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Ticonderoga; A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley

<h4>CHAPTER VII</h4> There was a curious and motley assembly, that night, in the halls of Sir William Johnson. There were several ladies and gentlemen from Albany, several young military men, and two or three persons of a class now extinct, but who then drove a thriving commerce, and whose peculiar business it was to trade with the Indians. Some of the latter were exceedingly well educated men, and one or two of them were persons not only of enlightened minds, but of enlarged views and heart. The others were mere brutal speculators, whose whole end and object in life was to wring as much from the savages and give as little in return as possible. Besides these, an Indian chief would, from time to time, appear in the rooms, often marching through in perfect silence, observing all that was going on with dignified gravity, and then going back to his companions at the Castle. Amongst the rest was Otaitsa, still in her Indian costume, but evidently in gala dress, of the finest cloth and the most elaborate embroidery. Not only was she perfectly at her ease, talking to everyone, laughing with many; but the sort of shrinking, timid tenderness which gave her so great a charm in the society of the few whom she loved had given place to a wild spirit of gaiety but little in accordance with the character of her nation. She glided hither and thither through the room; she rested in one place hardly for a moment; her jests were as light, and sometimes as sharp as those of almost any Parisian dame; and when one of the young officers ventured to speak to her somewhat lightly as the mere Indian girl, she piled upon him a mass of ridicule that wrung tears of laughter 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, who was seated near Edith in one of the rooms; "a wild spirit seems to have seized upon her, which is quite unlike her whole character and nature--unlike the character of her people, too, or I might think that the 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 scene to her. She has been at these meetings several times during the last two or three years, but never seemed to yield to their influence as she has done to-night." "She has hardly spoken a word to me," said Edith. "I hope she will not forget 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. It throbs with something that we do not know; and those light words that make us smile to hear, have sources deep within her--perhaps of bitterness." "I think I have heard her say," answered Edith, "that you educated her from 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 was just dead, and although her father bore his grief with the stern, gloomy stoicism of his nation, and neither suffered tear to fall nor sigh to escape his lips, I could see plainly enough that he was struck with grief such as the Indian seldom feels and never shows. He received me most kindly, and made my efforts with his people easy; and though I know not to this hour whether with himself I have been successful in communicating blessed light, he gave his daughter altogether up to my charge, and with her I have not failed. I fear in him the savage is too deeply rooted to be ever wrung forth, but her I have made one of Christ's flock indeed." It seemed as if by a sort of instinct that Otaitsa discovered that she was the subject of conversation between her two friends. Twice she looked around at them from the other side of the room, and then she glided across and seated herself beside Edith. For a moment she sat in silence there, and then leaning her head gracefully on her beautiful companion's shoulder, she said in a low whisper: "Do not close thine eyes 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 chamber assigned for her; for even in the most fashionable society of those times, people had not learned to drive the day into the night, and make morning and evening meet. Her room was a large and handsome one, and though plainly, it was sufficiently furnished. No forest, as at her dwelling, interrupted the beams of the rising moon, and she sat and contemplated the ascent of the queen of night as she soared grandly over the distant trees. The conduct of Otaitsa during that night had puzzled her, and the few whispered words had excited her curiosity, for it must not be forgotten that Edith was altogether unacquainted with the fact of one of the Oneidas having been slain by the hands of Captain Brooks within little more than two miles of her own abode. She proceeded to make her toilet for the night, however, and was almost undressed when she heard the door of her room open quietly, and Otaitsa stole in and cast her arms around her. "Ah, my sister," she said, "I have longed to talk with you;" and seating herself by her side, she leaned her head again upon Edith's shoulder, but remained silent for several minutes. The fair English girl knew that it was better to let her take her own time and her own way to speak whatever she had to say, but Otaitsa remained so long without uttering a word that an undefinable feeling of alarm spread over her young companion. She felt her bosom heave as if with struggling sighs, she even felt some warm drops like tears fall upon her shoulder, and yet Otaitsa remained without speaking, till at length Edith said, in a gentle and encouraging tone: "What is it, my sister? There can surely be nothing you should be afraid to utter to my ear." "Not afraid," answered Otaitsa, and then she relapsed into silence again. "But why do you weep, my sweet Blossom?" said Edith, after pausing for a moment or two to give her time to recover her composure. "Because one of your people has killed one of my people," answered the Indian girl, sorrowfully. "Is not that enough to make me weep?" "Indeed," exclaimed Edith, "I am much grieved to hear it, Blossom; but when did this happen, and how?" "It happened but yesterday," replied the girl, "and but a little toward 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 Black Eagle," said Edith, putting her arms around her and trying to soothe her. "No, no," answered Otaitsa, "he was a bad man, a treacherous man, one whom my father loved not. But that matters little. They will have blood for his blood." The truth flashed upon Edith's mind at once; for though less acquainted with the Indian habits than her brother or her father, she knew enough of their revengeful spirit to feel sure that they would seek the death of the murderer with untiring eagerness, and she questioned her sweet companion earnestly as to all the particulars of the sad tale. Otaitsa told her all she knew, which was indeed nearly all that could be told. The man called the Snake, she said, had been shot 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 dry grass through the whole of the Oneidas, who were flocking to the meeting at Sir William Johnson's Castle, and from them it would run through the whole tribe. "Woodchuck has escaped," she said, "or he would have been slain ere now; 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 they cannot catch this one." The words presented to Edith's mind a sad and terrible idea--one more fearful in its vagueness and uncertainty of outline than in the darkness of particular points. That out of a narrow and limited population someone was foredoomed to be slain; that out of a small body of men, all feeling almost as brethren, one was to be marked out for slaughter; that one family was to lose husband or father or brother, and no one could tell which, made her feel like one out of a herd of wild animals cooped up within the toils of the hunters. Edith's first object was to learn more from her young companion, but Otaitsa 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 Walter was with the Woodchuck when the deed was done." "Not so! not so!" cried Edith. "Had he been so, I should have heard of it. He has gone to Albany, and had he been present I am sure he would have stopped it if he could. If your people tell truth they will acknowledge that he was not there." Otaitsa raised her head suddenly with a look of joy, exclaiming: "I will make her tell the truth were she as cunning a snake as he was--but yet, my sister Edith, someone will have to die if they find not the man they seek." The last words were spoken in a melancholy tone again; but then she started 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 were better for you and Walter, and your father, too, to be away. When a storm is coming, we try to save what is most precious. There is yet ample time to go, for the red people are not rash, and do not act hastily, as you white people do." "But is there no means," asked Edith, "of learning what the intention of the nation really is?" "I know of none," answered the girl, "that can be depended upon with certainty. The people of the Stone change no more than the stone from which they sprang. The storm beats upon them, the sun shines upon them, and there is little difference on the face of the rock. Yet let your father watch well when he is at the great talk tomorrow. Then if the priest is very smooth and soft-spoken, and if the Black Eagle is stern and silent, wraps his blanket over his left breast, be sure that something sad is meditated. That is all that I can tell you--but I will make this woman speak the truth if there be truth in her, and that, too, before the chiefs of the nation. Now, sister, lie down to rest. Otaitsa is going at once to her people." "But are you not afraid?" asked Edith. "It is a dark night, dear Blossom. 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 all and fears nothing. So it has been with me this night. The only thing I dreaded to face was my own thought, and it I would not suffer to rest upon anything till I had spoken with you. Now, however, I have better hopes. 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 half after she might be seen standing beside her father, who was seated near a fire kindled in one corner of the court attached to a large house, or rather fort, built by Sir William Johnson on the banks of the Mohawk, and called by him his Castle. Round the sachem, forming a complete circle, sat a number of the head men of the Oneidas, each in that peculiar crouching position which has been rendered familiar to our eyes by numerous paintings. The court and the Castle itself were well nigh filled with Indians of other tribes of the Five Nations, but none took any part in the proceedings of the Oneidas but themselves, and the only stranger who was present in the circle was Sir William Johnson. He was still fully dressed in his British uniform, and seated on a chair in an attitude of much dignity, with his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword. With the exception of that weapon he had no arms whatever; and indeed it was his custom to sleep frequently in the midst of his red friends utterly unarmed and defenceless. The occasion seemed a solemn one, for all faces were very grave, and a complete silence prevailed for several minutes. "Bring in the woman," said Black Eagle, at length; "bring her in, and let 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. "Her breath has been full of the poison of the Snake." "Thou hearest," said the Black Eagle, turning to a woman of some one or two and twenty years of age. "What sayest thou?" "I lie not," answered the woman, in the Indian tongue. "I saw him lift the 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 too well." "Believe her not," answered Otaitsa, "the Woodchuck was ever a friend of our nation. He is our brother. He would not slay an Oneida." "But he was my brother's enemy," answered the woman. "There was vengeance between them." "Vengeance on thy brother's part," answered the old chief. "More likely he to slay the Woodchuck than the Woodchuck to slay him." "If she have a witness, let her bring him forward," said Otaitsa. "We will believe her by the tongue of another." "I have none," cried the woman, vehemently; "none was present but ourselves, but I saw him kill my brother with my own eyes, and I cry for his blood." "Didst thou not say that there were two white men with him?" asked Otaitsa, raising up her right hand. "Then in this thou hast lied to the sachem and thy brethren, and who shall say whether thou speakest the truth now." A curious sort of drowsy hum ran round the circle of the Indians, and one old man said: "She has spoken well." The woman, in the meanwhile, stood silent and abashed, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and Black Eagle said in a grave tone: "There was none?" "No," said the woman, lifting her look firmly, "there was none; but I saw two others in the wood hard by, and I was sure they were his companions." "That is guile," said Black Eagle, sternly. "Thou didst say that there were two men with him, one the young paleface, Walter, and the other a tall stranger, and brought a cloud over our eyes, and made us think that they were present at the death." "Then methinks, Black Eagle," said Sir William Johnson, using their language nearly as fluently as his own, "there is no faith to be put in the woman's story, and we cannot tell what has happened." "Not so, my brother," answered Black Eagle. "We know that the Snake was slain yesterday, before the sun had reached the pine tops. We believe, too, that the Woodchuck slew him, for there was an enmity between them; and the ball which killed him was a large ball, such as we have never seen but in that man's pouch." "That is doubtful evidence," said Sir William, "and I trust my brother will let vengeance cease till he have better witnesses." The Indians remained profoundly silent for more than a minute, and then the old man who had spoken once before, replied: "If our brother will give us up Woodchuck, vengeance shall cease." "That I cannot do," answered Sir William Johnson. "First, I have no power; secondly, he may be tried by our laws; but I will not lie to you. 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: "We must take counsel." His face was very grave, and as he spoke he drew the large blue blanket which covered his shoulders over his left breast, with the gesture which Otaitsa had described to Edith, as indicating some dark determination. Sir William Johnson marked the signs he saw, and was too well acquainted with Indian character to believe that their thirst for blood was at all allayed; but neither by expression of countenance, 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 were made for the great council, or talk, that was about to be held. Some large armchairs were brought forth into the court. A few soldiers were seen moving about, and some negro servants. A number of the guests from 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 few and insignificant when compared with the multitude of Indians who surrounded them. No one showed or entertained any fear, however, and the conference commenced and passed off with perfect peace and harmony. It is true that several of the Indian chiefs, and more especially King Hendrick, as he was called, the son of the chief who had been killed near Fort George a year or two before, had made some complaints against the British government for neglect of the just claims of their red allies. All angry feeling, however, was removed by a somewhat large distribution of presents, and after hearing everything which the Indians had to say, Sir William Johnson rose from the chair in which he had been seated, between Lord H---- and Mr. Prevost, and addressed the assembly in English, according to his invariable custom, when called upon to deal publicly with the heads of the Five Nations, the speech being translated, sentence for sentence, by an interpreter. The whole of his address cannot be given here, but it was skillfully turned to suit the prejudices and conciliate the friendship of the people to whom he spoke. He said that their English father, King George, loved his red children with peculiar affection, but as his lodge was a long way off, he could not always know their wants and wishes. He had very lately, however, shown his great tenderness and consideration for the Five Nations by appointing him, Sir William Johnson, as Indian agent, to make known as speedily as possible all that his red children desired. He then drew a glowing picture of the greatness and majesty of the English monarch, as the Attotarho of chief leader of a thousand different nations, sitting under a pine tree that reached to the sky, and receiving every minute messages from his 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 do so, but that the execution of his benevolent purposes had been delayed and impeded by the machinations of the French, their enemies and his, whom he represented as stealthily lying in wait for all the ships and convoys of goods and presents which were destined for his Indian children, and possessing themselves of them by force or fraud. Rich as he might be, he asked how was it possible that their white father could supply all their wants when he had so many to provide for, and when so many of his enemies had dug up the tomahawk at once. If the chiefs of the Five Nations, however, he said, would vigorously aid him in his endeavors, King George would speedily drive the French from America; and to show his intention of so doing, he had sent over the great chief on his left hand, Lord H----, and many other mighty warriors, to fight side by side with their red brethren. More, he said, would come on in the ensuing spring, and with the first flower that blossomed under the hemlock trees the English warriors would be ready for the battle, if the Indian chiefs then present would promise them cordial support and co-operation. It must not be supposed that in employing very exaggerated language Sir William had any intention of deceiving. He merely used figures suited to the comprehension of his auditors, and his speech gave the very highest satisfaction. The unusually large presents which had been distributed, the presence and bearing of the young nobleman, and a natural weariness of the state of semi-neutrality between the French and the English, which they had maintained for some time, disposed the chiefs to grant the utmost he could desire, and the conference broke up with the fullest assurance of support from the heads of the Iroquois tribes--assurances which were faithfully made good in the campaigns which succeeded. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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