Читать книгу: «Lippincott's Magazine, August, 1885», страница 5
III. THE FLAMING SWORD
The changes which passed over her face were half concealed by the twilight. She was grieved, indignant, and frightened, but over all other expressions lurked the mischievous mirth of a bad child.
"I meant to tell you about it," she said.
"Hearken," said Adam, with a fierce stare. "I've stayed out on the lake all day, and I'm quiet. At first I wasn't. But when he came by I gave him nothing but a good word."
"I wish you'd scolded him instead of me," said Eva, propping her back against the table and puckering her lips.
"He did naught," said Adam, "but what any man would do that got lave. It's you that gave him lave that are to blame."
"Don't be so serious about a little thing," put forth Eva. "We just walked over to the counterfeiters' hole, and coming back we picked strawberries, and he teased me like a girl, and caught hold of me and kissed me. We've been such good friends in camp. I think it's this easy, wild life made me do it."
"She'll blame the very sky over her instead of taking blame to herself," ground out Adam from between his jaws. "I sat in me boat below and saw you arch your head and look at him ways that I remember. My God! why did you make this woman so false, and yet so sweet that a mon canna help loving her in spite o' his teeth?"
"Because I'd die if folks didn't love me," burst out Eva, with a sob. "And if men can't help loving me, what do you blame me for?"
"What right have you to breathe such a word when you're married to me?"
"But I'm not used to being married yet," pleaded Eva. "And I forgot, this once."
"It's once and for all," said Adam, "You'll never be to me what you were before. Is it the English-Canadian way to bring up women to kiss every comer?"
"I didn't kiss anybody but Louis Satanette," maintained Eva, "and I didn't really want to kiss him"
"Never mind," said Adam. "Don't trouble your butterfly soul about it." And he turned away and walked toward the tent.
"I'll not love you if you say such awful things to me," she flashed after him.
"Ye can't take the breeks off a Hielandman," he replied, facing about, "Ye never loved me. Not as I loved you. And it's no loss I've met, if I could but think it."
"Oh, Adam!" Now she ran forward and caught him around the waist. "Don't be so hard with me. I know I am very bad, but I didn't mean to be."
Some faint perception of that coarse fibre within her was breaking with horror through her face. She held to his hands after he had separated her from his person and held her off.
"All that you do still has its effect on me," said the man, gazing sternly at her. "I love ye; but I despise myself for loving ye. This morn I adored ye with reverence; this night you're as a bit o' that earth."
Eva let go his hands and sat down on the ground. As he made his preparations in the tent he could not help seeing with compassion how abjectly her figure drooped. All its flexible proud lines, were suddenly gone. She was dazed by his treatment and by the light in which he put her trifling. She sat motionless until Adam came out with one of the cots in his arms.
"I'm to sleep upon the hill in the pine woods to-night," said he. "Go into the tent, and I'll fasten the flaps. You shan't be scared by anything."
"Let me get in the boat and leave the island, if you can't breathe the same air with me," said Eva. staggering up.
"No, I can't breathe the same air with ye to-night, but ye'll go into the tent," said Adam, with authority.
"I'll not stay there," she rebelled. "I'll follow you. You don't know what may be on this island."
"There can be nothing worse than what I've seen," said Adam; "and that's done all the hairm it can do."
"Oh, Adam, are we both crazy?" the small creature burst out, weeping as if her heart would break. "Don't go away and leave me so. I am not real bad in my heart, I know I am not; and if you would be a little patient with me and help me, I shall get over my silly ways. There is something in me, you can depend upon, if I did do that foolish thing. And my mother didn't live long enough to train me, Adam; remember that. Won't you please kiss me? My heart is breaking."
He put down the cot and took her by the shoulders, trembling as he did so from head to foot:
"My wife, I belaive what you say. I'd give all the days remaining to me if I could strain ye against my breast with the feeling I had this morn. But there comes that sight. I never shall see the hill again, I never shall see a spot of this island again, without seeing your mouth kissing another man. Go into the tent. God knows I'd die before hairm should come to you. But not to-night can I stay beside you. Or kiss you."
He carried her into the tent and put her on her bed. She had made all the night-preparations herself, placing the pillows on both cots and turning back the sun-sweetened blankets.
Adam left her sobbing, buttoned the tent-flaps outside, and placed a barricade of kettles and pans which could not be touched without disturbing him on the hill. Then, taking up his own bed, he marched off through the ferns, edging his burden among dense boughs as he ascended.
When he had made the joints of his couch creak with many uneasy turnings, had clinched at leaves, and started up to return to the tent, only to check himself in the act as often as he started, he lost consciousness in uneasy dreams rather than fell asleep.
He was smothering, and yet could not open his lips to gasp for a breath of air. Then he was drowning: he gulped in vast sheets of water upon his lungs. An alarm sounded from Eva's barricade. He heard the pans and kettles clanging and her own voice in screams which pierced him, yet he could not move. A nightmare of heat enveloped him; the smothering element pouring upon his lungs was not water, but smoke; and he knew if no effort of will could move his body to her rescue he must be perishing himself.
After these brief sensations his existence was as blank as the empty void outside the worlds, until his ears began to throb like drums, and he felt water, like the tears he had shed in the morning, running all over his face. Eva held him in her arms, and alternately kissed his head and drenched it from the lake.
Moreover, he was in the boat, outside the bay, and their island glowed like a furnace before his dazzled eyes.
Those pine woods where he had gone to sleep were roaring up toward heaven in a column of fire. The tent was burning, all its interior illuminated until every object showed its minutest lines. He thought he saw some of Eva's dark hairs in an upturned hair-brush on the wash-stand.
Fire ran along the cliff-edge and dropped hissing brands into the lake. Old moss logs and pine-trees dry as tinder sent out sickening heat. The light ran like a flash up the tree over their stove, and in an instant its crown was wavering with flames. The grass itself caught here and there, and in whatever direction the eye turned, new fires as instantaneously sprang out to meet it.
Stumps blazed up like lighted altars, or like huge gas-jets suddenly turned on. Adam saw one log lying endwise downhill, one side of which was crumbling into coals of fierce and tremulous heat, while from the other side still sprung unsinged a delicate tuft of ferns.
The smoke was driving straight upward in a quivering current, and in Lake Magog's depths another island seemed to be on fire.
Sublime as the sight was, all these details impressed themselves on the man in an instant, and he turned his face directly up toward the woman.
"Darling, your face looks blistered," said Adam.
"It feels blistered," replied Eva. "I'll put some water on it, now that you've caught your breath again. I thought I could not get you out from those burning trees."
"But you dragged me down the hill?"
"Yes, and then dipped you in the lake and pushed off with you in the boat. I don't know how I did it. But here we are together."
Adam bathed her face carefully himself, and held her tight in his arms. The unspeakable love of which he had dreamed, and the heat of the burning island, seemed welding them together without other sign than the fact.
Not a word was sighed out for forgiveness on either side. They held each other and floated back into the lake. Adam took an oar and occasionally paddled, without wholly releasing his hold of Eva.
"Don't you remember our fish's nest?" she whispered beside his neck. "I wonder if the slim little silver thing is swimming around over the gravel hollow, frightened by all this glare? I hope those overhanging bushes won't catch fire and drop coals on her; for she's a silly thing,—she might not want to dart out in deep water and lose her unhatched family."
Adam smiled into his wife's eyes. He was quite singed, but did not know it.
"Ay, burn," he spoke out exultantly, apostrophizing the island. "Burn up our first home and all. It's worth it. We're the other side o' the world of fire now. We've passed through it, and are afloat on the sea of glass."
M. H. CATHERWOOD.
PROBATION
Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate:
The choicest fruitage comes not with the spring,
But still for summer's mellowing touch must wait,
For storms and tears that seasoned excellence bring;
And Love doth fix his joyfullest estate
In hearts that have been hushed 'neath Sorrow's brooding wing.
Youth sues to Fame: she coldly answers, "Toil!"
He sighs for Nature's treasures: with reserve
Responds the goddess, "Woo them from the soil."
Then fervently he cries, "Thee will I serve,—
Thee only, blissful Love." With proud recoil
The heavenly boy replies, "To serve me well—deserve."
FLORENCE EARLE COATES.
THE PIONEERS OF THE SOUTHWEST
TWO PAPERS.—II
The route of Robertson lay over the great Indian war-path, which led, in a southwesterly direction, from the valley of Virginia to the Cherokee towns on the lower Tennessee, not far from the present city of Chattanooga. He would, however, turn aside at the Tellico and visit Echota, which was the home of the principal chiefs. While he is pursuing his perilous way, it may be as well to glance for a moment at the people among whom he is going at so much hazard.
The Cherokees were the mountaineers of aboriginal America, and, like most mountaineers, had an intense love of country and a keen appreciation of the beautiful in nature, as is shown by the poetical names they have bequeathed to their rivers and mountains. They were physically a fine race of men, tall and athletic, of great bravery and superior natural intelligence. It was their military prowess alone that enabled them to hold possession of the country they occupied against the many warlike tribes by whom they were surrounded.
They had no considerable cities, or even villages, but dwelt in scattered townships in the vicinity of some stream where fish and game were found in abundance. A number of these towns, bearing the musical names of Tallassee, Tamotee, Chilhowee, Citico, Tennassee, and Echota, were at this time located upon the rich lowlands lying between the Tellico and Little Tennessee Rivers. These towns contained a population, in men, women, and children, estimated at from seven to eight thousand, of whom perhaps twelve hundred were warriors. These were known as the Ottari (or "among the mountains") Cherokees.
About the same number, near the head-waters of the Savannah, in the great highland belt between the Blue Ridge and the Smoky Mountains, were styled the Erati (or "in the valley") Cherokees. Another body (among whom were many Creeks), nearly as large, and much more lawless than either of the others, occupied towns lower down the Tennessee and in the vicinity of Lookout Mountain. These, from their residence near the stream of that name, were known as the Chickamaugas.
These various bodies were one people, governed by an Archimagus, or King, who, with a supreme council of chiefs, which sat at Echota, decided all important questions in peace or war. Under him were the half-or vice-king and the several chiefs who governed the scattered townships and together composed the supreme council. In them was lodged the temporal power. Spiritual authority was of a far more despotic form and character. It was vested in one person, styled the Beloved man or woman of the tribe, who, over a people so superstitious as the Cherokees, held a control that was wellnigh absolute. This person was generally of superior intelligence, who, like the famous Prophet of the Shawnees, officiated as physician, prophet, and intercessor with the invisible powers; and, by virtue of the supernatural authority which he claimed, he often by a single word decided the most important questions, even when opposed by the king and the principal chiefs.
Echota was located on the northern bank of the Tellico, about five miles from the ruins of Fort Loudon, and thirty southwest from the present city of Knoxville. It was the Cherokee City of Refuge. Once within its bounds, an open foe, or even a red-handed criminal, could dwell in peace and security. The danger to an enemy was in going and returning. It is related that an Englishman who, in self-defence, once slew a Cherokee, fled to this sacred city to escape the vengeance of the kindred of his victim. He was treated here with such kindness that after a time he thought it safe to leave his asylum. The Indians warned him against the danger, but he left, and on the following morning his body was found on the outskirts of the town, pierced through and through with a score of arrows.
About two hundred cabins and wigwams, scattered, with some order but at wide intervals, along the bank of the river, composed the village. The cabins, like those of the white settlers, were square and built of logs; the wigwams were conical, with a frame of slender poles gathered together at the top and covered with buffalo-robes, dressed and smoked to render them impervious to the weather. An opening at the side formed the entrance, and over it was hung a buffalo-hide, which served as a door. The fire was built in the centre of the lodge, and directly overhead was an aperture to let out the smoke. Here the women performed culinary operations, except in warm weather, when such employments were carried on outside in the open air. At night the occupants of the lodge spread their skins and buffalo-robes on the ground, and then men, women, and children, stretching themselves upon them, went to sleep, with their feet to the fire. By day the robes were rolled into mats and made to serve as seats. A lodge of ordinary size would comfortably house a dozen persons; but two families never occupied one domicile, and, the Cherokees seldom having a numerous progeny, not more than five or six persons were often tenants of a single wigwam.
These rude dwellings were mostly strung along the two sides of a wide avenue, which was shaded here and there with large oaks and poplars and trodden hard with the feet of men and horses. At the back of each lodge was a small patch of cleared land, where the women and the negro slaves (stolen from the white settlers over the mountains) cultivated beans, corn, and potatoes, and occasionally some such fruits as apples, pears, and plums. All labor was performed by the women and slaves, as it was considered beneath the dignity of an Indian brave to follow any occupation but that of killing, either wild beasts in the hunt or enemies in war. The house-lots were without fences, and not an enclosure could be seen in the whole settlement, cattle and horses being left to roam at large in the woods and openings.
In the centre of Echota, occupying a wide opening, was a circular, tower-shaped structure, some twenty feet high and ninety in circumference. It was rudely built of stout poles, plastered with clay, and had a roof of the same material sloping down to broad eaves, which effectually protected the walls from moisture. It had a wide entrance, protected by two large buffalo-hides hung so as to meet together in the middle. There were no windows, but an aperture in the roof, shielded by a flap of skins a few feet above the opening, let out the smoke and admitted just enough light to dissipate a portion of the gloom that always shrouded the interior. Low benches, neatly made of cane, were ranged around the circumference of the room. This was the great council-house of the Cherokees. Here they met to celebrate the green-corn dance and their other national ceremonials; and here the king and half-king and the princes and head-men of the various towns consulted together on important occasions, such as making peace or declaring war.
At the time of which I write, several of the log cabins of Echota were occupied by traders, adventurous white men who, tempted by the profit of the traffic with the Cherokees, had been led to a more or less constant residence among them. Their cabins contained their stock in trade,—traps, guns, powder and lead, hatchets, looking-glasses, "stroud," beads, scarlet cloth, and other trinkets, articles generally of small cost, but highly prized by the red-men, and for which they gave in exchange peltries of great value. The trade was one of slow returns, but of great profits to the trader. And it was of about equal advantage to the Indian; for with the trap or rifle he had gotten for a few skins he was able to secure more game in a day than his bow and arrow and rude "dead-fall" would procure for him in a month of toilsome hunting. The traders were therefore held in high esteem among the Cherokees, who encouraged their living and even marrying among them. In fact, such alliances were deemed highly honorable, and were often sought by the daughters of the most distinguished chiefs. Consequently, among the trader's other chattels would often be found a dusky mate and a half-dozen half-breed children; and this, too, when he had already a wife and family somewhere in the white settlements.
These traders were an important class in the early history of the country. Of necessity well acquainted with the various routes traversing the Indian territory, and with the state of feeling among the savages, and passing frequently to and fro between the Indian towns and the white settlements, they were often enabled to warn the whites of intended attacks, and to guide such hostile parties as invaded the Cherokee territory. Though often natives of North Carolina or Virginia, and in sympathy with the colonists, they were, if prudent of speech and behavior, allowed to remain unmolested in the Indian towns, even when the warriors were singing the war-song and brandishing the war-club on the eve of an intended massacre of the settlers.
Living in Echota at this time was one of this class who, on account of his great services to the colonists, is deserving of special mention. His name was Isaac Thomas, and he is said to have been a native of Virginia. He is described as a man about forty years of age, over six feet in height, straight, long-limbed, and wiry, and with a frame so steeled by twenty years of mountain-life that he could endure any conceivable hardship. His features were strongly marked and regular, and they wore an habitual expression of comic gravity; but on occasion his dark, deep-set eye had been known to light up with a look of unconquerable pluck and determination. He wore moccasins and hunting-shirt of buckskin, and his face, neck, and hands, from long exposure, had grown to be of the same color as that material. His coolness and intrepidity had been shown on many occasions, and these qualities, together with his immense strength, had secured him high esteem among the Cherokees, who, like all uncivilized people, set the highest value upon personal courage and physical prowess. It is related that shortly before the massacre at Fort Loudon he interfered in a desperate feud between two Cherokee braves who had drawn their tomahawks to hew each other in pieces. Stepping between them, he wrenched the weapons from their hands, and then, both setting upon him at once, he cooled their heated valor by lifting one after the other into the air and gently tossing him into the Tellico. Subsequently, one of these braves saved his life at the Loudon massacre, at the imminent risk of his own. If I were writing fiction, I might make of this man an interesting character: as it is, it will be seen that facts hereinafter related will fully justify the length of this description.
A wigwam, larger and more pretentious than most of the others in Echota, stood a little apart from the rest, and not far from the council-house. Like the others, it had a frame of poles covered with tanned skins; but it was distinguished from them by a singular "totem,"—an otter in the coils of a water-snake. Its interior was furnished with a sort of rude splendor. The floor was carpeted with buffalo-hides and panther-skins, and round the walls were hung eagles' tails, and the peltries of the fox, the wolf, the badger, the otter, and other wild animals. From a pole in the centre was suspended a small bag,—the mysterious medicine-bag of the occupant. She was a woman who to this day is held in grateful remembrance by many of the descendants of the early settlers beyond the Alleghanies. Her personal appearance is lost to tradition, but it is said to have been queenly and commanding. She was more than the queen, she was the prophetess and Beloved Woman, of the Cherokees.
At this time she is supposed to have been about thirty-five years of age. Her father was an English officer named Ward, but her mother was of the "blood royal," a sister of the reigning half-king Atta-Culla-Culla. The records we have of her are scanty, as they are of all her people, but enough has come down to us to show that she had a kind heart and a sense of justice keen enough to recognize the rights of even her enemies. She must have possessed very strong traits of character to exercise as she did almost autocratic control over the fierce and wellnigh untamable Cherokees when she was known to sympathize with and befriend their enemies the white settlers. Not long before the time of which I am writing, she had saved the lives of two whites,—Jeremiah Jack and William Rankin,—who had come into collision with a party of Cherokees; and subsequently she performed many similar services to the frontier people.
Other wigwams as imposing as that of Nancy Ward, and not far from the council-house, were the habitations of the head-king Oconostota, the half-king Atta-Culla-Culla, and the prince of Echota, Savanuca, otherwise called the Raven. Of these men it will be necessary to say more hereafter: here I need only remark that they have now gathered in the council-house, with many of the principal warriors and head-men of the Ottari Cherokees, and that the present fate of civilization in the Southwest is hanging on their deliberations.
They are of a gigantic race, and none of those at this conclave, except Atta-Culla-Culla, are less than six feet in height "without their moccasins." Squatted as they are gravely around the council-fire, they present a most picturesque appearance. Among them are the Bread-Slave-Catcher, noted for his exploits in stealing negroes; the Tennassee Warrior, prince of the town of that name; Noon-Day, a wide-awake brave; Bloody Fellow, whose subsequent exploits will show the appropriateness of his name; Old Tassell, a wise and reasonably just old man, afterward Archimagus; and John Watts, a promising young half-breed, destined to achieve eminence in slaughtering white people.
As one after another of them rises to speak, the rest, with downcast eyes and cloudy visages, listen with silent gravity, only now and then expressing assent by a solitary "Ugh!"
There is strong, though suppressed, passion among them; but it is passion under the control of reason. Whatever they decide to do will be done without haste, and after a careful weighing of all the consequences. In the midst of their deliberations the rapid tread of a horse's feet is heard coming up the long avenue. The horseman halts before the council-house, and soon the buffalo-hide parts in twain, and a tall young warrior, decorated with eagles' feathers and half clad in the highest style of Cherokee fashion, enters the door-way. He stands silent, motionless, not moving a pace beyond the entrance, till Oconostota, raising his eyes and lifting his huge form into an erect posture, bids him speak and make known his errand.
The young brave explains that the chief of the pale-faces has come down the great war-path to an outlying town to see the head-men of the Ottari. The warriors have detained him till they can know the will of their father the Archimagus.
The answer is brief: "Let him come. Oconostota will hear him."
And now an hour goes by, during which these grave chiefs sit as silent and motionless as if keeping watch around a sepulchre. At its close the tramp of a body of horsemen is heard, and soon Robertson, escorted by a score of painted warriors, enters the council-chamber. Like the rest, the new-comers are of fine physical proportions; and, as the others rise to their feet and all form in a circle about him, Robertson, who stands only five feet nine inches and is not so robust as in later years, seems like a pygmy among giants. Yet he is as cool, as collected, as apparently unconscious of danger, as if every one of those painted savages (when aroused, red devils) was his near friend or blood-relation. The chiefs glance at him, and then at one another, with as much wonderment in their eyes as was ever seen in the eyes of a Cherokee. They know he is but one man and they twelve hundred, and that by their law of retaliation his life is forfeit; and yet he stands there, a look of singular power on his face, as if not they but he were master of the situation. They have seen physical bravery; but this is moral courage, which, when a man has a great purpose, lifts him above all personal considerations and makes his life no more to him than the bauble he wears upon his finger.
Robertson waits for the others to speak, and there is a short pause before the old chief breaks the silence. Then, extending his hand to Robertson, he says, "Our white brother is welcome. We have eaten of his venison and drunk of his fire-water. He is welcome. Let him speak. Oconostota will listen."
The white man returns cordially the grasp of the Indian; and then, still standing, while all about him seat themselves on the ground, he makes known the object of his coming. I regret I cannot give here his exact answer, for all who read this would wish to know the very words he used on this momentous occasion. No doubt they were, like all he said, terse, pithy, and in such scriptural phrase as was with him so habitual. I know only the substance of what he said, and it was as follows: that the young brave had been killed by one not belonging to the Watauga community; that the murderer had fled, but when apprehended would be dealt with as his crime deserved; and he added that he and his companion-settlers had come into the country desiring to live in peace with all men, but more especially with their near neighbors the brave Cherokees, with whom they should always endeavor to cultivate relations of friendliness and good-fellowship.
The Indians heard him at first with silent gravity, but, as he went on, their feelings warmed to him, and found vent in a few expressive "Ughs!" and when he closed, the old Archimagus rose, and, turning to the chiefs, said, "What our white brother says is like the truth. What say my brothers? are not his words good?"
The response was, "They are good."
A general hand-shaking followed; and then they all pressed Robertson to remain with them and partake of their hospitality. Though extremely anxious to return at once with the peaceful tidings, he did so, and thus converted possible enemies into positive friends; and the friendship thus formed was not broken till the outbreak of the Revolution.
While Robertson had been away, Sevier had not been idle. He had put Watauga into the best possible state of defence. With the surprising energy that was characteristic of him, he had built a fort and gathered every white settler into it or safe within range of its muskets. His force was not a hundred strong; but if Robertson had been safely out of the savage hold, he might have enjoyed a visit from Oconostota and his twelve hundred Ottari warriors.
The fort was planned by Sevier, who had no military training except such as he had received under his patron and friend Lord Dunmore. Though rude and hastily built, it was a model of military architecture, and in the construction of it Sevier displayed such a genius for war as readily accounts for his subsequent achievements.
It was located on Gap Creek, about half a mile northeast of the Watauga, upon a gentle knoll, from about which the trees, and even stumps, were carefully cleared, to prevent their sheltering a lurking enemy. The buildings have now altogether crumbled away; but the spot is still identified by a few graves and a large locust-tree,—then a slender sapling, now a burly patriarch, which has remained to our day to point out the spot where occurred the first conflict between civilization and savagery in the new empire beyond the Alleghanies. For the conflict was between those two forces; and the forts along the frontier—of which this at Watauga was the original and model—were the forerunners of civilization,—the "voice crying in the wilderness," announcing the reign of peace which was to follow.
The fort covered a parallelogram of about an acre, and was built of log cabins placed at intervals along the four sides, the logs notched closely together, so that the walls were bullet-proof. One side of the cabins formed the exterior of the fort, and the spaces between them were filled with palisades of heavy timber, eight feet long, sharpened at the ends, and set firmly into the ground. At each of the angles was a block-house, about twenty feet square and two stories high, the upper story projecting about two feet beyond the lower, so as to command the sides of the fort and enable the besieged to repel a close attack or any attempt to set fire to the buildings. Port-holes were placed at suitable distances. There were two wide gate-ways, constructed to open quickly to permit a sudden sally or the speedy rescue of outside fugitives. On one of these was a lookout station, which commanded a wide view of the surrounding country. The various buildings would comfortably house two hundred people, but on an emergency a much larger number might find shelter within the enclosure.
