where the spring curved onward in a graceful rivulet, musical as
the laugh of a child. As if called to life by the chime of a little
brook, a host of white wild flowers unfolded their starry blossoms
along the margin, and clumps of swamp lilies shed an azure hue
along the grass.
Until that day, our hunters had ever found "the Straka" silent
and untenanted, save by singing-birds, and wild deer which came
down from the mountains to feed on its rich verdure; but now a dozen
wreaths of smoke curled up from the trees at the northern extremity,
and a camp of newly-erected wigwams might be seen
through a vista in the wood. One or two were built even on the
edge of the clearing; the grass was much trampled around them,
and three or four half-naked Indian children lay rolling upon it,
laughing, shouting, and flinging up their limbs in the pleasant
morning air. One young Indian woman was also frolicking among
them, tossing an infant in her arms, caroling and playing with it.
Her laugh was musical as a bird song, and as she darted to and fro,
now into the forest and then out into the sunshine, her long hair
glowed like the wing of a raven, and her motion was graceful as an
untamed gazelle. They could see that the child, too, was very beautiful,
even from the distance at which they stood, and occasionally,
as the wind swept toward them, his shout came ringing upon it
like the gush of waters leaping from their fount.
"This is a little too bad," muttered the Englishman, fingering
his gun-lock. "Can they find no spot to burrow in but 'the
Straka?' St. George! but I have a mind to shoot the squaw and
wring the neck of every red imp among them."
"Do it!" exclaimed Danforth, turning furiously upon him;
"touch but a hair of her head, and by the Lord that made me, I
will bespatter that tree with your brains!"
The Englishman dropped the stock of his musket hard to the
ground, and a spot of fiery red flashed into his cheek at this savage
burst of anger so uncalled for and so insolent. He gazed a moment
on the frowning face of the young hunter, and then lifting his gun,
turned carelessly away.
"Tut, man, have done with this," he said; "I did but jest.
Come, we have lost the trail, and shall miss the game, too, it we
tarry longer; come."
The Englishman shouldered his musket, as he spoke, and turned
into the woods. Jones followed, but Danforth lingered behind.
"I must see what this means," he muttered, glancing after his
companions, and then at the group of young Indians; "what can
have brought them so near the settlement?"
He gave another quick glance toward the hunters, and then hurried
across "the Straka" toward the wigwams. Jones and the
Englishman had reached the little lake or pond, which was about a
mile south of "the Straka," when they were again joined by Danforth.
His brow was unclouded, and he seemed anxious to do away
the effect of his late violence by more than ordinary cheerfulness.
Harmony was restored, and they again struck into the trail of the
bear, and pursued toward the mountains.
Noon found our hunters deep in the ravines which cut into the
ridge of the Catskill on which the Mountain House now stands.
Occupied by the wild scenery which surrounded him, Jones became
separated from his companions, and long before he was aware of it,
they had proceeded far beyond the reach of his voice. When he became
sensible of his situation, he found himself in a deep ravine
sunk into the very heart of the mountains. A small stream crept
along the rocky bottom, untouched by a single sun's ray, though
it was now high noon. Every thing about him was wild and fearfully
sublime, but the shadows were refreshing and cool, and the
stream, rippling along its rocky bed, sent up a pleasant murmur
as he passed. Gradually a soft, flowing sound, like the rush of a
current of air through a labyrinth of leaves and blossoms came
gently to his ear. As he proceeded, it became more musical and
liquid swelled upon the ear gradually and with a richer burden
of sound, till he knew that it was the rush and leap of waters at no
great distance. The ravine had sunk deeper and deeper, and fragments
of rock lay thickly in the bed of the stream. Arthur Jones
paused, and looked about him bewildered, and yet with a lofty, poetical
feeling at his heart, aroused by a sense of the glorious handiwork
of the Almighty encompassing him. He stood within the
heart of the mountain, and it seemed to heave and tremble beneath
his feet with some unknown influence as he gazed. Precipices, and
rocks piled on rocks were heaped to the sky on either side. Large
forest-trees stood rooted in the wide clefts, and waved their heavy
boughs abroad like torn banners streaming upon the air. A strip
of the blue heavens arched gently over the whole, and that was
beautiful. It smiled softly, and like a promise of love over that
sunless ravine. Another step, and the waterfall was before him.
It was sublime, but beautiful—oh, very beautiful—that little body
of water, curling and foaming downward like a wreath of snow
sifted from the clouds, breaking in a shower of spray over the shelf
of rocks which stayed its progress, then leaping a second foaming
mass, down, down, like a deluge of flowing light, another hundred
feet to the shadowy depths of the ravine. A shower of sunlight
played amid the foliage far overhead, and upon the top of the curving
precipice where the waters made their first leap. As the hunter
became more calm, he remarked how harmoniously the beautiful and
sublime were blended in the scene. The precipices were rugged and
frowning, but soft, rich mosses and patches of delicate white wild-flowers
clung about them. So profusely were those gentle flowers
lavished upon the rocks, that it seemed as if the very spray drops
were breaking into blossoms as they fell. The hunter's heart swelled
with pleasure as he drank in the extreme beauty of the scene. He
rested his gun against a fragment of rock, and sat down with his
eyes fixed on the waterfall. As he gazed, it seemed as if the precipices
were moving upward—upward to the very sky. He was pondering
on this strange optical illusion, which has puzzled many a
dizzy brain since, when the click of a gunlock struck sharply on his
ear. He sprang to his feet. A bullet whistled by his head, cutting
through the dark locks which curled in heavy masses above his temples,
and as a sense of giddiness cleared from his brain, he saw a
half-naked savage crouching upon the ledge of rocks which ran
along the foot of the fall. The spray fell upon his bronzed shoulders
and sprinkled the stock of his musket as he lifted it to discharge
the other barrel. With the quickness of thought, Jones drew his
musket to his eye and fired. The savage sent forth a fierce, wild
yell of agony, and springing up with the bound of a wild animal,
fell headlong from the shelf. Trembling with excitement, yet firm
and courageous, the hunter reloaded his gun, and stood ready to
sell his life as dearly as possible, for he believed that the ravine was
full of concealed savages, who would fall upon him like a pack of
wolves. But everything remained quiet, and when he found that
he was alone, a terrible consciousness of bloodshed came upon him.
His knees trembled, his cheek burned, and, with an impulse of
fierce excitement, he leaped over the intervening rocks and stood by
the slain savage. He was lying with his face to the earth, quite
dead; Jones drew forth his knife, and lifting the long, black hair,
cut it away from the crown. With the trophy in his hand, he
sprang across the ravine. The fearless spirit of a madness seemed
upon him, for he rushed up the steep ascent, and plunged into the
forest, apparently careless what direction he took. The sound of a
musket stopped his aimless career. He listened, and bent his steps
more calmly toward the eminence on which the Mountain House
now stands. Here he found the Englishman with the carcass of a
huge bear stretched at his feet, gazing on the glorious expanse of
country, spread out like a map, hundreds of fathoms beneath him.
His face was flushed, and the perspiration rolled freely from his forehead.
Danforth stood beside him, also bearing traces of recent conflict.
"So you have come to claim a share of the meat," said the old
hunter, as Jones approached. "It is brave to leave your skulking
place in the bushes, when the danger is over. Bless me, lad! what
have you there?" he exclaimed, starting up and pointing to the
scalp.
Jones related his encounter with the savage. The Englishman
shook his head forebodingly.
"We shall have hot work for this job before the week is over,"
he said. "It was a foolish shot; but keep a good heart, my lad, for
hang me, if I should not have done the same thing if the red devil had
sent a bullet so near my head. Come, we will go and bury the
fellow the best way we can."
Jones led the way to the fall, but they found only a few scattered
locks of black hair, and a pool of blood half washed from the rock
by the spray. The body of the savage and his rifle had disappeared—how,
it was in vain to conjecture.
One of the largest log-houses in the settlement had been appropriated
as a kind of tavern, or place of meeting for the settlers when
they returned from their hunting excursions. Here a store of spirits
was kept, under the care of John Fellows and pretty Martha
Fellows, his daughter, the maiden before mentioned. As the sun
went down, the men who had gone to the woods in the morning began
to collect with their game. Two stags, racoons and meaner
game in abundance, were lying before the door, when the three
hunters came in with the slain bear. They were greeted with a
boisterous shout, and the hunters crowded eagerly forward to examine
the prize; but when Jones cast the Indian's scalp on the pile,
they looked in each other's faces with ominous silence, while the
young hunter stood pale and collected before them. It was the first
time that Indian life had been taken by any of their number, and
they felt that in the shedding of red blood, the barriers of their protection
were broken down.
"It is a bad business," said one of the elder settlers, waving his
head and breaking the general silence. "There'll be no clear hunting
in the woods after this; but how did it all come about, Jones?
Let us know how you came by that scalp—did the varmint fire at
you, or how was it?"
The hunters gathered around Jones, who was about to account for
his possession of the scalp, when the door of the house was opened,
and he happened to look into the little room thus exposed. It was
scantily furnished with a few benches and stools; a bed was in one
corner, and Martha Fellows, his promised wife, stood by a rough,
deal-table, on which were two or three drinking-cups, a couple of
half-empty bottles, with a pitcher of water, backed by a broken mug,
filled to the fractured top with maple molasses. Nothing of the kind
could have been more beautiful than pretty Martha as she bent forward,
listening with rapt attention to the animated whisper of William
Danforth, who stood by her, divested of his coarse frock, his cap
lying on the table before him, and his athletic figure displayed to the
best advantage by the roundabout buttoned closely over his bosom.
A red silk handkerchief, tied like a scarf round his waist, gave a
picturesque gracefulness to his costume, altogether in harmony with
his fine proportions, and with the bold cast of his head, which certainly
was a model of muscular beauty.
A flash of anger shot athwart Arthur Jones' forehead, and a
strange jealous feeling came to his heart. He began a confused account
of his adventure, but the Englishman interrupted him, and
took it upon himself to gratify the clamorous curiosity of the hunters,
leaving Jones at liberty to scrutinize each look and motion of his
lady-love. He watched with a jealous feeling the blush as it deepened
and glowed on her embrowned cheek; he saw the sparkling pleasure
of her hazel eyes, and the pretty dimples gathering about her red
lips, like spots of sunlight flickering through the leaves of a red rose,
and his heart sickened with distrust. But when the handsome hunter
laid his hands on hers and bent his head, till the short curls on
his temples almost mingled with her glossy ringlets, the lover could
bear the sight no more. Breaking from the little band of hunters,
he stalked majestically into the house, and approaching the object
of his uneasiness, exclaimed, "Martha Fellows," in a voice which
caused the pretty culprit to snatch her hand from under the hunter's,
and to overturn two empty tin cups in her fright.
"Sir," said Martha, recovering herself, and casting a mischievous
glance at Danforth, which was reciprocated with interest.
Mr. Arthur Jones felt that he was making himself ridiculous,
and suppressing his wrath, he finished his magnificent commencement;
"Will you give me a drink of water?" At which Martha
pointed with her little embrowned hand to the pitcher, saying:
"There it is;" then, turning her back to her lover, she cast
another arch glance at Danforth, and taking his cap from the table,
began to blow upon the yellow fur, and put it to her cheek, as if it
had been a pet kitten she was caressing, and all for the laudable
purpose of tormenting the man who loved her, and whom she loved
better than any thing in existence. Jones turned on her a bitter
contemptuous look, and raising the pitcher to his lips, left the room.
In a few minutes the other hunters entered, and Jason Fellows,
father to Martha, announced it as decided by the hunters, who had
been holding a kind of council without, that Arthur Jones and William
Danforth, as the two youngest members of the community,
should be dispatched to the nearest settlement to request aid to protect
them from the Indians, whose immediate attack they had good
reason to fear.
Martha, on hearing the names of the emissaries mentioned,
dropped the cup she had been filling.
"Oh, not him—not them, I mean—they will be overtaken and
tomahawked by the way!" she exclaimed, turning to her father
with a look of affright.
"Let Mr. Danforth remain," said Jones, advancing to the table;
"I will undertake the mission alone."
Tears came into Martha's eyes, and she turned them reproachfully
to her lover; but, full of his heroic resolution to be tomahawked and
comfortably scalped on his own responsibility, he turned majestically,
without deigning to meet the tearful glance which was well calculated
to mitigate his jealous wrath.
Danforth, on being applied to, requested permission to defer his
answer till the morning, and the hunters left the house to divide
the game, which had been forgotten in the general excitement.
Danforth, who had lingered to the last, took up his cap, and
whispering good-night to Martha, left the house. The poor girl
scarcely heeded his departure. Her eyes filled with tears, and seating
herself on a settee which ran along one end of the room, she folded
her arms on a board which served as a back, and burying her
face upon them, wept violently.
As she remained in this position, she heard a familiar step on the
floor. Her heart beat quick, fluttered a moment, and then settled
to its regular pulsations again, for her lover had seated himself
beside her. Martha wiped the tears from her eyes and remained
quiet, for she knew that he had returned, and with that knowledge,
the spirit of coquetry had revived; and when Jones, softened by
her apparent sorrow—for he had seen her parting with Danforth—put
his hand softly under her forehead and raised her face, the
creature was laughing—laughing at his folly, as he thought.
"Martha, you are doing wrong—wrong to yourself and to me,"
said the disappointed lover, rising indignantly and taking his hat,
with which he advanced to the door.
"Don't go," said Martha, turning her head till one cheek only
rested on her arm, and casting a glance, half-repentant, half-comic,
on her retreating lover; "don't go off so; if you do, you'll be very
sorry for it."
Jones hesitated—she became very serious—the tears sprang to
her eyes, and she looked exceedingly penitent. He returned to her
side. Had he appealed to her feelings then—had he spoken of the
pain she had given him in her encouragement of another, she would
have acknowledged the fault with all proper humility; but he did no
such thing—he was a common-sense man, and he resolved to end his
first love-quarrel in a common-sense manner, as if common-sense
ever had any thing to do with lovers' quarrels. "I will reason with
her," he thought. "He will say I have made him very wretched,
and I will tell him I am very sorry," she thought.
"Martha," he said, very deliberately, "why do I find you on
terms of such familiarity with this Manhattan fellow?"
Martha was disappointed. He spoke quite too calmly, and there
was a sarcastic emphasis in the word "fellow," that roused her
pride. The lips, which had just begun to quiver with repentance,
worked themselves into a pouting fullness, till they resembled the
rose-bud just as it bursts into leaves. Her rounded shoulder was
turned pettishly toward her lover, with the air of a spoiled child,
and she replied that "he was always finding fault."
Jones took her hand, and was proceeding in his sensible manner
to convince her that she was wrong, and acted wildly, foolishly, and
with a careless disregard to her own happiness.
As might be expected, the beautiful rustic snatched her hand away,
turned her shoulder more decidedly on her lover, and bursting into
tears, declared that she would thank him if he would stop scolding,
and that she did not care if she never set eyes on him again.
He would have remonstrated; "Do listen to common sense," he
said, extending his hand to take hers.
"I hate common-sense!" she exclaimed, dashing away his hand;
"I won't hear any more of your lecturing,—leave the house, and
never speak to me again as long as you live."
Mr. Arthur Jones took up his hat, placed it deliberately on his
head, and walked out of the house. With a heavy heart Martha
watched his slender form as it disappeared in the darkness, and then
stole away to her bed in the garret.
"He will call in the morning before he starts; he won't have the
heart to go away without saying one word,—I am sure he won't,"
she repeated to herself over and over again, as she lay sobbing and
weeping penitent tears on her pillow that night.
When William left the log tavern, he struck into the woods, and
took his course toward the Pond. There was a moon, but the sky
was clouded, and the little light which struggled to the earth, was
too faint to penetrate the thick foliage of the wilderness. Danforth
must have been familiar with the track, for he found his way without
difficulty through the wilderness, and never stopped till he came
out on the northern brink of the Pond. He looked anxiously over
the face of the little lake. The fitful moon had broken from a cloud,
and was touching the tiny waves with beauty, while the broken,
rocky shore encompassed it with shadow, like a frame-work of ebony.
No speck was on its bosom; no sound was abroad, but the evening
breeze as it rippled on the waters, and made a sweet whispering
melody in the tree-tops.
Suddenly a light, as from a pine torch, was seen on a point of land
jutting out from the opposite shore. Another and another flashed
out, each bearing to a particular direction, and then a myriad of
flames rose high and bright, illuminating the whole point, and shooting
its fiery reflection, like a meteor, almost across the bosom of the
waters.
"Yes, they are preparing for work," muttered Danforth, as he
saw a crowd of painted warriors arrange themselves around the
camp-fire, each with his firelock in his hand. There was a general
movement. Dark faces flitted in quick succession between him and
the blaze as the warriors performed the heavy march, or war-dance,
which usually preceded the going out of a hostile party.
Danforth left the shore, and striking out in an oblique direction,
arrived, after half an hour of quick walking, at the Indian encampment.
He threaded his way through the cluster of bark wigwams,
till he came to one standing on the verge of the inclosure. It was
of logs, and erected with a regard to comfort which the others wanted.
The young hunter drew aside the mat which hung over the entrance,
and looked in. A young Indian girl was sitting on a pile of
furs at the opposite extremity. She wore no paint—her cheek was
round and smooth, and large gazelle-like eyes gave a soft brilliancy
to her countenance, beautiful beyond expression. Her dress was a
robe of dark chintz, open at the throat, and confined at the waist by
a narrow belt of wampum, which, with the bead bracelets on her
naked arms, and the embroidered moccasins laced over her feet, was
the only Indian ornament about her. Even her hair, which all of
her tribe wore laden with ornaments, and hanging down the back,
was braided and wreathed in raven bands over her smooth forehead.
An infant, almost naked, was lying in her lap, throwing its unfettered
limbs about, and lifting his little hands to his mother's mouth, as she
rocked back and forth on her seat of skins, chanting, in a sweet,
mellow voice, the burden of an Indian lullaby. As the form of the
hunter darkened the entrance, the Indian girl started up with a look
of affectionate joy, and lying her child on the pile of skins, advanced
to meet him.
"Why did the white man leave his woman so many nights?"
she said, in her broken English, hanging fondly about him; "the
boy and his mother have listened long for the sound of his moccasins."
Danforth passed his arm around the waist of his Indian wife, and
drawing her to him bent his cheek to hers, as if that slight caress
was sufficient answer to her gentle greeting, and so it was; her untutored
heart, rich in its natural affections, had no aim, no object,
but what centered in the love she bore her white husband. The feelings
which in civilized life are scattered over a thousand objects,
were, in her bosom, centered in one single being; he supplied the
place of all the high aspirations—of all the passions and sentiments
which are fostered into strength by society, and as her husband bowed
his head to hers, the blood darkened her cheek, and her large liquid
eyes were flooded with delight.
"And what has Malaeska been doing since the boy's father went
to the wood?" inquired Danforth, as she drew him to the couch
where the child was lying half buried in the rich fur.
"Malaeska has been alone in the wigwam, watching the shadow
of the big pine. When her heart grew sick, she looked in the boy's
eyes and was glad," replied the Indian mother, laying the infant in
his father's arms.
Danforth kissed the child, whose eyes certainly bore a striking
resemblance to his own; and parting the straight, black hair from
a forehead which scarcely bore a tinge of its mother's blood, muttered,
"It's a pity the little fellow is not quite white."
The Indian mother took the child, and with a look of proud
anguish, laid her finger on its cheek, which was rosy with English
blood.
"Malaeska's father is a great chief—the boy will be a chief in
her father's tribe; but Malaeska never thinks of that when she sees
the white man's blood come into the boy's face." She turned
mournfully to her seat again.
"He will make a brave chief," said Danforth, anxious to soften
the effects of his inadvertent speech; "but tell me, Malaeska, why
have the warriors kindled the council fire? I saw it blaze by the
pond as I came by."
Malaeska could only inform that the body of a dead Indian had
been brought to the encampment about dusk, and that it was supposed
he had been shot by some of the whites from the settlement.
She said that the chief had immediately called a council to deliberate
on the best means of revenging their brother's death.
Danforth had feared this movement in the savages, and it was to
mitigate their wrath that he sought the encampment at so late an
hour. He had married the daughter of their chief, and, consequently,
was a man of considerable importance in the tribe. But
he felt that his utmost exertion might fail to draw them from their
meditated vengeance, now that one of their number had been slain
by the whites. Feeling the necessity of his immediate presence at the
council, he left the wigwam and proceeded at a brisk walk to the
brink of the Pond. He came out of the thick forest which fringed
it a little above the point on which the Indians were collected.
Their dance was over, and from the few guttural tones which reached
him, Danforth knew that they were planning the death of
some particular individuals, which was probably to precede their
attack on the settlement. The council fire still streamed high in the
air, reddening the waters and lighting up the trees and foreground
with a beautiful effect, while the rocky point seemed of emerald pebbles,
so brilliant was the reflection cast over it, and so distinctly
did it display the painted forms of the savages as they sat in a circle
round the blaze, each with his weapon lying idly by his side. The
light lay full on the glittering wampum and feathery crest of one
who was addressing them with more energy than is common to the
Indian warrior.
Danforth was too far off to collect a distinct hearing of the discourse,
but with a feeling of perfect security, he left the deep
shadow in which he stood, and approached the council fire. As the
light fell upon him, the Indians leaped to their feet, and a savage
yell rent the air, as if a company of fiends had been disturbed in
their orgies. Again and again was the fierce cry reiterated, till the
woods resounded with the wild echo rudely summoned from the
caves. As the young hunter stood lost in astonishment at the
strange commotion, he was seized by the savages, and dragged before
their chief, while the group around furiously demanded vengeance,
quick and terrible, for the death of their slain brother.
The truth flashed across the hunter's mind. It was death they
had been planning. It was he they supposed to be the slayer of the
Indian. He remonstrated and declared himself guiltless of the
red man's death. It was in vain. He had been seen on the mountain
by one of the tribe, not five minutes before the dead body of
the Indian was found. Almost in despair the hunter turned to the
chief.
"Am I not your son—the father of a young chief—one of your
own tribe?" he said, with appealing energy.
The saturnine face of the chief never changed, as he answered
in his own language: "The red man has taken a rattlesnake to
warm in his wigwam—the warrior shall crush his head!" and
with a fierce grin, he pointed to the pile of resinous wood which the
savages were heaping on the council fire.
Danforth looked around on the group preparing for his destruction.
Every dusky face was lighted up with a demoniac thirst for
blood, the hot flames quivering into the air, their gorgeous tints
amalgamating and shooting upward like a spire of living rainbows,
while a thousand fiery tongues, hissing and darting onward like
vipers eager for their prey, licked the fresh pine-knots heaped for
his death-pyre. It was a fearful sight, and the heart of the brave
hunter quailed within him as he looked. With another wild whoop,
the Indians seized their victim, and were about to strip him for the
sacrifice. In their blind fury, they tore him from the grasp of those
who held him, and were too intent on divesting him of his clothes to
remark that his limbs were free. But he was not so forgetful.
Collecting his strength for a last effort, he struck the nearest savage
a blow in the chest, which sent him reeling among his followers,
then taking advantage of the confusion, he tore off his cap, and
springing forward with the bound of an uncaged tiger, plunged into
the lake. A shout rent the air, and a score of dark heads broke the
water in pursuit.
Fortunately a cloud was over the moon and the fugitive remained
under the water till he reached the shadow thrown by the thickly-wooded
bank, when, rising for a moment, he supported himself and
hurled his cap out toward the center of the pond. The ruse succeeded,
for the moon came out just at the instant, and with renewed
shouts the savages turned in pursuit of the empty cap. Before they
learned their mistake, Danforth had made considerable headway under
the friendly bank, and took the woods just as the shoal of Indians'
heads entered the shadow in eager chase.
The fugitive stood for a moment on the brink of the forest,
irresolute, for he knew not which course to take.
"I have it; they will never think of looking for me there," he
exclaimed, dashing through the undergrowth, and taking the direction
toward "the Straka." The whoop of the pursuers smote his
ear as they made the land. On, on he bounded with the swiftness
of a hunted stag, through swamp and brushwood, and over rocks.
He darted till he came in sight of his own wigwam. The sound
of pursuit had died away, and he began to hope that the savages had
taken the track which led to the settlement.
Breathless with exertions he entered the hut. The boy was asleep,
but his mother was listening for the return of her husband.
"Malaeska," he said, catching her to his panting heart: "Malaeska,
we must part; your tribe seek my life; warriors are on my
track now—now! Do you hear their shouts?" he added.
A wild whoop came up from the woods below, and forcing back
the arms she had flung about him, he seized a war-club and stood
ready for the attack.
Malaeska sprang to the door, and looked out with the air of a
frightened doe. Darting back to the pile of furs, she laid the sleeping
child on the bare earth, and motioning her husband to lie down,
heaped the skins over his prostrate form; then taking the child in
her arms, she stretched herself on the pile, and drawing a bear-skin
over her, pretended to be asleep. She had scarcely composed herself,
when three savages entered the wigwam. One bore a blazing pine-knot,
with which he proceeded to search for the fugitive. While the
others were busy among the scanty furniture, he approached the
trembling wife, and after feeling about among the furs without effect,
lifted the bear-skins which covered her; but her sweet face in apparent
slumber, and the beautiful infant lying across her bosom, were
all that rewarded his search. As if her beauty had power to tame
the savage, he carefully replaced the covering over her person, and
speaking to his companions, left the hut without attempting to
disturb her further.
Malaeska remained in her feigned slumber till she heard the Indians
take to the woods again. Then she arose and lifted the skins from
off her husband, who was nearly suffocated under them. When he
had regained his feet, she placed the war-club in his hand, and
taking up the babe, led the way to the entrance of the hut. Danforth
saw by the act, that she intended to desert her tribe and accompany
him in his flight. He had never thought of introducing
her as his wife among the whites, and now that circumstances made
it necessary for him to part with her forever, or to take her among
his people for a shelter, a pang, such as he had never felt, came to
his heart. His affections struggled powerfully with his pride. The
picture of his disgrace—of the scorn with which his parents and
sisters would receive the Indian wife and half Indian child, presented
itself before him, and he had not the moral courage to risk the
degradation which her companionship would bring upon him. These
conflicting thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant, and
when his wife stopped at the door, and, looking anxiously in his face,
beckoned him to follow, he said, sharply, for his conscience was ill at
ease:
"Malaeska, I go alone; you and the boy must remain with your
people."
His words had a withering effect on the poor Indian. Her form
drooped, and she raised her eyes with a look so mingled with humiliation
and reproach, that the hunter's heart thrilled painfully in
his bosom. Slowly, and as if her soul and strength were paralyzed,
she crept to her husband's feet, and sinking to her knees, held up
the babe.
"Malaeska's breast will die, and the boy will have no one to feed
him," she said.
That beautiful child—that young mother kneeling in her humiliation—those
large dark eyes, dim with the intensity of her solicitude,
and that voice so full of tender entreaty—the husband's
heart could not withstand them. His bosom heaved, tears gathered
in his eyes, and raising the Indian and her child to his bosom, he
kissed them both again and again.
"Malaeska," he said, folding her close to his heart, "Malaeska,
I must go now; but when seven suns have passed, I will come again;
or, if the tribe still seek my life, take the child and come to the settlement.
I shall be there."
The Indian woman bowed her head in humble submission.
"The white man is good. Malaeska will come," she said.
One more embrace, and the poor Indian wife was alone with her
child.
Poor Martha Fellows arose early, and waited with nervous impatience
for the appearance of her lover; but the morning passed, the
hour of noon drew near, and he came not. The heart of the maiden
grew heavy, and when her father came in to dine, her eyes were red
with weeping, and a cloud of mingled sorrow and petulance darkened
her handsome face. She longed to question her father about
Jones, but he had twice replenished his brown earthern bowl with
pudding and milk, before she could gather courage to speak.
"Have you seen Arthur Jones this morning?" she at length
questioned in a low, timid voice.
The answer she received, was quite sufficient punishment for all
her coquettish folly of the previous night. Jones had left the settlement—left
it in anger with her, without a word of explanation—without
even saying farewell. It really was hard. The little coquette
had the heart-ache terribly, till he frightened it away by telling
her of the adventure which Danforth had met with among the
Indians, and of his departure with Arthur Jones in search of aid
from the nearest settlement. The old man gloomily added, that the
savages would doubtless burn the houses over their heads, and massacre
every living being within them, long before the two brave fellows
would return with men. Such indeed, were the terrible fears
of almost every one in the little neighborhood. Their apprehensions
however, were premature. Part of the Indian tribe had gone
out on a hunting-party among the hills, and were ignorant of the
fatal shot with which Jones had aroused the animosity of their
brethren; while those who remained, were dispersed in a fruitless
pursuit after Danforth.
On the afternoon of the fifth day after the departure of their emissaries,
the whites began to see unequivocal symptoms of an attack;
and now their fears did not deceive them. The hunting-party
had returned to their encampment, and the detached parties were
gathering around "the Straka." About dark, an Indian appeared
in the skirts of the clearing, as if to spy out the position of the
whites. Soon after, a shot was fired at the Englishman, before mentioned
as he returned from his work, which passed through the
crown of his hat. That hostilities were commencing, was now beyond
a doubt, and the males of the settlement met in solemn conclave,
to devise measures for the defence of their wives and children.
Their slender preparations were soon made; all were gathered
around one of the largest houses in gloomy apprehension; the women
and children within, and the man standing in front, sternly resolving
to die in the defence of their loved ones. Suddenly there
came up a sound from the wood, the trampling of many feet, and
the crackling of brushwood, as if some large body of men were
forcing a way through the tangled forest. The women bowed their
pallid faces, and gathering their children in their arms, waited appalled
for the attack. The men stood ready, each grasping his
weapon, their faces pallid, and their eyes kindled with stern courage,
as they heard the stifled groans of the loved objects cowering
behind them for protection. The sound became nearer and more
distinct; dark forms were seen dimly moving among the trees, and
then a file of men came out into the clearing. They were whites,
led on by William Danforth and Arthur Jones. The settlers uttered
a boisterous shout, threw down their arms, and ran in a body to
meet the new-comers. The woman sprang to their feet, some weeping,
others laughing in hysterical joy, and all embracing their children
with frantic energy.
Never were there more welcome guests than the score of weary
men who refreshed themselves in the various houses of the settlement
that night. Sentinels were placed, and each settler returned
to his dwelling, accompanied by three or four guests; every heart
beat high, save one—Martha Fellows; she, poor girl, was sad
among the general rejoicing; her lover had not spoken to her
though she lingered near his side in the crowd, and had once almost
touched him. Instead of going directly to her father's house, as
had been his custom, he accepted the Englishman's invitation, and
departed to sleep in his dwelling.
Now this same Englishman had a niece residing with him, who
was considered by some to be more beautiful than Martha herself.
The humble maiden thought of Jones, and of the bright blue eyes of
the English girl, till her heart burned with the same jealous feelings
she had so ridiculed in her lover.
"I will see him! I will see them both!" she exclaimed, starting
up from the settle where she had remained, full of jealous anxiety,
since the dispersing of the crowd; and unheeded by her father, who
was relating his hunting exploits to the five strangers quartered on
him, she dashed away her tears, threw a shawl over her head, and
taking a cup, as an excuse for borrowing something, left the house.
The Englishman's dwelling stood on the outward verge of the
clearing, just within the shadow of the forest. Martha had almost
reached the entrance, when a dark form rushed from its covert in
the brushwood, and rudely seizing her, darted back into the wilderness.
The terrified girl uttered a fearful shriek; for the fierce eyes
gazing down upon her, were those of a savage. She could not repeat
the cry, for the wretch crushed her form to his naked chest
with a grasp of iron, and winding his hand in her hair, was about
to dash her to the ground. That moment a bullet whistled by her
cheek. The Indian tightened his hold with spasmodic violence, staggered
back, and fell to the ground, still girding her in his death-grasp;
a moment he writhed in mortal agony—warm blood gushed
over his victim—the heart under her struggled fiercely in its last
throes; then the lifeless arms relaxed, and she lay fainting on a
corpse.
