CHAPTER VII
There was a curious and motley assembly, that night, in the halls ofSir William Johnson. There were several ladies and gentlemen fromAlbany, several young military men, and two or three persons of aclass now extinct, but who then drove a thriving commerce, and whosepeculiar business it was to trade with the Indians. Some of the latterwere exceedingly well educated men, and one or two of them werepersons not only of enlightened minds, but of enlarged views andheart. The others were mere brutal speculators, whose whole end andobject in life was to wring as much from the savages and give aslittle in return as possible. Besides these, an Indian chief would,from time to time, appear in the rooms, often marching through inperfect silence, observing all that was going on with dignifiedgravity, and then going back to his companions at the Castle. Amongstthe rest was Otaitsa, still in her Indian costume, but evidently ingala dress, of the finest cloth and the most elaborate embroidery. Notonly was she perfectly at her ease, talking to everyone, laughing withmany; but the sort of shrinking, timid tenderness which gave her sogreat a charm in the society of the few whom she loved had given placeto a wild spirit of gaiety but little in accordance with the characterof her nation.
She glided hither and thither through the room; she rested in oneplace hardly for a moment; her jests were as light, and sometimes assharp as those of almost any Parisian dame; and when one of the youngofficers ventured to speak to her somewhat lightly as the mere Indiangirl, she piled upon him a mass of ridicule that wrung tears oflaughter from the eyes of one or two older men standing near.
"I know not what has come to the child to-night," said Mr. Gore, whowas seated near Edith in one of the rooms; "a wild spirit seems tohave seized upon her, which is quite unlike her whole character andnature--unlike the character of her people, too, or I might think thatthe savage had returned notwithstanding all my care."
"Perhaps it is the novelty and excitement of the scene," said Edith.
"Oh no," answered the missionary, "there is nothing new in this sceneto her. She has been at these meetings several times during the lasttwo or three years, but never seemed to yield to their influence asshe has done to-night."
"She has hardly spoken a word to me," said Edith. "I hope she will notforget the friends who love her."
"No fear of that, my dear," replied Mr. Gore, "Otaitsa is all heart,and that heart a gentle one; under its influence is she acting now. Itthrobs with something that we do not know; and those light words thatmake us smile to hear, have sources deep within her--perhaps ofbitterness."
"I think I have heard her say," answered Edith, "that you educated herfrom her childhood."
"When first I joined the people of the Stone," replied the missionary,"I found her there a young child of three years old. Her mother wasjust dead, and although her father bore his grief with the stern,gloomy stoicism of his nation, and neither suffered tear to fall norsigh to escape his lips, I could see plainly enough that he was struckwith grief such as the Indian seldom feels and never shows. Hereceived me most kindly, and made my efforts with his people easy; andthough I know not to this hour whether with himself I have beensuccessful in communicating blessed light, he gave his daughteraltogether up to my charge, and with her I have not failed. I fear inhim the savage is too deeply rooted to be ever wrung forth, but her Ihave made one of Christ's flock indeed."
It seemed as if by a sort of instinct that Otaitsa discovered that shewas the subject of conversation between her two friends. Twice shelooked around at them from the other side of the room, and then sheglided across and seated herself beside Edith. For a moment she sat insilence there, and then leaning her head gracefully on her beautifulcompanion's shoulder, she said in a low whisper: "Do not close thineeyes this night, my sister, till thou seest me;" and then starting up,she mingled with the little crowd again.
It was still early in the night when Edith retired to the chamberassigned for her; for even in the most fashionable society of thosetimes, people had not learned to drive the day into the night, andmake morning and evening meet. Her room was a large and handsome one,and though plainly, it was sufficiently furnished. No forest, as ather dwelling, interrupted the beams of the rising moon, and she satand contemplated the ascent of the queen of night as she soaredgrandly over the distant trees. The conduct of Otaitsa during thatnight had puzzled her, and the few whispered words had excited hercuriosity, for it must not be forgotten that Edith was altogetherunacquainted with the fact of one of the Oneidas having been slain bythe hands of Captain Brooks within little more than two miles of herown abode. She proceeded to make her toilet for the night, however,and was almost undressed when she heard the door of her room openquietly, and Otaitsa stole in and cast her arms around her.
"Ah, my sister," she said, "I have longed to talk with you;" andseating herself by her side, she leaned her head again upon Edith'sshoulder, but remained silent for several minutes. The fair Englishgirl knew that it was better to let her take her own time and her ownway to speak whatever she had to say, but Otaitsa remained so longwithout uttering a word that an undefinable feeling of alarm spreadover her young companion. She felt her bosom heave as if withstruggling sighs, she even felt some warm drops like tears fall uponher shoulder, and yet Otaitsa remained without speaking, till atlength Edith said, in a gentle and encouraging tone: "What is it, mysister? There can surely be nothing you should be afraid to utter tomy ear."
"Not afraid," answered Otaitsa, and then she relapsed into silenceagain.
"But why do you weep, my sweet Blossom?" said Edith, after pausing fora moment or two to give her time to recover her composure.
"Because one of your people has killed one of my people," answered theIndian girl, sorrowfully. "Is not that enough to make me weep?"
"Indeed," exclaimed Edith, "I am much grieved to hear it, Blossom; butwhen did this happen, and how?"
"It happened but yesterday," replied the girl, "and but a littletoward the morning from your own house, my sister. It was a sad day!It was a sad day!"
"But I trust it was none near and dear to the Blossom or to the BlackEagle," said Edith, putting her arms around her and trying to sootheher.
"No, no," answered Otaitsa, "he was a bad man, a treacherous man, onewhom my father loved not. But that matters little. They will haveblood for his blood."
The truth flashed upon Edith's mind at once; for though lessacquainted with the Indian habits than her brother or her father, sheknew enough of their revengeful spirit to feel sure that they wouldseek the death of the murderer with untiring eagerness, and shequestioned her sweet companion earnestly as to all the particulars ofthe sad tale. Otaitsa told her all she knew, which was indeed nearlyall that could be told. The man called the Snake, she said, had beenshot by the white man Woodchuck, in the wood to the northeast of Mr.Prevost's house. Intimation of the fact had spread like fire in drygrass through the whole of the Oneidas, who were flocking to themeeting at Sir William Johnson's Castle, and from them it would runthrough the whole tribe.
"Woodchuck has escaped," she said, "or he would have been slain erenow; but they will have his life yet, my sister;" and then she added,slowly and sorrowfully, "or the life of some other white man, if theycannot catch this one."
The words presented to Edith's mind a sad and terrible idea--one morefearful in its vagueness and uncertainty of outline than in thedarkness of particular points. That out of a narrow and limitedpopulation someone was foredoomed to be slain; that out of a smallbody of men, all feeling almost as brethren, one was to be marked outfor slaughter; that one family was to lose husband or father orbrother, and no one could tell which, made her feel like one out of aherd of wild animals cooped up within the toils of the hunters.
Edith's first object was to learn more from her young companion, butOtaitsa had told almost all she knew.
"What they will do I know not," she said; "they do not tell us women.But I fear, Edith, I fear very much; for they say our brother Walterwas with the Woodchuck when the deed was done."
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p; "Not so! not so!" cried Edith. "Had he been so, I should have heard ofit. He has gone to Albany, and had he been present I am sure he wouldhave stopped it if he could. If your people tell truth they willacknowledge that he was not there."
Otaitsa raised her head suddenly with a look of joy, exclaiming: "Iwill make her tell the truth were she as cunning a snake as hewas--but yet, my sister Edith, someone will have to die if they findnot the man they seek."
The last words were spoken in a melancholy tone again; but then shestarted up, repeating, "I will make her tell the truth."
"Can you do so?" asked Edith. "Snakes are always very crafty."
"I will try at least," answered the girl; "but oh, my sister, it werebetter for you and Walter, and your father, too, to be away. When astorm is coming, we try to save what is most precious. There is yetample time to go, for the red people are not rash, and do not acthastily, as you white people do."
"But is there no means," asked Edith, "of learning what the intentionof the nation really is?"
"I know of none," answered the girl, "that can be depended upon withcertainty. The people of the Stone change no more than the stone fromwhich they sprang. The storm beats upon them, the sun shines uponthem, and there is little difference on the face of the rock. Yet letyour father watch well when he is at the great talk tomorrow. Then ifthe priest is very smooth and soft-spoken, and if the Black Eagle isstern and silent, wraps his blanket over his left breast, be sure thatsomething sad is meditated. That is all that I can tell you--but Iwill make this woman speak the truth if there be truth in her, andthat, too, before the chiefs of the nation. Now, sister, lie down torest. Otaitsa is going at once to her people."
"But are you not afraid?" asked Edith. "It is a dark night, dearBlossom. Lie down with me and wait the morning sunshine."
"I have no fear," answered the Indian girl; "nothing will hurt me.There are times, sister, when a spirit enters into us that defies alland fears nothing. So it has been with me this night. The only thing Idreaded to face was my own thought, and it I would not suffer to restupon anything till I had spoken with you. Now, however, I have betterhopes. I will go forth and I will make her tell the truth."
Thus saying, she left Edith's chamber, and about an hour and a halfafter she might be seen standing beside her father, who was seatednear a fire kindled in one corner of the court attached to a largehouse, or rather fort, built by Sir William Johnson on the banks ofthe Mohawk, and called by him his Castle. Round the sachem, forming acomplete circle, sat a number of the head men of the Oneidas, each inthat peculiar crouching position which has been rendered familiar toour eyes by numerous paintings. The court and the Castle itself werewell nigh filled with Indians of other tribes of the Five Nations, butnone took any part in the proceedings of the Oneidas but themselves,and the only stranger who was present in the circle was Sir WilliamJohnson. He was still fully dressed in his British uniform, and seatedon a chair in an attitude of much dignity, with his left hand restingon the hilt of his sword. With the exception of that weapon he had noarms whatever; and indeed it was his custom to sleep frequently in themidst of his red friends utterly unarmed and defenceless. The occasionseemed a solemn one, for all faces were very grave, and a completesilence prevailed for several minutes.
"Bring in the woman," said Black Eagle, at length; "bring her in, andlet her speak the truth."
"Of what do you accuse her, Otaitsa?" asked Sir William Johnson,fixing his eyes upon his beautiful guest.
"Of lying to the sachem and to her brethren," answered Otaitsa. "Herbreath has been full of the poison of the Snake."
"Thou hearest," said the Black Eagle, turning to a woman of some oneor two and twenty years of age. "What sayest thou?"
"I lie not," answered the woman, in the Indian tongue. "I saw him liftthe rifle and shoot my brother dead."
"Who did it?" asked Black Eagle, gravely and calmly.
"The Woodchuck," answered the woman. "He did it. I know his face toowell."
"Believe her not," answered Otaitsa, "the Woodchuck was ever a friendof our nation. He is our brother. He would not slay an Oneida."
"But he was my brother's enemy," answered the woman. "There wasvengeance between them."
"Vengeance on thy brother's part," answered the old chief. "Morelikely he to slay the Woodchuck than the Woodchuck to slay him."
"If she have a witness, let her bring him forward," said Otaitsa. "Wewill believe her by the tongue of another."
"I have none," cried the woman, vehemently; "none was present butourselves, but I saw him kill my brother with my own eyes, and I cryfor his blood."
"Didst thou not say that there were two white men with him?" askedOtaitsa, raising up her right hand. "Then in this thou hast lied tothe sachem and thy brethren, and who shall say whether thou speakestthe truth now."
A curious sort of drowsy hum ran round the circle of the Indians, andone old man said: "She has spoken well."
The woman, in the meanwhile, stood silent and abashed, with her eyesfixed upon the ground, and Black Eagle said in a grave tone: "Therewas none?"
"No," said the woman, lifting her look firmly, "there was none; but Isaw two others in the wood hard by, and I was sure they were hiscompanions."
"That is guile," said Black Eagle, sternly. "Thou didst say that therewere two men with him, one the young paleface, Walter, and the other atall stranger, and brought a cloud over our eyes, and made us thinkthat they were present at the death."
"Then methinks, Black Eagle," said Sir William Johnson, using theirlanguage nearly as fluently as his own, "there is no faith to be putin the woman's story, and we cannot tell what has happened."
"Not so, my brother," answered Black Eagle. "We know that the Snakewas slain yesterday, before the sun had reached the pine tops. Webelieve, too, that the Woodchuck slew him, for there was an enmitybetween them; and the ball which killed him was a large ball, such aswe have never seen but in that man's pouch."
"That is doubtful evidence," said Sir William, "and I trust my brotherwill let vengeance cease till he have better witnesses."
The Indians remained profoundly silent for more than a minute, andthen the old man who had spoken once before, replied: "If our brotherwill give us up Woodchuck, vengeance shall cease."
"That I cannot do," answered Sir William Johnson. "First, I have nopower; secondly, he may be tried by our laws; but I will not lie toyou. If he can show he did it in self-defence, he will be set free."
Again there was a long silence, and then Black Eagle rose, saying: "Wemust take counsel."
His face was very grave, and as he spoke he drew the large blueblanket which covered his shoulders over his left breast, with thegesture which Otaitsa had described to Edith, as indicating some darkdetermination. Sir William Johnson marked the signs he saw, and wastoo well acquainted with Indian character to believe that their thirstfor blood was at all allayed; but neither by expression ofcountenance, nor by words, did he show any doubt of his red friends,and slept amongst them calmly that night without a fear of the result.
At an early hour on the following morning all the arrangements weremade for the great council, or talk, that was about to be held. Somelarge armchairs were brought forth into the court. A few soldiers wereseen moving about, and some negro servants. A number of the guestsfrom the Hall came up about nine o'clock, most of them on horseback;but when all were assembled, the body of white men present were fewand insignificant when compared with the multitude of Indians whosurrounded them. No one showed or entertained any fear, however, andthe conference commenced and passed off with perfect peace andharmony.
It is true that several of the Indian chiefs, and more especially KingHendrick, as he was called, the son of the chief who had been killednear Fort George a year or two before, had made some complaintsagainst the British government for neglect of the just claims of theirred allies. All angry feeling, however, was removed by a somewhatlarge distribution of presents, and after hearing everything which theIndians had to say, Sir Wil
liam Johnson rose from the chair in whichhe had been seated, between Lord H---- and Mr. Prevost, and addressedthe assembly in English, according to his invariable custom, whencalled upon to deal publicly with the heads of the Five Nations, thespeech being translated, sentence for sentence, by an interpreter. Thewhole of his address cannot be given here, but it was skillfullyturned to suit the prejudices and conciliate the friendship of thepeople to whom he spoke. He said that their English father, KingGeorge, loved his red children with peculiar affection, but as hislodge was a long way off, he could not always know their wants andwishes. He had very lately, however, shown his great tenderness andconsideration for the Five Nations by appointing him, Sir WilliamJohnson, as Indian agent, to make known as speedily as possible allthat his red children desired. He then drew a glowing picture of thegreatness and majesty of the English monarch, as the Attotarho ofchief leader of a thousand different nations, sitting under a pinetree that reached to the sky, and receiving every minute messages fromhis children in every part of the earth.
A hum of satisfaction from the Indians followed this flight of fancy,and the speaker went on to say that this great chief, their father,had long ago intended to do much for them, and still intended to doso, but that the execution of his benevolent purposes had been delayedand impeded by the machinations of the French, their enemies and his,whom he represented as stealthily lying in wait for all the ships andconvoys of goods and presents which were destined for his Indianchildren, and possessing themselves of them by force or fraud. Rich ashe might be, he asked how was it possible that their white fathercould supply all their wants when he had so many to provide for, andwhen so many of his enemies had dug up the tomahawk at once. If thechiefs of the Five Nations, however, he said, would vigorously aid himin his endeavors, King George would speedily drive the French fromAmerica; and to show his intention of so doing, he had sent over thegreat chief on his left hand, Lord H----, and many other mightywarriors, to fight side by side with their red brethren. More, hesaid, would come on in the ensuing spring, and with the first flowerthat blossomed under the hemlock trees the English warriors would beready for the battle, if the Indian chiefs then present would promisethem cordial support and co-operation.
It must not be supposed that in employing very exaggerated languageSir William had any intention of deceiving. He merely used figuressuited to the comprehension of his auditors, and his speech gave thevery highest satisfaction. The unusually large presents which had beendistributed, the presence and bearing of the young nobleman, and anatural weariness of the state of semi-neutrality between the Frenchand the English, which they had maintained for some time, disposed thechiefs to grant the utmost he could desire, and the conference brokeup with the fullest assurance of support from the heads of theIroquois tribes--assurances which were faithfully made good in thecampaigns which succeeded.
Ticonderoga: A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley Page 7
