CHAPTER XIII.
A curious and motley assembly was present 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 very thriving commerce, andwhose peculiar business it was to trade with the Indians. Some of thelatter were 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 savage, and give aslittle in return, as possible.
Besides these, an Indian chief would, from time to time, appear in therooms, often marching through in perfect silence, observing all thatwas going on with dignified gravity, and then going back to hiscompanions at the castle. Amongst the rest was Otaitsa, still in herIndian costume, but evidently in gala dress, of the finest cloth andthe most elaborate embroidery. Not only was she perfectly at her ease,talking to every one, laughing with many; but the sort of shrinking,timid tenderness which gave her so great a charm in the society of thefew whom she loved, had given place to a wild spirit of gaiety, littlein accordance with the character of 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 theyoung officers ventured to speak to her somewhat lightly as the mereIndian girl, she piled upon him a mass of ridicule that wrung tears oflaughter from the eyes of one or two elder 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," observedEdith.
"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 is 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 ofbitterness."
"I think I have heard her say," remarked 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; 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 fearin him the savage is too deeply rooted ever to be wrung forth, but Ihave made _her_ one of Christ's flock, indeed."
It seemed, as if by a sort of instinct, that Otaitsa discovered shewas the subject of conversation between her two friends. Twice shelooked round at them from the other side of the room, and at lengthglided across, and seated herself beside Edith. For a moment she satin silence there; and then, leaning her head gracefully on herbeautiful companion's shoulder, she said, in a low whisper--
"Do not close thine eyes this night, my sister, till thou seest me."
Having thus spoken, she started up, and mingled with the little crowdagain.
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 own dwelling, intercepted the beams of the rising moon; so she satand contemplated the ascent of the queen of night, as she soaredgrandly over the distant trees.
The conduct of Otaitsa during that evening had puzzled Edith, and thefew whispered words had excited her curiosity; for it must not beforgotten that Edith was altogether unacquainted with the fact of oneof the Oneidas having been slain by the hands of Captain Brooks,within little more than two miles of her own abode. She proceeded tomake her toilet for the night, however, and was almost undressed whenshe heard the door of her room open quietly, and Otaitsa stole in, andcast her arms around her.
"Ah, my sister," she exclaimed, "I have longed to talk with you."Seating herself by her side, she leaned her head again upon Edith'sshoulder, but remained silent for several minutes.
The fair English girl knew that it was better to let her take her owntime, and her own manner, to speak whatever she had to say; butOtaitsa remained so long without uttering a word, that an indefinablefeeling of alarm spread over her young companion. She felt her bosomheave, as if with struggling sighs; she even felt some warm drops,like tears, fall upon her shoulder; and yet Otaitsa remained withoutspeaking; till at length Edith said, in a gentle and encouragingtone,--
"What is it, my sister? There can surely be nothing you should beafraid to utter to my ear."
"Not afraid," answered Otaitsa; and then she relapsed into silence.
"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 only yesterday," replied the girl, "and but a littletowards the morning from your own house, my sister. It was a sadday!--it was a sad day!"
"But I trust it was none near and dear to thee, Blossom, or to theBlack Eagle," said Edith, putting her arms around her, and trying tosoothe her.
"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, although 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 north-east 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 would runthrough the whole tribe.
"Woodchuck has escaped," Otaitsa said, "or would have been slain erenow; but they will have his life yet, my sister,"--and then she addedslowly and sorrowfully, "or the life of some other white man, if theycannot catch the one."
Her 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, some one 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 of a herdof 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 Woodchuck when the deed was done."
"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,--
"I will make her tell the truth, were she as cunning a snake as hewas; but yet, my sister Edith, some one else will have to die if theyfind not 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 tribe really is?"
"I know of none," replied 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, to-morrow. Then,if the priest is very smooth and soft-spoken, and if the Black Eagleis stern and silent, and wraps his blanket over his left breast, besure that something sad is meditated. That is all that I can tellyou--but I will make this woman speak the truth if there be truth inher, and that, too, before the chiefs of the nation. Now, sister, liedown to rest. 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 till the morning sunshine."
"I have no fear," answered the Indian girl; "nothing will hurt me.There are times, sister, when a spirit possesses us, that defies alland fears nothing. So has it been with me this night. The only thing Idreaded to face was my own thought, and I would not suffer it 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, in about an hour and ahalf, she stood beside her father, who was seated near a fire kindledin 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 byhim his Castle. Round the Sachem, forming a complete circle, sat anumber of the head men of the Oneidas, each in that peculiar crouchingposition which has been rendered familiar to our eyes by numerouspaintings. The court and the castle itself were well nigh filled withIndians of other tribes of the Five Nations; but none took any part inthe proceedings of the Oneidas but themselves.
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 uttering lies to the Sachem and to her brethren," answeredOtaitsa. "Her breath has been full of the poison of the snake."
"Thou hearest," said Black Eagle, turning to a woman of some one ortwo-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," rejoined 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," retorted 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. "I have none; but I sawhim 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?" 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 the Black Eagle said, in a grave tone,
"There was 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, pale-face Walter, and the othera tall stranger; and thou broughtest a cloud over our eyes, and madestus think that 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 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 brother will 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--
"We must 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 the Indian character to believe that theirthirst for blood was at all allayed; but neither by expression ofcountenance nor by words did he show any doubt of his red friends, andhe 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 arm-chairs were brought forth into the court. A few soldierswere seen moving about, and some negro servants. A number of theguests from the Hall came up about nine o'clock, most of them onhorseback; but when all were assembled, the body of white men presentwere few and insignificant 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 b
een killednear Port George a year or two before, made some complaints againstthe English government for neglect of the just claims of their redallies. All angry feeling, however, was removed by a somewhat largedistribution of presents; and, after hearing everything which theIndians had to say, Sir William Johnson rose from the chair in whichhe had been seated, with Lord H---- and Mr. Prevost on either side,and addressed the assembly in English, his speech being translated,sentence after sentence, by an interpreter, according to hisinvariable custom when called upon to deal publicly with the heads ofthe Five Nations.
The whole of his address cannot be given here; but it was skilfullyturned 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 that, ashis lodge 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, orchief leader of a thousand different nations, sitting under apine-tree that reached to the sky, and receiving every minute messagesfrom his children in every part of the earth.
A hum of satisfaction from the Indians followed this flight of fancy;and then the speaker went on to say that this great chief, theirfather, had long ago intended to do much for them, and still intendedto do so, but that the execution of his benevolent purposes had beendelayed and impeded by the machinations of the French, _their_ enemiesand _his_, whom he represented as stealthily lying in wait for all theships and convoys of goods and presents which were destined for hisIndian children, and possessing themselves of them by force or fraud.Rich as he might be, he asked how was it possible that their whitefather could supply all their wants, when he had so many to providefor, 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 vigorouslyaid him in his endeavours, King George would speedily drive the Frenchfrom America; and, to show his intention of so doing, he had sent overthe great chief on his right hand, Lord H----, and many other mightywarriors, to fight side by side with their red brethren. More, hesaid, would come over in the ensuing spring; and with the first flowerthat blossoms under the hemlock-trees, the English warriors would beready for the battle, if the Indian chiefs there present would promisethem cordial support and co-operation.
It must not be supposed that, in employing very exaggeratedlanguage, Sir William had any intention of deceiving. He merely usedfigures suited to the comprehension of his auditors; and his speechgave the very highest satisfaction. The unusually large presentswhich had been distributed--the presence and bearing of the youngnobleman who accompanied him, and a natural weariness of the state ofsemi-neutrality between the French and English, which they hadmaintained for some time, disposed the chiefs to grant the utmost hecould desire; and the conference broke up with the fullest assuranceof support from the heads of the Iroquois tribes--assurances whichwere faithfully made good in the campaigns which succeeded.