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

<h4>CHAPTER XXVII</h4> It was a sad and weary day to poor Walter Prevost, for he was without consolation. The time of his long imprisonment, indeed, had been less burdensome than might have been supposed, although during the first two or three weeks many a fruitless effort to escape had wearied his spirit. He learned, however, that it was impossible; he was too closely and too continually watched. There was nothing to prevent his quitting the hut; but the moment he did so, whether by night or day, he was met by two or three armed Indians. They were kind and courteous to him, though they suffered him not to bend his steps in the direction of their Castle or village, nor to approach the lake, to the banks of which many a canoe was moored. Sometimes one of them would take him to hunt; but two or three others followed, and never separated from his side. They were not fond of speaking of his probable fate and situation, and generally avoided the subject with true Indian skill. But once a young warrior, less experienced than the rest, related to him the messages which the great chief had sent by the runner Proctor; and Walter learned the decision regarding his own fate, and the chances on which it hung. But that young Indian was never seen near him more, and it was evident that he was looked upon as having betrayed counsel, and had been removed. But about that time the greatest solace and balm he could receive was afforded him. Otaitsa suddenly appeared in the hut, and told him that by promising to make no personal effort for his rescue, and to take no advantage of the freedom granted her to facilitate his escape by her own efforts, she had obtained permission to visit him two hours each day. She had explained to him, however, that others, in whom she trusted, were busy in his cause, and that the Gray Dove herself, on whom all her people looked with the greatest reverence, had positively assured her he should not die. At first their interviews were sad enough. Hope and fear kept up their battle in the heart; but in time these emotions passed away, and love and happiness were all that remained; or, if aught of fear mingled with those blessings, it was but enough, as it were, to sanctify their intercourse, to purify it of some portion of earthly passion; so that, while they sat twined in each other's arms, their conversation would often be of death, and future life and happiness unmingled. She often called him "husband" to her father, but it was always "brother" when they were alone. Day after day, beneath the sunshine or the cloud, over the snow or the green earth, Otaitsa visited the hut; but she had grown anxious as the days rolled on. She had not calculated the time accurately, but she knew that the appointed day was near and Walter was not delivered. She accused herself of folly in having trusted to others, though she saw not how, watched as he was, his deliverance could be effected by herself. But she resolved now to bestir herself, and if she lost her life in the attempt, to make one last great effort to set him free. Such was her resolution on the preceding day, when, on parting with him, she whispered in his ear, lest anyone should be listening without: "I shall not come to you again, my brother, till I come to save you. I know not how it will be, but if I fail, Walter will not be long in heaven ere Otaitsa seeks him there." He hardly believed she could keep her resolution of abstaining from at least one more interview; but the weary day passed by, the Indians who brought him food and fire appeared and disappeared, the rain fell heavily, the wind shook the hut, and Otaitsa did not come. At length the night began to fall, stern, gloomy, dark. A rayless sunset, a brief twilight, and then utter darkness. His spirit sank low indeed; his heart felt heavy and oppressed. He bent him down, stirred up the embers of his fire, piled more wood upon it, and kindled a bright, cheerful blaze. But it had no effect in raising his spirits, or warming his heart. All within him was cheerless. He sat and gazed into the fire, and thought of his absent home, and of the pleasant days of youth, and of the sweet dreams he had once cherished, the hopes that hung, like faded pictures, upon the wall of memory. A thousand little incidents, a thousand delightful recollections, came back upon him as he sat and meditated, as if merely to make life more dear, when, suddenly, on the other side of the hut, a dark figure crossed the firelight, and then another, and another, and another, till they numbered six. They were all chiefs and men of lofty mien, but stern, and grave, and silent. They seated themselves in a semi-circle, at the very farther end of the hut, and for several minutes remained profoundly still. He understood at once what it all meant; the last hour of life was come, and the dead, heavy sinking of the heart which the aspect of death suddenly presented to an unprepared and excited mind, was the first sensation. There the door stood, at a little distance on his right hand, and they were at the other end of the hut, with no one between him and the means of egress; but he knew their swiftness of foot and deadly aim too well. It was better to stay and meet the worst there, than to fall by the tomahawk in inglorious flight. He rallied his spirits, he called all his courage to his aid, he bethought him of how an Indian would die, and resolved to die boldly, and calmly, likewise. Sitting still in silence, he gazed over the countenances of the chiefs, scanning their stern, hard features thoughtfully. There were but two there whom he knew, Black Eagle himself, and an old man with a white scalp-lock, whom he recollected having comforted and supported once, when he found him ill and exhausted near his father's house. The others were all strangers to him, and nothing could be read upon their faces but cold, rigid determination. There was no passion, no anger, no emotion to be traced in a single line; but there was something inexpressibly dreadful in gazing on those still, quiet countenances, with a knowledge of their bloody purpose. To have died in battle would have been nothing--to have struggled with them fiercely for life; but to sit there, coldly awaiting the moment of the ruthless blow, and to know that they expected it to be borne with the same quiet, stoical apathy with which it was dealt, was very, very terrible to the young European. Yet Walter tried to nerve himself to the utmost against any sign of fear, and strove for resolution not to disgrace himself, his name and family, even in the eyes of these wild Indians. There must have been apprehension in his eyes--in the straining eagerness with which he scanned them, but there was no other mark of alarm; not a muscle moved; the lip did not quiver; the brow was not contracted. At length, after that long, solemn pause, the voice of Black Eagle was heard, speaking low and softly: "My son, thou must die," he said. "Thou art dear to me as a child; thy father is my brother; but thou hast drawn an evil lot, and thou must die. The morning of thy days has been short and bright; the night comes for thee before the day is well begun. The blood of our brother who was slain must be atoned by the blood of one of the race that slew him--the white man for the redman. We have sought in vain for the murderer of our brother, or for someone who might have been a substitute for him whom we love. Each man here would have periled his own head to find another in thy place; but it could not be. The palefaces took fright at the news of what has been done, and none has been found within our territory. We know that the man who did the deed has been here. We fancied that he had come generously to pay the penalty of his own deed; but fear was in his heart, and twice he escaped us. He is as cunning as the fox, and as swift to flee. Now, oh! thou son of my brother, thou must die, for the time is gone by that was given thee in the hope of some deliverance. The hours have run swiftly and in vain, and the last has come. We know that it is the custom of thy people to sing no war song at their death, but to pray to their Good Spirit to receive them speedily into the happy hunting grounds. We shall not think it want of courage if thou prayest, for the son of our brother Prevost will not disgrace his name at his death. Pray, therefore, to thy God; thy prayer shall be, as it were, a war song, and, strengthened by it, thou shalt die as a man and a warrior." Walter remained silent for a moment, while a terrible struggle went on in his breast; but resolution conquered, and he rose from the ground, on which he was sitting, erect and firm, and stretching forth his hand, he said: "Chiefs of the Oneidas, ye are unjust. At this hour of my death I tell you, ye know not equity. Your laws are not of the Good Spirit, but of the bad; for it is evil to kill an innocent man, black and dastardly to slay a helpless man, who trusted you and loved you; and if it is by your law you do it, your law is bad, and the Good Spirit will condemn it. My father came and planted his tree amongst you. We grew up, my sister and myself, loving and confiding in your people. We made your tongue our tongue, and my heart became one with the heart of the daughter of your chief. Lo! now, how ye repay kindness, and love, and truth!--with falsehood, cruelty, and death! Ye are great warriors, but ye are not good men. In this last hour I reproach you, and I tell you with the voice of a dying man, as with the voice of one from the land of spirits, that, sooner or later, the great God of all men will make you feel that you have done an evil thing in my death----" He paused suddenly, for his eye--turned somewhat in the direction of the door--saw a female figure enter, wrapped in the peculiar blanket or mantle of the Indian women. Another and another appeared, and one by one the shadowy forms ranged themselves in line along the side of the hut, their faces but faintly seen by the flickering firelight. They were all as silent as death, and there they stood, as silent witnesses of the dreadful scene about to be enacted. The eyes of all the chiefs were turned in the same direction as his own, and a moment or two of wonder and embarrassment passed; but then the voice of Black Eagle was raised, loudly and sternly, saying: "Get ye home to the Castle, Oneida women! This is no place for you. Meddle not with the business of warriors and of men!" "Who is it that speaks?" said the clear, shrill voice of the Gray Dove. "Is it the man of the black heart, who slays the son of his brother? Who is it that dares to speak thus to her who sees the Great Spirit in her visions, and holds communion with the souls of the dead? Is it a man pure in heart and hand, a man whose purposes are good in the sight of the Great Spirit, who is doing a deed pleasing in his sight? Is he taking the life of an enemy in the battle? Is he scalping a foe with whom he has fought and conquered? Lo! now, this is a brave deed, to slay the son of a friend, and a boy who has no power to resist. But the boy shall not die. If a paleface has killed one of the children of the Stone, this boy has saved the life of more than one. His hand has been free, and his heart open to the Oneida, and his good deeds are more than enough to atone for the evil deeds of another. The ashes of thy pipe, Black Eagle, upon the hearth of Prevost, call out shame upon the murder of his son!" "Get ye hence, women!" said another chief. "We are not soft as water, to be turned in what course ye will: we are the children of the Stone, and our heart is the rock." "Be it so, then!" cried Black Eagle's sister. "Look upon us now, oh chiefs! We are here, your mothers, your sisters, your daughters, your wives; those ye love best, those who best love you. See, now, what we are commanded to do by the voice of the Good Spirit. If ye slay the youth, ye slay us. Every lodge shall be left desolate; there shall be wailing through the village and through the land. Now, my sisters, if their heart be a stone, let our heart be soft, and let the knife find it easily!" As she spoke, every mantle was thrown back, and every arm was raised, and in every hand was seen the gleam of a knife. Black Eagle covered his eyes with his mantle, but sat still. Walter sprang across and cast himself at the feet of Otaitsa, exclaiming: "Hold! hold! For God's sake, hold, my Blossom!" "Back! back!" cried the girl, vehemently. "If thou diest, I die!" "All! all!" said the women, in the same determined tone. At the same moment the old priest rose and stretched forth his hands. "It is the voice of the Great Spirit!" he exclaimed, in the tone of one inspired. "He speaks to us by their tongue; he tells us to forbear! The deed is evil in his sight; we must not do it! The blood of our brother is atoned--it is the voice of the Great Spirit!" "It is the voice of the Great Spirit--it is the voice of the Great Spirit!" exclaimed each of the chiefs, and Black Eagle, casting from him the tomahawk, took Walter in his arms, saying, in a low voice, "My son! my son!" Otaitsa took a step forward toward them, but before she reached her father her sight grew dim and she fell at his feet.[3] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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