HE inhabitants of the settlement of Cocheeco, in New Hampshire, lived for a few years in large blockhouses, well adapted for the purpose of defence against the Indians. But a few of the bolder spirits, encouraged by the long peace with the red men, moved their families into log houses of their own construction. The furthest of the huts from the garrison was built by a Mr. Bray, an Englishman. On one occasion, Mr. Bray and his wife left home, leaving Rebecca, their only child, in charge of her Aunt Mary.
Little Rebecca was, of course, the pet of her aunt. When the work of the house had been completed, the latter would teach the little girl some mysteries of needle work, or explain some passages in the Scriptures for her benefit. One day, Aunt Mary had just finished reading the verse, in the fifth chapter of Matthew, which says, “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy,” when an Indian burst into the room, and throwing himself panting at her feet, exclaimed, in broken English, “for mercy’s sake, hide me, the warriors are on my path.”
Aunt Mary was not disposed to grant his request. In common with all the early settlers, she hated and feared the Indians. But Rebecca earnestly plead for him, saying that he would be killed by Major Waldron’s men from the garrison. A loud shout was heard in the distance, and the Indian renewed his entreaties for a refuge. “Blessed are the merciful, for they—shall obtain mercy,” repeated Rebecca, and Aunt Mary then expressed her wish to secrete the Indian from his pursuers. The little girl then took the red man by the hand, led him up into the loft, made him get into a box containing shelled corn, and then spread the corn over him in such a manner, that he could not be seen. She then descended, and resumed her reading to Aunt Mary as if nothing had occurred. A moment after, the door was burst open, and the pursuers entered, exclaiming, “Is the villainous redskin here?”
The little girl expressed her surprise, and asked what redskin.
“The Indian who has escaped,” answered a youth; “we have lost his track; but Mr. Gove says he saw the top of his head through the wood, and we came here.”
Rebecca strove to divert their attention by saying she heard a noise, just then, of something running around the house. Mr. Gove persisted in saying that he believed the Indian to be in the house, and to satisfy him one of the young men proposed that he should go up stairs and search for him. Rebecca accompanied him. Gove searched every nook and corner of the loft, and even lifted up some of the corn from the box where the Indian was concealed; but at length gave it up, descended the stairs and joined his friends. The pursuers then sought their victim elsewhere.
That night, Rebecca brought the red man from his hiding-place, and making him promise to spare the mothers and babes who might fall into his power, let him go, with a heart filled with gratitude.
In explanation of the Indian’s situation, we may say that the colonial government, fearful of another outbreak among the Indians, and jealous of their numbers, had ordered Major Waldron, the commander of the post, to put the strange red men, who came there, to death, and by a stratagem, the Major had succeeded in killing all but this one, who was preserved by the efforts of little Rebecca.
Time flew by, and Rebecca grew to be a fine specimen of feminine maturity. Her parents died, and she was left to the guardianship of Major Waldron. She resided with Aunt Mary, to whose care she had been confided by a mother’s dying breath; and though the major had made many efforts to convince them that the garrison was a much safer place, they still kept the old house. The flower in the wilderness did not “waste its sweetness on the desert air.” On the contrary, Rebecca’s charms had already made several captives, one of whom was the only son of Major Waldron.
George Waldron had been educated in England, had moved in refined circles, travelled three years, and returned to America, with personal advantages which might have made many a conquest in the field of love. He saw Rebecca soon after his arrival, and was immediately “smitten to the heart.” But the beauty could only give him a sister’s love; for her heart was in possession of another. Morris Green had been her playmate in childhood, and in riper years, her confidant and friend. They had not been formally plighted, but they felt that they were united by stronger bonds than words. A few days after Waldron’s arrival, Morris saved him from the gripe of a bear, that was about to spring upon him, by shooting the animal, and from that time the two young men became warm, self-denying friends. A few weeks after the adventure with the bear, George Waldron obtained for Morris Green, a midshipman’s warrant for his Majesty’s frigate Cyclops, then lying at Portsmouth, with orders to join the squadron in the West Indies.
Morris quickly and joyfully informed Rebecca of his good fortune, and prepared to start for Portsmouth. Hand-in-hand he and Rebecca visited the grave-yard, where slept the remains of her loved parents. There they exchanged vows of constancy, and parted sadly, though hopefully. Rebecca watched he retreating form of her lover until it was lost in the forest, and then, as she sank upon her mother’s grave, her tears flowed freely.
A voice near Rebecca, exclaimed, “A pretty scene, upon my word!” She sprang to her feet and faced the intruder. A mixture of scorn and fear was upon her features, and she at length turned to fly. But the bold intruder seized her hand, and said, “Now my pretty bird, this meeting is too opportune to part so soon. What with your own shyness, the constant watch of that old hypocrite, Waldron, who means to coax or force you to marry the sapient George, and the close attentions of that very sentimental youth who has just left you, I have not the smallest chance of urging my own suit.”
“Oh, that can never, never be,” answered Rebecca, hardly conscious of what she said, “for I already love another.”
“Hear me, Rebecca,” said the other, “your beauty would become a higher sphere than that stripling can give you to move in. At the death of my father, I shall become Lord Marsden; and at the death of my uncle, who is much his senior, his title of Marquis of Winchelsea will also revert to me. Think how different would be your position as Marchioness of Winchelsea, surrounded with wealth and splendor, than as the wife of that poor boy.”
“I have promised to become the wife of another,” replied Rebecca, “and I would not break the promise, if I could. I can love you as a sister, but never as your wife!”
“It is enough, Rebecca,” said the young man, “you reject the love of a man whom you could have moulded to your will. But I am not to be slighted with impunity. You are in my power, and shall rue the hour when you dared to scorn me.” As he uttered these words, he sprang towards her, but stumbled over the head-stone of her mother’s grave and fell headlong; while Rebecca, pale with terror, fled, and never paused until safe within the cottage.
Edward Sinclair, the intruder upon Rebecca’s privacy, had been residing at Waldron’s about a year; consigned to the Major’s care, it was whispered, by his father, as a sort of penance for certain conduct which was unbecoming the future Lord of Marsden Hall. Well-informed, frank, and jovial, he soon rendered himself a favorite with all those in the settlement, who considered eccentricity natural to a jovial companion, and did not question the justice of his acts. Being fond of hunting, Sinclair soon made friends of the Indians, with whom he would hunt for weeks at a time. They called him Neddo. That Sinclair was in love with Rebecca, the reader may gather from his language towards her. But there was ever a something evil in his nature which made her shun his presence.
A few days after Morris’s departure, when Rebecca thought him “far o’er the briny deep,” she was surprised to see him enter the cottage, covered with dust, and throw himself upon a chair. She and Aunt Mary expressed their surprise, and asked why he was not in the frigate. In reply, he handed Rebecca a letter, which, he said, would explain the matter better than he could. The letter was read as follows:
“At first,” said Morris, “I thought this all a hoax; but soon began to regard it as a timely and truthful warning. I was down at the shoals last week, and I knew that the ship would pass near the islands, that a good swimmer could easily reach the shore, where there were two or three fishing schooners anchored, which could bring me back. In the middle of the night, I slipped through a port, and swam ashore. As the ship sailed like a race horse, they will get so far before they miss me, they will not turn back for a single man.” Morris said much more to silence the fears of his anxious friends, who at length set about preparing food for the half-famished runaway, when the door opened, and Edward Sinclair rushed in, crying, “Run, Morris, run! the bloodhounds are at your heels.” Morris sprang to his feet, and rushed to the back door, which opened on the forest; but Sinclair pushed him back, and in a few moments a party of men entered, arrested Morris, as a deserter, and bore him off, leaving Aunt Mary and Rebecca wringing their hands, and crying bitterly. As soon as they had left the house, Rebecca fell on the floor in a fainting fit. When she recovered, Sinclair was bending over her, with compassion and respect upon his features.
Sinclair explained that he had tried to put the pursuing party upon a false scent, and save Morris; that the deserter would be condemned by a court-martial; yet in consideration of the motive, they would certainly recommend him to the mercy of his majesty; in which case he would appeal to his father, whose influence he represented as all powerful at court, and a pardon could easily be procured. Rebecca grasped eagerly at such a hope, and began to look upon the one who held it forth as a brother.
The court-martial was held in Boston harbor; the proof of desertion was positive, and Morris was sentenced to death, without a hint being given of any appeal to royal mercy. Rebecca received the terrible news, as the lily receives the blast of the tempest—it almost crushed her spirit. She did not—could not weep until the morning of the day that was to give her lover to the arms of death. Her feelings then found vent in tears. She left the cottage, and walked quickly towards the house of Major Waldron, where she found the old man writing. Throwing herself before him, she clasped his knees, and implored him to save Morris Green. Waldron answered that he could not. Morris had had a fair trial, and it would be unjust in him, supposing he could, to change the verdict. Rebecca continued—“You can if you will. I know you have wished me to marry George instead of Morris Green; and now I will promise, that if you will procure a pardon for Morris, the day he is free from prison I will marry George.”
This chimed in with Waldron’s schemes. It had long been his aim to bring about a union between his son George and Rebecca. He snatched eagerly the opportunity, and said he would try what he could do. A messenger was sent in all haste to Portsmouth, and the officers composing the court-martial were eagerly persuaded to reprieve the prisoner until a petition could be sent to the king. But months were to pass before an answer would be received, during which Morris must remain in prison, leaving the field clear to his rivals.
Sinclair now spent much of his time with Rebecca, who regarded him with the most friendly feelings, except when he urged his suit, when a revulsion of feeling made her suspect that self-interest was at the root of all his vaunted service for her and Morris. As for George Waldron, his feelings were in a state of confusion not to be described. He loved Rebecca, deeply—devotedly; and to secure her happiness and that of his friend Morris, he felt that no sacrifice could be too great. Yet he hoped to make Rebecca his wife, and could not resolve to break the engagement his father had made.
At length a vessel arrived, bearing a full pardon for the deserter; and Major Waldron now required of Rebecca the performance of her part of the contract. It was agreed that the marriage should not take place until the day after Morris’s return. Morris had been aware that a petition had been sent to the king on his behalf, but he knew nothing of the terms until the morning of his release, and then he felt that he would much rather have died than consented to live upon such terms. However, he resolved to see Rebecca once more, and then leave the country for ever.
He reached the cottage, where he expected to meet Rebecca, but found it deserted, and in the utmost confusion. Surprised, he turned from the cottage to seek an explanation, when a footstep caused him to raise his head, and he stood face to face with George Waldron. They each grasped the other’s hand; for friendship was still strong in both.
“I have been very wrong and wicked,” said George Waldron, “but I have suffered for it. Yesterday, after a long struggle, I resolved to release Rebecca from an engagement, into which I knew she had been forced. I did so. But now she is gone. Last night Aunt Mary awoke and found herself alone; she gave the alarm, and people have hunted for lier ever since. I fear she has been carried off by the Indians.”
Morris was almost stunned by this unlooked for calamity. At length he grasped the hand of his friend and said, “We are friends—brothers; together we will go and rescue her or share her fate.” A slight noise at this instant caused them to turn, and standing near them, his arms folded on his breast, his keen eye fixed upon them, was an Indian, whom they recognised as one who was often about the settlement.
“Has the pale-face’s council fire gone out, or are their braves turned squaws, that the foe enters the wigwam and steals their ‘Wild Rose,’ and no warriors start on the trail?”
“Do you know any thing of Rebecca Bray,” demanded Morris.
Yondeega’s eyes were open. Neddo’s trail and the Wild Rose’s trail were one.
George started. He knew that Edward Sinclair had two days previous, joined a hunting party; but he supposed that he had gone away to avoid being present at Rebecca’s nuptials. “The false-hearted villain!” said he, “I will follow him, and he shall yet feel the weight of my arm.”
“No, no,” said Yondeega, with a flashing eye and knotted brow. “No pale-face touch him. Yondeega’s tomahawk is sharp, and his rifle never fails it aim. Yondeega will kill him like a dog.” The features of the Indian then assumed an expression of sorrow. “Yondeega had a daughter; she was fair as the spring flowers, and cheerful as the song of birds. The Yengese came and spake with his forked tongue, the maiden listened, and her heart changed. She has left the wigwam of her tribe to follow the stranger.”
From this the young men gathered that Sinclair had been as false to his red as to his white friends, and having signified to the Indian that they would follow where he led, they set off in pursuit of the lost flower.
Rebecca had risen early, and was taking a short walk near the cottage, when she was seized and borne off by some Indians. They marched about eight hours, bearing Rebecca on a rude litter, until they came to a large sheet of water called Lake Winnipiseogee, where they embarked in a canoe and rowed to an island, on which stood two or three deserted Indian huts. In one of these, Rebecca was left, with two Indians. In a moment, the door opened, and Edward Sinclair, stripped of his Indian disguise, stood before her. He confessed that he had stolen her. But it was because he could not live without her, and he wanted to take her to Europe with him. In vain the young girl entreated, plead her attachment to another, and her want of affection for Sinclair.
“And do you think,” said he fiercely, “that I could bear to see you the wife of Morris Green? It was I who advised him to desert, and who attempted to prevent him from getting a pardon. But I will be revenged yet. In the meantime, you are in my power, and from this place you shall never go, except as my wife—”
The sound of light footsteps interrupted his words, and the next instant a young Indian girl, breathless with haste, rushed into the hut, exclaiming, “Fly, fly! the pale-faces are in pursuit.” Sinclair sprang forward, as if meditating flight; but a moment’s pause seemed to alter his intention, and he said, pointing to Rebecca, “Hide her, Yarro, and I will meet them here.”
The young Indian frowned, as she replied, “Yarro no hide her; pale-face no hurt her.” A deep-breathed curse escaped the young man, and a fierce glance shot from his eye; but the next moment it yielded to a mild, tender expression, as he spoke a few words to Yarro in her own tongue.
Yarro smilingly listened to his false words, which were, in fact, no less than a promise, that if she would hide Rebecca, he would marry her, join the tribe and become a great chief. She instantly advanced towards the white maiden, and in spite of her struggles, bandaged her mouth, and drew her into a covert close to the hut. Sinclair saw all this, and then taking his rifle, he advanced to meet Morris and George, who had just emerged from the forest into the clearing in front of the hut. “What is the matter, George?” he asked.
“Edward,” demanded George, sternly, “do you know any thing of Rebecca Bray?”
“How can I know any thing of her?” mildly replied Sinclair; “you know I started off to hunt the day before you were to be married but—”
The speaker paused; the bullet of Yondeega, who, having tarried behind to secure the canoe, had just caught sight of his foe, had started on its fatal errand; but it did not not reach its destined victim. Yarro, who saw all that had passed, gave a slight scream, and throwing her arms around the neck of her beloved, shielded him from danger by receiving the ball herself. They laid her upon the grass. Sinclair bent over her, grief and remorse painted on his features, while the rest of the party, including Rebecca, who had contrived to unbandage herself, stood looking on in mournful silence. Yarro opened her eyes, a smile of joy stole over her features, as she met the gaze of Sinclair, and she murmured—“Yarro very happy, for the Great Spirit has smiled on her;” and with that happy smile still lingering on her features, the poor girl passed to the “spirit land.”
A moment of silence ensued, and the next, Sinclair sprang to his feet, and darted into the forest, pursued by Yondeega, who soon, however, returned, completely baffled. This was the last that was seen of Edward Sinclair in this country; although a rumor came two years afterwards that he had fallen in a duel, in England, with an officer as reckless as himself.
Yarro was buried on the island, and then the party returned to the settlement. The remainder of the story is soon told. Major Waldron yielded to the entreaties of Rebecca and Morris, assisted by the virtuous energy of George, and consented to a union of the lovers, who amid all trials, had remained true to each other. At the-wedding, among the number of pale and red faces that of Yondeega was recognised, and many thanks were returned to him for his generous conduct.
“Pale-face no need feel grateful. Wild Rose hide Yondeega; Yondeega save Wild Rose; that all,” said the Indian. In answer to eager questioning, he then informed them, that he had known of Neddo’s designs in regard to Rebecca, and as soon as he saw her upon the island, he recognised her as the little girl who had saved his life, and resolved to save her. He hurried to inform her friends, and the result is known. When he had finished his story, Rebecca exclaimed, “I then found mercy by the very person to whom I had shown mercy.”
HE destruction of Deerfield, Massachusetts, during the French and Indian war, which began in 1689, was one of the most daring exploits performed by the Indians during that exterminating struggle. In 1703, the plan was laid by the French and their savage allies, to cut off the frontier inhabitants of New England, from one extremity to the other; but the design was not fully executed. Though the eastern settlements from Casco to Wells were destroyed, yet the western ones remained unmolested. This lulled them into a fatal security. Colonel Schuyler, the noted English agent among the Indians, received intelligence of a design in Canada to fall upon Deerfield, he immediately informed the inhabitants of that settlement, that they might prepare for an attack. The design was not carried into execution during the summer, and the intelligence was considered as a false alarm. But their destruction was reserved for the winter of 1704, when they least expected it.
Deerfield was at that time the most northerly settlement on the Connecticut river, a few families at Northfield excepted. Against this place, M. Yaudrieul, governor of Canada, sent out a party of about three hundred French and Indians. They were put under the command of Hertel de Roueville, assisted by his four brothers, all of whom had been well trained in partisan warfare by their father, who had been a famous partisan in former wars. They marched by way of Lake Champlain, till they came to the stream, now called Onion river. Advancing up that stream till they passed over Connecticut river, and travelled on the ice till they came near to Deerfield.
The Rev. John Williams, the minister of Deerfield, was apprehensive of danger, and attempted to impress the minds of the people with a sense of it; but did not succeed. Upon his application, the government of the province sent twenty soldiers to aid in the defence of the town. The fortifications were some slight works thrown around two or three garrison houses. These were nearly covered in some places with drifts of snow.
On the 29th of February, Roueville and his party approached the town. Hovering near it, he sent out spies to gain intelligence. The watch kept the streets of the town till about two hours before day, and then, unfortunately, all of them went to sleep. Roueville, perceiving all to be quiet, marched silently to the attack. The snow was so high that they had no difficulty in jumping over the walls of the fortification; and they immediately separated into small parties so as to appear before each house at the same time.
The place was completely surprised; and the foe was entering the houses before the inhabitants, suspected their approach. The resistance was trifling in most parts of the town, but one block-house being able to hold out against the enemy. The whole settlement was in their possession in a short time after their arrival. Forty-seven of the inhabitants, some of whom fought bravely, were slain, and all the rest captured. For awhile, the village was given up to plunder, and then, to complete the work, it was set on fire. The victors, with their captives, hastily retreated an hour after sunrise. A small party of the English pursued them, and a skirmish ensued, in which a few were lost on both sides.
But the enemy could not be checked in their retreat.
The distance from Deerfield to Chambly, Canada, which was the nearest French settlement, was about three hundred miles. The number of prisoners was one hundred and twelve. Among the number was the Rev. John Williams. As the Indians entered his room, he took down his pistol and presented it to the breast of the foremost, but it missed fire. They then took hold of him and bound him, naked as he was, and thus kept him for an hour. In the meantime two of the children and a negro woman were killed. Mrs. Williams, who was hardly recovered from childbed, was, with the rest, marched for Canada. The second day, in wading a stream, Mrs. Williams fainted and fell, but was assisted along a little further when, at the foot of a hill, she began to falter, her savage master, with one blow of his tomahawk, put an end to her miseries. The party was twenty-five days on its march from Deerfield to Chambly. As they depended upon hunting for their support, the prisoners often suffered for want of food; and the severity of the season added to their trials. At length they reached Chambly, where they were humanely treated by the French and their governor, Vaudrieul. At different times, most of the prisoners were redeemed and returned home. Mr. Williams and fifty-seven others arrived at Boston, from Quebec, in 1706. One of the minister’s daughters, Eunice, married an Indian, and became a convert to the Catholic religion, which she never would consent to forsake. She frequently visited her friends in New England; but uniformly persisted in wearing the blanket, and counting her beads. Deerfield was rebuilt soon after its destruction, and became a flourishing settlement.
F the red men have been benefited by their intercourse with the whites, they have also received much degradation from the same cause. Created with strong and active physical powers, united with keen sensibility, they have an innate love of excitement, of which the white man has taken advantage to work their ruin. For a few bottles of any kind of ardent spirits, which the Indians term “firewater,” keen traders have purchased the produce of weeks of hunting and toil, and even the land which contains within its bosom the bones of the red man’s ancestors. How many of these noble children of the woods, whose native powers of intellect rivalled those of the most distinguished orators, statesmen, and warriors, among the civilized nations, have become degraded in mind and weakened in body through the influence of the evil spirit sent to them by the avaricious and wiser white men! See Logan, whose qualities of mind, and whose misfortunes have excited so much admiration and sympathy, spending the evening of his days in beastly intoxication! See the mighty Sagona, more widely known as Red Jacket, who maybe considered as the Demosthenes of his race; whose judgment and foresight guided his nation in many an intricate negotiation, and whose eloquence has been compared to the Niagara, near whose thundering tumult he was reared, weakened in body and mind by the “firewater” given him by those who feared his influence! This bane of the red man has ever been extended to him by the hand of civilization; and those tribes which inhabit the country nearest the citizens of the western states are fast melting away under its blighting breath. Occasionally a chief has arisen who despised the “fire-water,” and who indignantly denounced those who introduced it among his people. Of one of these we are about to speak.
Pontiac was a chief of the Ottawas, a tribe which inhabited the neighborhood of Lake Erie, in the territory now included in the state of Michigan. But at one time, he was the chief of a confederacy, consisting of the Ottawas, Miamis, Chippewas, Wyandottes, Pot-towatomies, Missisagas, Shawanese, Ottaga-mies, and Winnebagoes—all powerful tribes. Pontiac was gifted with a great and noble spirit, which fitted him for command. He possessed a daring courage, tempered and guided by wisdom and judgment. Fertile in the invention of means to gain an end, he was generally successful in his undertakings, and became a formidable enemy to the whites, whose encroachments roused his hatred.
In the Indian war, which broke out in 1763, which is justly denominated “Pontiac’s War,” the great chief appointed a commissary, and began to make and issue bills of credit, all of which he carefully redeemed. He made his bills or notes of bark, on which was drawn the figure of the commodity he wanted for it The shape of an otter was drawn under that of the article wanted, and an otter was the insignia of his nation. He had also, with great sagacity, urged upon his people the necessity of dispensing entirely with European commodities, of having no intercourse with the whites, and of depending entirely upon their ancient modes of procuring sustenance.
Some English traders, with a considerable quantity of brandy in bottles, were detected among the Indians, bartering “fire-water” for skins, and, by order of Pontiac, brought into his presence. The noble chief stood in state, gaudily dressed, and with a lofty mein, in front of his highly decorated wigwam. A guard of warriors were upon each side of him, and subordinate chiefs waited the command of the mighty forest king. The traders were bold men, but they trembled when led into his presence. They knew his power, the ferocity of the men whom he ruled, and the criminal nature of the business in which they were engaged.
Pontiac spoke the English tongue sufficiently well to make himself understood, and he asked the traders if they were not aware that he had forbidden his people to have any intercourse with the whites, and warned the latter to leave his territory. He then alluded to the many services he had done the whites, and the many acts of hospitality his people had performed. “And how have you repaid them?” continued he. “They gave you shelter and venison, and you gave them poison—fire-water, to burn away their strength, and blind their eyes, so that you could cheat them out of their skins and furs, and perhaps their land.”
The white traders attempted to excuse themselves, by saying that they had only given the Indians the liquor at their own earnest entreaty. But Pontiac indignantly commanded their silence. “You knew what the fire-water could do, what it has done, and what it will do; and yet you gave it to them.” The chief raised himself to his full height. He was a tall and noble-looking man. His brow was high and broad, his eye black, keen, and lively, and his nose aquiline and prominent. The compressed mouth expressed the firmness of his will. “For your fault,” said he, “you have deserved a severe punishment, and were you at the mercy of many of my people, death would quickly be your lot. I spare your lives now, and my warriors shall conduct you safely out of my country. But if you again are found upon this land, expect to burn at the stake. Go! Pontiac has said.” The white men concealed the joy which they felt at their escape from death. They had expected nothing less. Pontiac directed some of his warriors to accompany the traders and then retired to his wigwam. The traders, once safely out of his country were very careful not to revisit it while he lived. A war broke out soon after this event, in which Pontiac displayed the skill and courage of a great commander. He was victorious on many occasions, but was at last forced to conclude a peace, by the superior numbers and discipline of the whites. His exertions could not prevent his people from using the “fire-water” occasionally; and consequently, he could not prevent their becoming weakened, and so blinded to their own interest as to sell the land of their forefathers, and aid the encroachments of the whites. The people whom he governed, have either entirely melted away before the influence of war and the use of ardent spirits, or greatly reduced in numbers, have removed far beyond the Mississippi.
NECDOTES of men who have been distinguished for their bravery, whether friend or foe, civilized or savage, seldom fail to excite an interest.
During the second war with England, the Seneca nation of Indians, who resided in the neighborhood of Buffalo, were employed by the American government, and attached themselves to the army, then about to enter Canada, under the command of General Brown. The principal chief of this tribe was “Farmer’s Brother”—a stout, athletic warrior. The frosts of eighty winters had passed over his head; and yet he retained his faculties in an eminent degree. He possessed all the ardour of his young associates, and was uncommonly animated at the prospect which a fresh harvest of laurels presented to his mind.
This celebrated chief, in the war between England and France, was engaged in the service of the latter. He once pointed out, to the writer of this account, the spot where, with a party of Indians, he lay in ambush—patiently waiting the approach of a guard that accompanied the English teams, employed between the Falls of Niagara and the British garrison; the fort had lately surrendered to Sir William Johnson. The place selected for that purpose is now known by the name of the “Devil’s Hole,” and is three and a half miles below the famous cataract, upon the United States side. The mind can scarcely conceive a more dismal looking den. A large ravine, occasioned by the falling in of the perpendicular bank, made dark by the spreading branches of the birch and cedar, which had taken root below, and the low murmurings of the rapids in the chasm, added to the solemn thunder of the cataract itself, conspire to render the scene truly awful. The English party were not aware of the dreadful fate which awaited them. Unconscious of danger, the drivers were gaily whistling to their dull ox-teams. On their arrival at this spot, Farmer’s Brother and his band rushed from the thicket that had concealed them, and commenced a horrid butchery. So unexpected was the attack, and so completely were the English deprived of all presence of mind, but a feeble resistance was made. The guard, the teamsters, the oxen, and the wagons, were precipitated into the gulf. But two of them escaped; a Mr. Steadman, who lived at Schlosser, above the falls, being mounted on a fleet horse, made good his retreat; and one of the soldiers, who was caught on the projecting root of a cedar, which sustained him until—assured by the distant yells of the savages—they had left the grounds. He then clambered up, and proceeded to Fort Niagara, with the intelligence of this disaster. A small rivulet, which pours itself down this precipice, was literally colored with the blood of the vanquished—and has ever since borne the name of “The Bloody Run.”
In the war of the Revolution, Farmer’s Brother evinced his hostility to the Americans upon every occasion that occurred; and with the same zeal, he engaged in the late war against his former friends—the British.
Another anecdote of this chief will show, in more glaring colors, the real savage. A short time before the United States army crossed the Niagara, Farmer’s Brother chanced to observe an Indian, who had mingled with the Senecas, and whom he instantly recognised, as belonging to the Mohawks—a tribe living in Canada, and then employed in the enemy’s service. He went up to him, and addressed him in the Indian tongue:—“I know you well—you belong to the Mohawks—you are a spy—here is my rifle—my tomahawk—my scalping knife—I give you your choice, which of them shall I use?—but I am in haste!” The young warrior, finding resistance vain, chose to be despatched with the rifle. He was ordered to lie upon the grass; while, with the left foot upon the breast of his victim, the chief lodged the contents of the rifle into his head.
With so much of the savage, Farmer’s Brother possessed some estimable traits of character. He was as firm a friend, where he promised fidelity, as a bitter enemy to those against whom he contended; and would rather lose the last drop of his blood, than betray the cause he had espoused. He was fond of recounting his exploits, and, savage-like, dwelt with much satisfaction upon the number of scalps he had taken in his skirmishes with the whites.
In company with several other chiefs, he paid a visit to General Washington, who presented him with a silver medal. This he constantly wore, suspended from his neck; and, so precious was the gift in his eyes, that he often declared, he would lose it only with his life. Soon after the battles of Chippewa and Bridgewater, this veteran paid the debt of nature, at the Seneca village; and, out of respect to his bravery, he was interred with military honors from the fifth regiment of United States infantry.
N the year of 1798, one of the missionaries to the Indians of the north-west was on his way from the Tuscarora settlement to the Senecas. Journeying in pious meditation through the forest, a majestic Indian darted from its recess, and arrested his progress. His hair was somewhat changed with age, and his face marked with the deep furrows of time; but his eye expressed all the fiery vivacity of youthful passion, and his step was that of a warrior in the vigor of manhood.
“White man of the ocean, * whither wanderest thou?” said the Indian.
“I am travelling,” replied the meek disciple of peace, “towards the dwellings of thy brethren, to teach them the knowledge of the only true God, and to lead them to peace and happiness.”
“To peace and happiness!” exclaimed the tall chief, while his eye flashed fire—“Behold the blessings that follow the footsteps of the white man! Wherever he comes, the nations of the woodlands fade from the eye, like the mists of the morning. Once over the wide forest of the surrounding world our people roamed in peace and freedom; nor ever dreamed of greater happiness than to hunt the beaver, the bear, and the wild deer. From the furthest extremity of the great deep came the white man, armed with thunder and lightning, and weapons still more pernicious. In war he hunted us like wild beasts; in peace, he destroyed us by deadly liquors, or yet more deadly frauds. Yet a few moons had passed away, and whole nations of invincible warriors, and of hunters, that fearless swept the forest and the mountain, perish, vainly opposing their triumphant invaders, or quietly dwindled into slaves and drunkards—and their names withered from the earth. Retire, dangerous man! Leave us all we yet have left—our savage virtues, and our gods; and do not, in the vain attempt to cultivate a rude and barren soil, pluck up the few thrifty plants of native growth that have survived the fostering cares of the people, and weathered the stormy career of their pernicious friendship.” The tall chief darted into the wood, and the good missionary pursued his way with pious resolution.
He preached the only true divinity, and placed before the eyes of the wondering savages the beauty of holiness, &c.
The awe-struck Indians, roused by these accumulated motives—many of them adopted the precepts of the missionary, as far as they could comprehend them; and, in the course of eighteen months, their devotion became rational, regular, and apparently permanent.
All at once, however, the little church, in which the good man was wont to pen his fold, became deserted. No votary came, as usual, to listen, with decent reverence, to the pure doctrines which they were accustomed to hear; and only a few solitary idlers were seen, of a Sunday morning, lounging about, and casting a wistful yet fearful look at their little peaceful and now silent mansion.
The missionary sought them out, inquired into the cause of this mysterious desertion, and told them of the bitterness of hereafter to those who, having once known, abandoned the religion of the only true God. The poor Indians shook their heads, and informed him that the Great Spirit was angry at their apostacy, and had sent a Prophet from the summit of the Alleghany mountains, to warn them against the admission of new doctrines; that there was to be a great meeting of the the old men soon, and the Prophet would there deliver to the people the message with which he was entrusted. The zealous missionary determined to be present, and to confront the imposter, who was known by the appellation of the Prophet of the Alleghany. He obtained permission to appear at the council, and to reply to the Prophet. The 12th of June, 1802, was fixed for determining whether the belief of their forefathers or that of the white men was the true religion.
The council-house not being large enough to contain so great an assemblage of people, they met in a valley west of Seneca Lake. This valley was then embowered under lofty trees. On almost every side it is surrounded With high rugged hills, and through it meanders a small river.
It was a scene to call forth every energy of the human heart. On a smooth level, near the bank of a slow stream, under the shade of a large elm, sat the chief men of the tribes, Around the circle which they formed, was gathered a crowd of wondering savages, with eager looks, seeming to demand the true God at the hands of their wise men. In the middle of the circle sat the aged and travel-worn missionary. A few gray hairs wandered over his brow; his hands were crossed on his bosom; and, as he cast his hope-beaming eye to heaven, he seemed to be calling with pious fervor upon the God of Truth, to vindicate his own eternal word by the mouth of his servant.
For more than half an hour there was silence in the valley, save the whispering of the trees in the south wind, and the indistinct murmuring of the river. Then all at once, a sound of astonishment ran through the crowd, and the Prophet of the Alleghany was seen descending one of the high hills. With furious and frenzied step he entered the circle, and, waving his hands in token of silence, the missionary saw, with wonder, the same tall chief, who, four years before, had crossed him in the Tuscarora forest. The same panther-skin hung over his shoulder; the same tomahawk quivered in his hand; and the same fiery and malignant spirit burned in his eye. He addressed the awe-struck Indians, and the valley rung with his iron-voice.
“Red Men of the Woods! Hear what the Great Spirit says of his children who have forsaken him!
“Through the wide regions that were once the inheritance of my people—and for ages they roved as free as the wild winds—resounds the axe of the white man. The paths of your forefathers are polluted by the their steps, and your hunting-grounds are every day wrested from you by their arts. Once on the shores of the mighty ocean, your fathers were wont to enjoy all the luxuriant delights of the deep. Now, you are exiles in swamps, or on barren hills; and these wretched possessions you enjoy by the precarious tenure of the white man’s will. The shrill cry of revelry or war, no more is heard on the majestic shores of the Hudson, or the sweet banks of the silver Mohawk. There where the Indian lived and died, free as the air he breathed, and chased the panther and the deer from morning until evening—even there the Christian slave cultivates the soil in undisturbed possession; and as he whistles behind the plough, turns up the sacred remains of your buried ancestors. Have you not heard at evening, and sometimes in the dead of night, those mournful and melodious sounds that steal through the deep valleys, or along the mountain sides,’ like the song of echo? These are the wailings of those spirits whose bones have been turned up by the sacrilegious labors of the white men, and left to the mercy of the rain and the tempest. They call upon you to avenge them—they adjure you, by motives that rouse the hearts of the brave, to wake from your long sleep, and, by returning to these invaders of the grave the long arrears of vengeance, restore again the tired and wandering spirits to their blissful paradise far beyond the blue hills. *