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

<h4>CHAPTER XXVI</h4> The stillness of death pervaded the great lodge of the Oneidas, and yet it was not vacant. But Black Eagle sat in the outer chamber alone. With no eye to see him, with none to mark the traces of those emotions which the Indian so carefully conceals from observation, he gave way, in a degree, at least, to feelings which, however sternly hidden from others, wrought powerfully in his own heart. His bright blue and scarlet apparel, feathers and belt, medals and armlets, were thrown aside, and with his head bowed, his face full of gloomy sadness, and all the strong muscles of his beautifully proportioned figure relaxed, he sat like an exquisite figure sculptured in porphyry. No tear, indeed, bedewed his eyelids; no sigh escaped his lips; but the very attitude bespoke sorrow, and there was something awfully sad in the perfect, unvarying stillness of his form. Oh! what a terrible strife was going on within! Grief is ten times more terrible to those who concentrate it in the heart than to those who pour it forth upon the wide air. The door of the lodge opened. He started, and instantly was himself again; the head upright, the face clear, the aspect calm and dignified. "Where hast thou been, my child?" asked the chief, gazing on his daughter as she entered, with feeling mingled of a thousand strong emotions--parental love, fond admiration, and manifold memories. "Where thou hast permitted me to go, my father," she answered, with a smile so bland and sweet that a momentary suspicion crossed her father's mind. "Thou hast not forgot thy promise, my Blossom?" he said, in a tone as stern as he ever used to her. "Oh, no, my father," answered Otaitsa; "didst thou ever know me to do so? To see him--to be with him in his long captivity--to move the rock between us, and to let some light into his dark lodge. I promised, if thou wouldst let me stay with him a few short hours each day, I would do naught, try naught for his escape. Otaitsa has not a double tongue for her own father. Is Black Eagle's eye dim, that it cannot see his child's heart? Her heart is in his hand." "How fares the boy?" asked her father. "Is there sunshine with him, or a cloud?" "Sunshine," said Otaitsa, simply. "He sat and talked of death. It must be very happy." The chief gazed at her silently for a few moments, and then asked: "Does he think so, too?" "He makes me think so," answered the Blossom; "must it not be happy where there is no weeping, no slaughter, no parting of dear friends and lovers, where a Saviour and Redeemer is ever ready to mediate even for those who do such deeds?" "The Great Spirit is good," answered Black Eagle, thoughtfully. "The happy hunting grounds are ever ready for those who die bravely in battle." "For those who do good," said Otaitsa, with a sigh; "for those who spare their enemies, and show mercy--for those who obey even the voice of God in their own hearts, and are merciful and forgiving to their fellow men." Black Eagle smiled. "A woman's religion," he said. "Why should I forgive my enemies? The voice of God you speak of, in my heart, teaches me to kill them; for if I did not, they would kill me." "Not if they were Christians, too," said Otaitsa. "The voice of God tells all men to spare each other, to love each other; and if everyone obeyed it, there would be no such thing as enemies. All would be friends and brethren." Black Eagle mused for a moment or two, and then answered: "But there are enemies, and therefore I must kill them." "That is because men obey the voice of the evil spirit, and not that of the good," replied the Blossom. "Will my father do so? Black Eagle has the voice of the Good Spirit in his heart. He loves children, he loves his friends, he spares women, and has taught the Oneidas to spare them. All this comes from the the voice of the Good Spirit. Will he not listen to it farther?" Her father remained lost in thought, and believing that she had carried something, Otaitsa went on to the point nearest to her heart. "The Black Eagle is just," she said; "he dispenses equity between man and man. Is it either just, or does it come from the voice of the Good Spirit, that he should slay one who has done good, and not harm; that he should kill a man for another man's fault? Even if it be permitted to him to slay an enemy, is it permitted to slay a friend? If the laws of the Oneidas are unjust, if they teach faithlessness to one who trusted them, if they are contrary to the voice of the Good Spirit, is not Black Eagle a great chief who can change them, and teach his children better things?" Her father started up, and waved his hand impatiently. "No more!" he said; "no more! When I hear the voice of the Good Spirit, and know it, I will obey it; but our laws came from him, and I will abide by the sayings of our fathers." As he spoke he strode to the door of the lodge and gazed forth, while Otaitsa wept in silence. She saw that it was in vain to plead farther, and gliding up to her father's side she touched his arm reverently with her hand. "My father," she said, "I give thee back the permission to see him, and I take back my promise. Otaitsa will not deceive her father; but the appointed hour is drawing on, and she will save her husband if she can. She has laid no plan with him; she has found no scheme; she has not spoken to him of safety or escape. She has deceived Black Eagle in nothing, and she now tells him that she will shrink from no way to save her brother Walter--no, not even from death itself!" "Koui! koui!" said the chief, in a tone of profound melancholy. "Thou canst do nothing." Then, raising his head suddenly, he added: "Go, my daughter; it is well. If thy mother has made thee soft and tender as a flower, thy father has given thee the courage of the eagle. Go in peace; do what thou canst; but thou wilt fail!" "Then will I die!" said Otaitsa; and gliding past him, she sought her way through the huts. The first door she stopped at was partly covered with strange paintings in red and blue colors, representing, in somewhat grotesque forms, men and animals, and flowers. She entered at once, without hesitation, and found, seated in the dim twilight, before a large fire, the old chief who had spoken last at the council of the chiefs, in the glen. His ornaments bespoke a chief of high degree, and several deep scars in his long, meager limbs showed that he had been known in the battlefield. He did not even look round when Blossom entered, but still sat gazing at the flickering flame, without the movement of a limb or feature. Otaitsa seated herself before him, and gazed at his face in silence, waiting for him to speak. At the end of not less than five minutes he turned his head a little, looked at her, and asked: "What would the Blossom of the old Cedar Tree?" "I would take counsel with wisdom," said the girl. "I would hear the voice of the warrior who is just, and the great chief who is merciful. Let him whom my mother reverenced most, after her husband, among the children of the Stone, speak words of comfort to Otaitsa." Then, in language which, in rich imagery, and even in peculiarities of style, had a striking resemblance to the Hebrew writings, she poured forth to him all the circumstances of Walter's capture, and of their love and plighted faith; and, with the same arguments which we have seen already used, she tried to convince him of the wrong and injustice done to her lover. The old man listened with the usual appearance of apathy, but the beautiful girl before him gathered that he was much moved at heart, by the gradual bending down of his head, till his forehead nearly touched his knees. When she ceased, he remained silent for several moments, according to their custom, and then raised his head and answered: "How can the old Cedar Tree help thee?" he asked. "His boughs are withered, and the snows of more than seventy winters have bent them down. His roots are shaken in the ground, and the first blast of the tempest will lay him low. But the law of the Oneidas is in his heart; he cannot change it or pervert it. By thine own saying, it is clear that the Good Spirit will do nothing to save this youth. The young warrior is the first they lay hands on. No means have been found for his escape. No paleface has come into the Oneida land who might be made to take his place. All thine efforts to rescue him have been seeds that bore no fruit. Did the Good Spirit wish to save him, he would provide a means. I have no counsel, and my heart is dead, for I loved thy mother as a child. She was to me as the evening star, coming from afar to shine upon the nights of my days. But I have no way to help her child, no words to give her comfort. Has not the Black Eagle a sister, who loved thy mother well, who has seen well nigh as many winters as I have, and who has a charm from the Great Spirit? Her lodge is even now filled with wise women of the tribe, taking counsel together as to this matter of the young chief. All love him well, except the dark and evil Honontkoh; all would save him, whether man or woman of the nation, were not the law of the Oneida against him. Go to her lodge, then, and with her take counsel, for the Cedar Tree is without words." The lodge of Black Eagle's sister was next in size and importance to that of the chief himself, and on it, too, some European skill had been expended. Though on a somewhat smaller scale, it was very much such another building as that which has been described by a writer of those days as the "Palace of King Hendrick," the celebrated chief of the Mohawks. In a word, "It had the appearance of a good barn, divided across by a mat hung in the middle." It was of but one story, however; but the workman who had erected it, a good many years before, on the return from the completion of Fort Oswego, had added a door of European form, with a latch and a brass knob, which greatly increased its dignity in the eyes of the tribe. The possessor of this mansion, who was held in great reverence all through the Oneida nation, and was supposed to hold communication with the spiritual world, had obtained, I know not how, the name of the Gray Dove, although her features by no means displayed the characteristic meekness of the bird from which she derived her appellation, but bore a considerable resemblance to those of her brother, which certainly well accorded with his name. When Otaitsa approached the door she found it fastened, and she knocked twice with her hand before it was opened. A young girl then peeped out, and seeing the sachem's daughter, gave her admission at once into the outer apartment. The space on the outer side of the large mat which formed the partition was vacant, but there was a murmur of voices coming from the division beyond, and a light shone through the crevices between the mat and the wall. The feelings of Otaitsa's heart were too powerful to leave any timidity in her bosom, and although she shared in some degree the feelings of awe with which the other Oneidas regarded the Gray Dove, she advanced at once, drew back the corner of the mat, and entered the chamber beyond. The scene was neither of a very beautiful nor of a very solemn character, but nevertheless there was something very striking in it. Seated around a large fire in the middle were a number of the elder women of the tribe, whose faces and forms, once, perhaps, fair and lovely, had lost almost every trace of beauty. But their features were strongly marked, and had in many instances a stern and almost fierce expression. Their eyes, jetty black, and in most cases as brilliant as in early youth, shone in the light of the fire like diamonds, and in many an attitude and gesture appeared much of that grace which lingers longer with people accustomed to a free and unconfined life than with those of rigid and conventional habits. Outside of the first and elder circle sat a number of the younger women, from fifteen or sixteen years of age up to five or six and twenty. Many of them were exceedingly beautiful, but the figures of their elder companions shaded them mostly from the glare of the fire, and it was only here and there that one of those countenances could be discovered which offer in many of the Indian tribes fit models for painter or sculptor. Seated, not on the ground, like the rest, but on a small settle at the farther side of the inner circle, appeared Black Eagle's sister, gorgeously dressed, almost entirely in crimson, with armlets and bracelets of gold, and innumerable glittering ornaments round her neck. She was much older than her brother, and her hair, almost as white as snow, was knotted up behind on the ordinary roller, without any decoration. Her features were aquiline, and much more prominent than those of Black Eagle, and her eyes were still keen and bright. The moment they lighted upon Otaitsa, the exclamation burst from her lips: "She is come! The Great Spirit has sent her! Stand there in the midst, Blossom, and hear what we have resolved." Otaitsa passed between two of the younger and two of the elder women, taking her place between the inner circle and the fire, and wonderfully bright and beautiful did she look, with the flame flashing upon her exquisite form and delicate features, and lighting up a countenance full of strong enthusiasm and pure emotions. "Thy child hears thy words," she said, without pause or hesitation; for it must be remarked that the stoical gravity which prevailed at the conferences of the chiefs and warriors was not thought necessary among the women of the tribes. "What has the Gray Dove to say to the daughter of her brother?" "The boy must not die," said the old woman, in a firm and decided tone. "It is not the will of the Great Spirit. Or, if he die, there shall be wailing in every lodge, and mourning amongst the children of the Stone. Art thou willing, Otaitsa, child of the Black Eagle, daughter of the flower of the East, to do as we do, and to obey my voice?" Otaitsa gazed round the circle, and saw stern and lofty determination written on every countenance. After gazing round them for an instant, she answered: "I am. I will do what thou sayest to save him, even unto death!" "She has said!" cried the old woman. "Now, then, Blossom, this is the task: Thou shalt watch eagerly as a fox upon the hillside, and bring word to me of the exact day and hour when the sacrifice is to be offered. Everyone must watch!" "But how shall I discover?" asked Otaitsa. "The warriors tell not their secrets to women. The Black Eagle hides his thoughts from his daughter; he covers his face with a cloud, and wraps his purposes in shadows from our eyes." "By little signs shalt thou know," said the Gray Dove, "Small clouds prognosticate great storms. When thou seest any change, mark it well. If his head droop, and his eye seeks the ground more than common, bring or send the tidings unto me. If he be silent when he should speak, and hears not the words thou utterest; if he gazes up to the heaven as if he were seeking to know the changes of the weather when all is clear; and if he looks at the tomahawk as it hangs upon the beam, with a dull and heavy eye, be sure the time is coming." Otaitsa gave a wild start, and exclaimed: "Then it is this night, for all the signs thou hast mentioned have been present. When I entered the lodge his head was bowed down, and his eyes fixed upon the ground. He was very sad. He heard me, but his thoughts seemed to wander. When he stopped my petitions and turned toward the door, his eyes rested gloomily on the hatchet; and when he stood without, they were lifted to the sky, as if looking for stars in the daytime. It is to-night! It is to-night! Oh, what shall be done?" "Nay," answered the Gray Dove, with a kindly look, "it is not to-night. Be composed, my child. Not until to-morrow, at the hour of twilight, will the six moons have passed away, and the Black Eagle speaks no word in vain. He will not lift the tomahawk a moment before the hour; but to-morrow will be the time, after the sun has set. The palefaces have taken the warpath against each other, and the allies of the Black Eagle have called upon him to take wing and help them. They have bid him paint himself for battle, and come forth with his warriors. He has waited but for this, and now we know the day and the hour; for he will not tarry." Otaitsa still trembled, but her mind was much relieved for the present. She knew her father well, and she saw the truth of what the Gray Dove said. "How shall we stay him?" she inquired. "The Black Eagle bends not in his way like the serpent; he goes straight upon his path like a bird in the air. He hears not the voice of entreaty; his ears are stopped against the words of prayer. You may turn the torrent as it rushes down after the melting of the snow, or the rock as it falls from the precipice, but you cannot arrest the course of the Black Eagle, or turn him from his way!" "Be firm and constant," said the Gray Dove. "We are in the hands of the Great Spirit. Watch him closely, Otaitsa, all to-morrow, from the midday till the setting sun--from the setting sun till the dawn, if it be needful. The moment he goes forth, come then to me at the lodge of the Lynx, by the western gate of the palisade; there shalt thou find me with others. I know that thy young heart is strong, and that it will not quail. Watch carefully, but watch secretly. See if he takes the tomahawk in his belt, and if his face be gay or gloomy. Mark every sign, and bring the news to me." "They may go off by the other gate, and steal round," said one of the women in the inner circle. "I will set my daughter, now waiting, to watch that gate and bring us tidings. She is still and secret as the air of night, and has the foot of the wind." "It is good," said the Gray Dove, rising. "Let us all be prepared, for the boy must not die." No more was said, for the old prophetess fell into one of those deep and solemn reveries from which all present knew she could not easily be wakened, and which probably had acquired for her the reputation of conversing with the spirit world which she possessed. One by one, slowly and silently, the women stole out of the lodge, dispersing in various directions the moment they quitted the door. Otaitsa remained the last, in the hope that the Gray Dove would speak again, and afford her some further information of her plans; but she continued silently gazing on the fire, with her tall figure erect and stiff, and probably perfectly unconscious of the departure of the others, till at length the Blossom followed the rest, and returned quietly to the great lodge. The following day broke dark and stormy. About three o'clock in the afternoon a sharp, cold wind succeeded to the mild breath of spring, and the Indians generally remained assembled round their fires, leaving the wide space within the palisade very nearly deserted. Shortly before sunset one Indian woman crept quietly forth, and took her way toward a hut near the eastern entrance of their village. Another followed very speedily, and when twilight had ended and night begun, no less than twelve stood beneath the roof, with the Gray Dove in the midst of them. It was too dark for anyone to see the face of another, for the night had fallen heavily and thick, and a blanket was stretched across the entrance. But the Gray Dove felt them one after another with her hands, asking a question of each, to which she seemed to receive a satisfactory answer. "The thirteenth is not here," she said, "but she will come, and her heart will not fail." A dead silence fell over them all after these words were spoken; that sort of stern, heavy, solemn silence which not unfrequently precedes the execution of some strong and terrible resolution. Yet of those twelve there were several gay and lively girls, as well as women fallen into the decline of life; but nevertheless all were as still as death. The volatile lightness of youth, as well as the garrulity of old age, was hushed. Suddenly, after they had waited some twenty minutes, the blanket was pushed aside, and another figure was added to the number. The voice of Otaitsa whispered: "He has gone forth, armed as if for battle; he has his tomahawk with him; his face is very sad. I saw the Old Cedar Tree cross to the west gate, and others whom I knew not in the darkness." She spoke in eager haste, and gasped for breath; but the old woman took her by the arm, saying: "Be calm! Be still! Now follow noiselessly. Then down as you pass through the maize, though in this black night who shall see us?" She was the first to issue forth; then came Otaitsa, and the others followed, one by one, with quick but silent steps, through the wide field of maize that swept round the palisade, and then into the neighboring forest. Once, when they came near a spot where the polished mirror of the lake collected and cast back every ray of light that remained in the air, they caught sight of a dark file, shadowy and ghostlike as themselves, moving on at a little distance, in the same direction. But it was soon lost; and the sight only served to hasten their footsteps. Passing along a trail which cut across the neck of a little wooded promontory, they suddenly came in sight of the lake again, and by its side a low Indian hut, marked out plainly against the surface of the water. When within some thirty yards, the Gray Dove halted, whispered a word or two to those who followed, and then, bending down, crept closer to the lodge. "Oh, let us hasten!" whispered Otaitsa. "They are already there! I hear my father speaking!" "Hush! hush! Be still!" said the old woman, in the same tone. "The Black Eagle will do nothing hastily; it is for him a solemn rite. Let me first get near; then follow, and do what I do." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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