ND
a Pr. meee

 

 

“MASSASOIT'S DAUGHTER:

OR,

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES,

BEADLE & COMPANY,

 

London; 44, Paternoster Row. Wew York: 141, William ‘Street.
ENTERED AT STATION GIRS! HALL,

 

 
Ready August 15th,
BEADLE’S AMERICAN SIXPENNY BIOGRAPHIES, No, 2.

 

THE HUNTER OF KENTUCKY.

- 7 or in
LIFE AND TIMES OF

DANIEL BOONE,

The Hunter of Kentucky.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “COL, DAVID CROCKETT,” &c,

This work is from the pen of an author who already has made his mark in the
literature of our country by his beautiful and startling delincations of pioneer and fron-
tier life and Indian warfare. His “Seth Jones”? and ‘Frontier Angel”? are among the
choicest romances, in their field, ever given to the readers of light literature, The
studies of the author in the field of our early history and settlement fitted him peculiarly
for writing the life of Daniel Boone, the illustrious pioneer, Indian fighter, scout and
hunter.

The work embodies, beside the life of Boone, narratives of the defeat of St. Clair, of
the adventures of Simon Kenton, Mc Clelland and others; rendering it altogether one of
the most delightful and valuable works yet introduced to the readers of the American
Sixpenny Series.

*,* No Book COULD BE MORE DESIRABLE FOR THE FirESIDE AND THE LiBRary,

Gur rr, Pricz pur Sixpence.

BEADLE AND COMPANY,
LONDON AND NEW YORK.

 
 
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MASSASOPPS DAUGHTER;

OR, THE

/

i_BaNGH: CAPIY Es.

A ROMANCE OF ABORIGINAL NEW-ENGLAND.

 

BY A. J. H. DUGANNE.

 

NEW YORK AND LONDON:
BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,

141 Wiuiram Sr., Corner or Furron, N.Y.
a
44 Parrrnoster Row, Lonpon,

 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1861, by
BEADLE AND COMPANY,

in the Olerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.

 

 
 

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

 

Oo Ant ge. i.
WRECK OF AN EMIGRANT SHIP.

Tuer is a dangerous stretch of rocky land inclosing the
waters which wash the shores of Plymouth, where, even now,
the mariner fearfully guides his bark through dangerous
shoals—a narrow promontory, whose extremity pierces Massa-
chusetts Bay, and whose entire length is exposed to all the
violence of Atlantic tempests. Even at the present day, the
shores of Cape Cod—as the first discoverers designated it—and
the storm-beaten beaches which buffet the tide as far as Glou-
cester Point, are often strewn with the wrecks of shattered
vessels, and the bodies of their hapless crews. Scarcely a
storm rises, at certain seasons, from the inclement east, that
does not leave its dreadful traces on these dangerous head-
lands; and many a brave ship, returning from some tedious
voyage, has here found her grave, even when the roofs of her
sailors’ homes were visible to their despairing eyes, and the
ears of expectant friends were open to their drowning cries.

Hither, in her pride, came a ship of France, with freight of
hopeful men and trusting women, ‘while in her wake rose
the storm-cloud, and’ before her crouched the hidden forms
of unknown reefs. This was in the summer of 1615, while
the Pilgrims were still in Holland, though the French had
long since peopled portions of Canada and the Islands.

Up into the blue twilight rose that ominous ‘cloud, while
along the ocean’s surface swelled a moan as of perturbed

 
 

6 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

spirits of the deep. One of those sudden tempests, that leap at
once, like’ an aroused giant, from the bosom of our northern
seas, and scatter destruction around their path, as with mighty
strides they traverse the vexed waters—one of those awful
throes of nature now shook the mounting billows, as a steed’s
mane is shaken in the battle. The ship bowed before the
gale, her tall masts bent like reeds, her high-built prow and
majestic quarter dashing away the huge billows which strove
to overwhelm her. Onward, with headlong speed, she rushed
toward her fate, like a wild horse goaded by the hunter’s shaft.
Vainly were the flapping sails bent to the straining masts, and
heavy anchors launched into the frothy waters. On dashed
the ship—on to the rocks with a crash; then there was a
shivering heaye, and then a dull thump; the crack of parting
timbers, followed by a shriek of fear and agony—voices of
the terror-stricken, calling upon heaven.

Far above the roar of the storm and the cries of perishing
wretches, was heard the war-whoop of the savage as he
marked the peril of his stranger foes, and saw that they must
perish, or become his captives. :

The Indian is a poetic subject for the romancer to endow

with the attributes of an unsullied nature—to portray as ~

clothed with chivalric character, and invested with all the rude
virtues supposed to belong peculiarly to a state of nomad
innocence. But, an Indian painted and decorated for war, in
all the glories of shells, feathers, wampum, with a sheaf of
arrows, a stone-hatchet, an oaken-bow, oyster-shell scalping-
knife, and having a disposition to cut, hack, maim and torture
his enemies to the utmost extent of their endurance, is a positive
and real object not at all agreeable to encounter; and if our
ancestors, of worthy Pilgrim memory, were sometimes inclined
to exhibit their horror of such things by making short work
of armed savages, we may, perhaps, imagine an occasional
excuse for their so doing, by considering the circumstances in
which they were placed, as continually threatened by a
remorseless race, jealous of their presence, and anxious for
their destruction.

It may be fancied that the poor French emigrants, who
beheld, from the decks of the stranded ship, the fierce band
anticipating their doom, and exulting in its imminence,

   

 

  
 

a

CLINGING TO THE WRECK. q

abandoned all hope of escape, and gave way to despair.
Children clung abgut the necks of their mothers, wives were
folded wildly in their husbands’ arms, friends embraced one
another in affectionate farewells—all gave themselves to the
terror of the moment, mingling their cries and prayers in sad
confusion. The poor wanderers crouched upon the narrow
deck, while the daylight faded, the storm howled, and around
them dashed the angry waters, sweeping over the reefs, and
threatening each moment to ingulf the wrecked vessel. Mean-
time, the savages had kindled large fires at many points upon
the beach, the light of which streamed across the gloomy
water, and reached the dismantled ship; and, on the sand,
amid the flaming piles, while the rain poured, and the wind
shrieked around them, could be seen their dusky forms, as, with
pine-knot torches brandished above their heads, they leaped
and danced, singing and yelling so loud that every note rung
in the ear of the shuddering occupants of the wreck.

The hours passed slowly on, though, alas! too quickly for
the unhappy emigrants, who, striving to sustain one another
upon the slippery planks, or clinging singly to the bulwarks,
looked out through the mist toward the savages circling round
their war-fires. It was evident to the despairing emigrants
that no alternative but death or captivity among the redskins
could be presented to them, even should they succeed in
reaching the shore after the final breaking up of the vessel, of
which event they were in momentary anticipation, The cap-
tain, however, a dark-visaged and determined man, had not
yet resigned himself to the apathy which prevents thought or
exertion. He had weighed in his own mind the chances of
escape, and saw that there remained one, at least, in case the
tempest should subside. during the night. This was to leave
the stranded vessel by means of the boats, and, instead of
landing, to push boldly for the sea, and then, by skirting the
headlands and capes, to gain at least some southern point,
whence the English settlement of Raleigh, or the new colony
of Maryland, might be speedily reached. Unfortunately, how-
ever, such escape could be available only to a few, inasmuch
as the main boat of the ship had been swamped during the
stress of the gale, and there remained only the pinnace, and
a small cockle-shell affair which could hold but a half-dozen

tig

 
  

8 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

of the passengers. However, Captain Pierre did not hesitate, but
decided upon securing his own safety, whatsoever might be
the consequences. He had been used to many adventures,
perilous, and, rumor said, illegal; for it was more than sus-
pected by the emigrants who had engaged him to man and
master the ship, that the worthy Pierre had, in former years,
known a career less peaceful—indeed, that his rightful com-
panions were rather buccaneers of the Indies than good citi-
zens emigrating for the sake of enjoying quiet lives. The

master was not, indeed, a Frenchman, but a Creole of the -

Spanish main, who had been employed by the emigrants as
navigator of the vessel which they owned in shares; moreover,
the crew which Captain Pierre had brought with him were of
different countries, and though notable good seamen, were yet
on quite familiar footing with their master, so as, indeed, to
cause a strong suspicion among the emigrants of a former inti-
macy existing between the parties, which might suggest many
memories of adventure connected with Spanish galleons.
Nevertheless, Captain Pierre had contracted for the expedition,
and had thus far performed his stipulations, which, of course,
could not take into account the disasters and mischances of
the ocean,

The Creole captain, at this moment, whatever bad or good
actions had been his antecedents, was intent on escaping the
fate which at present seemed to menace the whole company.
He quietly called to him a dozen of the crew, who were evi-
dently old associates of their commander, and, retiring with
them to a space between bulkheads not yet battered by the
waves, and near which the pinnace was secured, unfolded
the plan he had devised. The rough followers readily acqui-
esced in their leader’s design, though one of them, a blunt
fellow, whose round head and bull-dog face proclaimed an
English origin, ventured to remark, with an oath:

“Then these poor Frenchmen, with their wenches, will

assuredly be eaten by the cannibals on shore yonder. Mass!

but it goes hard with my conscience to leave them, Captain
Pierre !”

“You are a fool, Robin,” answered the Creole, “for the
sensible man lives ag long as he can, and lets others do the
same.”

 
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
 
  

 

  
 

A CALL TO PRAYER. 9

“And, in good sooth,” returned the Englishman, with a
laugh, in which he seemed to swallow his scruples, “in good
sooth, the French people are fitter to die than any of us rovers,
Captain Pierre; so I e’en think we may give them the slip
with quiet conscience.”

“Well, knave, out with the pinnace, and make no noise
about it,” said Captain Pierre; “ there’s a patch of still water
under the bows, and the boat may swing till the backbone of
the storm is broken, which can not be long, if the wind blows
like this.”

At last, @ lull in the fierceness of the wind, and thunder-
rolls dying away in the deep, announced that the gale had
spent its violence. Presently the heavy mist that had clothed
the waters like a pall, and through which the lightning at
times hardly penetrated, began to break in many places, and
permit the expiring embers of the Indian war-fires to be seen,
marking the line: of sandy beach. The savages themselves
were no longer visible; but anon, their yells were heard higher
up among the woods, and the white men knew that their foes
waited but for the morning’s light to attack the ship. Thus wore
away the dismal hours, the waters still violent and beating
upon the wreck, and the shifting clouds now breaking away
slightly, and now closing in dense masses, Thus, at length,
the midnight hour came and passed, and then, just as a heavy
wave was retreating, there sounded a dull blow that seemed
to shiver through thie vessel, and immediately afterward the
great galley, which was built at the ship’s stern, broke com-
pletely off, carrying with it a portion of the quarter, and a
score of men and women who clung along the nettings, A
shriek rose from the waters as the dark mass of wood, with
its freight of living beings, swept seaward with the ebbing
waye, and then a silence as of death settled over all.

But the pause lasted not long, for it was the effect of an
agonizing dread, which soon found utterance in words, and .
sobs, and cries to heayen. In the midst of this sorrowful
tumult, a deep voice penetrated the ears of all who had
survived the parting of the galley from the quarter:

“Friends, the ship breaks up! An hour hence, and naught
but fragments will remain! Let us prepare to meet death
like Frenchmen and Christians, and that we may have strength
so to do, let us now unite in prayer to our Lord.”

 
  

10 HE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

It was the voice of Abbe Claude—a priest who had accom-
panied the expedition, and whose kindly ministries had
endeared him to all the emigrants. His solemn accents now
fell upon the despairing hearts of his friends with an influence
that calmed their terrors, albeit they felt that the prayer which
they should offer would be likewise their requiem. At this
moment, another voice was heard:

“Comrades, it is good to pray, but it is better to work.
The storm is now over; let us make a bridge over the rocks
with spars, and thus reach the shore.”

It was a man of Brittany who spoke—one high in esteem
among his companions, and a murmur of approval grected
his words. He continued:

“Tt will presently be impossible to escape, for, as the
good Abbe says, the ship is breaking fast. Therefore, before
we pray, let us work, I say, that we may get to the shore.
Ho, captain ! Captain Pierre !”

But Captain Pierre’s voice sounded not in answer to the
Briton's call. ;

“Ho, Captain Pierre! the storm has ceased ! let us make a
raft to the shore !”

Then a loud hail came from the gloom which hung around
the vessel’s side, shrouding the waters, and a quick dash, as of
oars, was audible.

“Make ye araft, an’ ye will, friends! Itis a good thought,
But Captain Pierre can not come to ye. Adieu !”

As that farewell sounded, a last flash of lightning lit the
surrounding waters, and the dazzled eyes of the wretched
emigrants faintly perceived the pinnace, filled with men, row-
ing with all speed over the black surface, propelled by double
oars, A. gloom settled over their spirits, and a low cry
escaped many lips. Eyen the Briton’s voice faltered as he
cried :

“Captain Pierre has deserted us!”

“Let us now pray !” said Abbe Claude.

The Briton answered not, and presently the clear, powerful
tones of the priest’s voice rose sweetly above the turmoil of
winds and waves. He prayed upon that parting wreck, amid
the shivering forms of his companions, and his words were
echoed by moaning cries, and by deep amens from the inmost

 
    
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
    
  
 
   
   
 
 
   
  
   
 
   
 
 
    
 

 

  
 

 

dn?

THE SHIP BREAKS UP. il

hearts of his hearers. Sublime was the great tumult of waters
beneath his voice—solemp, indeed, the church in which he
knelt—the dying audience whom he addressed.

Then—the ship broke in twain, the whirling billows dashed
her shattered timbers upon the rocks, and caught up the
shrieking wretches who clung to spars and cordage, hurling
them remorselessly among the breakers, or bearing them
ashore, where murdering enemies awaited, with tomahawks
upraised, to wreak their savage cruelties upon such as might
escape the ocean’s fangs. :

As the beautiful sun, which, at its setting, had kissed the
gay streamers of the ship of France, arose to fill another
daily course, the wrecked emigrants were slain, or captured,
or fleeing, they knew not whither, through the dense forest
of that unknown land where after-wanderers were to find a
less inhospitable greeting, and where was to be born that mighty
child of a mighty mother, which the world was to know as
New England.

 
     
   
   
 
 
 
    
   
 
  
 
   
  
 
    
  
 
 
 
   

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

OHA PTEAR= TT.
IN THE WILDERNESS.

Upon the greensward knelt three figures—an old man, a
youth, and a fair young girl. The first, by his garb, and the

crucifix which he held aloft, seemed a priest: a man with’

placid face and thoughtful eyes—one of those self-denying,
earnest souls, who first dared the perils of our untrodden
wilds, to plant amid deserts the seeds of eternal life.

Near him was a young man, whose attire, though torn and—

travel-stained, was yet of costly texture and delicate workman-
ship. His embroidered doublet and rich vest, his jeweled belt,
and the plumed hat which lay near him on the sward, as well
as the diamond-hilted sword that glittered by his side, marked
him as a cavalier of rank. Small hope of golden stores had
been the inducement to the young Louis de Luzerne to
embark on the outward voyage of Captain Pierre, and mingle
with the hundred emigrants who sought the shores of Canada,
then first explored, and called Acadiéd by the French. But a
higher motive actuated him. He sought a father, long since
banished from his native land for some act which had incurred
the arbitrary displeasure of his king. Moreover, the young
man cherished another sacred duty—the protection of an only
sister, whose tenderest years he had overwatched, and whose
beautiful youth he was now guiding with all the enthusiasm
of a brother’s noble love. With this sister, Louis had em-
barked in the ship of Captain Pierre; with her he contemplated
to share a sylyan home in the new Arcadia of his hopes; and
with her he prayed that he might greet a Jong-lost sire, who,
perchance, in his wilderness-exile, despaired of ever again
beholding his children.

Beautiful, exceedingly, is prayer—if it be but the true
prayer of the heart.

 

Gas
  

 

ane

 

SURVIVORS OF THE WRIEOCK. 13

Such was that of the young girl, breathed in the solitude
of an American forest, ere the foot of an Englishman had
pressed the strand of Plymouth. The prayer was in the
sweet French tongue. Its burden was:

“ Marie, reine du ciel, priez pour nous!”

And the priest and the young man echoed the musical
orison, saying:

“Mary, Queen of Heaven, pray for us !”

She prayed with soft devotion— :

Oma mere, bien aimee!”

The old man, with white locks, and the youth, in low

response, upraised their eyes, and murmured—

“Oh my mother, well-beloved !””
“ Marie! priez pour nous /
' Mary! pray for us!”

A solemn and beautiful litany was this, in the deep still-
ness of a summer's eve, upon a wild, New-England mountain.
The shadows lengthened as the prayer proceeded, and gloom
deepened around the worshipers. The holy eyes of the
maiden Marie shone through the dimness, and her white
hands, clasped in earnestness, gleamed from the shadows like
the pinions of a snowy dove.

The three who knelt upon the sward were all who had
escaped the final catastrophe of the wreck. Louis de
Luzerne, in the last moments of terror succeeding the knowl-
edge of Captain Pierre’s desertion of the ship, had succeeded,
by great exertions, in casting loose a small skiff, or rather
canoe, which was fast to the dismantled quarter, and in this
frail bark had placed his sister, the priest Claude, and a youth
of his own country, named Gabriel St. Elmo. At the dread

. moment when the sea broke over and ingulfed the passengers,

this little skiff, to which the four emigrants clung, was lifted
from the quarter by @ heavy swell, and flung high up among
the breakers, whence a returning billow dragged it back to the
wild turmoil of waters, Abbe Claude held the maiden in hig
arms, and Louis, with nervous hand, strove to’ guide the little
boat with the broken blade of an oar which he had secured.
But the youth St. Elmo, who had been with them when the
wreck broke up, was now no longer visible. He had lost his
hold upon the skiff, and been overwhelmed at once by the

 

  
  

14 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

breakers. The boat itself, after tossing to and fro, whirled in
many directions, at last passed beyond a sheltering headland,
where the embayed waters were calm, and there the wan-
derers remained till the gray dawn discovered to them their
situation.

For many days and nights they pursued their route
over hills and meadows, and through verdant vales, that were
clothed with all the garniture of summer-time, and redolent
with sweetest incenses of virgin nature. They journeyed
very slowly, but still in the direction, as they believed, of their
countrymen’s settlement, called <Acadid, With no chart or
compass, save the rising and setting sun, to tell them of the
east and west, and having many times to diverge from a
straight course, in following the curves of rivers which they
could not cross, they nevertheless pressed forward hopefully,
with an unfaltering trust in Him who had thus far pro-
tected them. Abbe Claude strengthened the courage of Louis
by his pious faith and converse, and the youth, on his part,
devoted every care to the tender one who clung to him by
day and night. Many a mile did he walk, carrying Marie in
his arms like an infant, and hushing her fears with brave
assurances that all must yet be well; that.at the French set-
tlement they must speedily arrive, and there be folded to the
heart of a long-lost parent.

So, day by day, they walked the wilderness, until, at length,
one sultry eve, they gained the high slopes of Mount Wachu-
sett, then towering, as it towers this day, over a wide horizon
of green fields and waving woods and silvery streamlets,
twining its base like ribbons. With but vague notions con-
cerning the extent of that strange coast whereon they had
been thrown so suddenly, the Abbe Claude believed that a
few days’ journey must conduct them to the settlements of
the French.

The mountain they had now réached was the highest
encountered in their journey thus far ; and they had ascended
nearly to its highest ledges, in the hope that from such an alti-
tude the traces of civilized existence might welcome their
vision. Of the Indian race they had seen no signs since leaving
the sea-shore; and this fact had given them more assurance
that their course was a proper one. Creat, therefore, was the
disappointment of all when, on climbing to a lofty point of

  

  
THE RED-MEN. 15

the wooded elevation, they could discern nothing in the
extreme distance but interminable hills and hollows, covered
with dense forest-growths like those which they had been
traversing for so many weary days.

Marie, who had refused to complain of pain or weariness
during the difficult ascent, here sunk entirely exhausted.
She seemed about to yield under the hardships that had so
severely taxed her gentle frame.

Louis bent down and pressed his lips to his sister’s cheek.
“Marie !” he said, “the good God watches over us! Let us
put our trust in Him !”

“Yes!” answered Abbe Claude. ‘“ Let us have faith in Him
who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb!”

“My brother!” murmured the young girl, “should I die,
you will go to our father! Perhaps he—”

A tall, black shadow fell athwart the dusky twilight. Marie
uttered a shriek of terror—shrinking back and then falling
upon the greensward. A painted savage had stolen noise-
lessly from the thicket, and laid his tawny hand upon her
arm. Louis sprung to his feet, drawing, as he did so, the
sword which rested beside him. But, as if by consent, a
fierce yell resounded through the forest-depths, and a line of
yelling savages emerged from the gloom, brandishing pine-
knot torches and weapons of murderous shape, while, with
horrible cries, they danced in long circles, closing about their
prey.

Louis saw, for the moment, only one object—his poor
sister, prostrate upon the sward, motionless as in death. In
another instant the brother’s glance met the fierce regards of
an Indian warrior, and simultaneously the two sprung to a
renconter, in which the red-man’s stone tomahawk was
shivered by the young Frenchman’s sword-blade, and his
breast pierced by its point. But of what avail could bea
single arm against such fearful odds? A dozen savages
precipitated themselves upon the brave youth. A hundred
threatening arms were uplifted to dispatch him.

Abbe Claude, raising his crucifix above his bare brow, knelt
beside the swooning maiden, sustaining her slight form. It
was a blessed unconsciousness that steeped the poor child’s
senses, shielding her from the sights and sounds around her;

 
 

  

16 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

for the wilderness appeared alive with foemen, and an un-
earthly chorus of whoops and cries bespoke the jubilee of
savage triumph.

Luzerne, struggling vainly against overpowering numbers,
beheld his sword wrested from his grasp after a tomahawk
blow had disabled his wrist. Defenseless and smitten to the
ground, he submitted to be bound, as was the Abbe Claude,
with tough withes of bark, while the still fainting Marie
was lifted, a death-like burden, on the arm of a tall Indian
who appeared to be the chief of the band. —

Abbe Claude and Louis Luzerne were driven before their
red captors down the dim forest-aisles, and, with bleeding feet
and pinioned arms, urged onward swiftly by their Narragansett
captors. Ah! what a dismal spectacle appalled them as they
raised their burning eyes !—a ghastly line of trophies borne on
bloody spear-points—dark, reeking scalps, with the short hair
of men, and long tresses, and blonde ringlets—the last vestiges
of matrons and maids, whose corses lay unburied upon the
sands of the shore. These sad relics were all that remained
of their late companions in exile—the hapless crew and
passengers of the wrecked ship!

 

—
>———— ay

as

—————

OUTESIE. 17

‘ CHARTER. III.
THE WHITE MAN’S CRIME,

On the same evening that Luzerne, his sister, and the
Abbe Claude ascended tlie mountain of Wachusett, and beheld
the sun set-from its summit, another scene of glory was visible
some score of miles to the south. The declining sun was
spreading a gauze of fire over the broad waters of Massa-
chusetts Bay, and along the margin of her golden sands a
myriad .of rippling waves were breaking brightly and quietly,
glittering in the western light like dissolving shells of pearl.

Beneath the spreading boughs ‘of a stalwart oak, that
stretched its ponderous arms toward the shore, sat a young

‘Indian mother, while her child rocked in a birchen cradle that

depended from a branch of the oak. She was weaving a
chain of wampum, and crooning to herself, in a low-toned,
musical voice, some plaintive ditty of her native tribe. At
times her dark eyes fell, with a glance of love, upon her slum-
bering infant, and then, with a smile, were directed afar to
the distant hill-tops, their glance following the course of a
narrow hunting-path, which led from the sea-shore through
the dense forest. By that path Outesie knew that her hus-
band, a brave Pequod hunter, would seek his cabin at the
sunset hour, and her heart beat in. glad anticipation; for the
young mother was proud and fond of the father of her babe.
A boat appeared upon the waters of the bay, gradually
approaching the land. Stealing onward, in the shadow of
the high beach-rocks, it drew noiselessly nearer and nearer to
the bank upon which the Indian mother sat. She saw it not,
for the eyes and heart of Outesie were fixed upon the tall
form of a man parting the leafy solitude. She knew it was
her husband—a stately chieftain with plumed head and wam-
pum-decked breast, returning from the chase. He held his
bow in his hand, and rapidly descended the wooded hill,
while the loying eyes of his wife eagerly watched his coming.

 
   

  

18 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES

The boat had now rounded the nearest point, and her keel
struck the sands of the shore. The Indian mother stood near
the oak tree, her gaze fixed upon the advancing chieftain, and
she heard not the approach of the strangers till a rough hand
was laid upon her. Turning quickly, she beheld two beings
with white faces, and in singular garb, standiyg close beside
her. At once all that she had heard concerning spirits of evil
flashed over her mind. But she thought not of self—her first
emotion was apprehension for her sleeping child. With a
shriek she darted to the oak tree, and snatched from its waving
bough the birchen cradle in which her babe reposed.

The Pequod chieftain heard the shriek. His eyes fell upon
the strangers who were pursuing her. No fear of evil spirits
palsied the Indian’s limbs, for he knew that the intruders
were men of that pale race which, in other portions: of the
land, had already marked its advent with violence and blood.
He fitted an arrow to his bow, and, bounding down the mount-
ain-path, gained the oak tree, where his terrified wife ‘had
sunk insensible. The white men beheld the stalwart form of
the Indian dashing toward them, and, turning quickly, they
regained their boat, and pushed away from the beach.

The chieftain did not pursue them. His first care was to
raise the fainting Outesie, and hush the terror of the babe,
now awake, and uttering loud cries. Meanwhile the boat,
which contained perhaps a dozen men, had reached the clear
water at some distance from the shore, and there its crew,
resting upon their oars, surveyed the movements of the red-
man.

Outesie’s eyes soon opened beneath her husband’s caresses,
and she clung tremblingly to his bosom, as her gaze wandered
shoreward and beheld the white spirits of her fear.

“Outesie—my wild bird—they are gone! It is I—it is
Mattakan who embraces thee.”

Outesie stretched forth her arms for her child, and, pressing
it to her heart, soothed its plaintive cries. The twilight was
now falling, and Mattakan and his wife had several miles to
walk to their own lodge, for the oak tree-was but a trysting-
place where Outesie was wont to meet her chieftain, as he
returned, Jaden with small game, from the forest-hunt. At
the present time, Mattakan’s belt of wampum held several
birds and rabbits, pierced \by his unerring shaft

 
THE PEQUOD CHIEF. 19

Suddenly, however, as the chieftain turned to enter, with
Outesie, the forest-depths, and give the alarm to the village
that. strangers were upon their waters, a loud report, that
sounded in the Indian’s ears like thunder, caused him to turn
his head. At the same moment a bullet whistled past, and,
striking the oak tree, splintered the bark in fragments at his
feet. Mattakan, appalled at the strange power which had
performed this feat, stood for a moment silently clasping the
hand of Outesie, then hurriedly led her toward the forest-path.,
Another moment, and his form would be lost in the shadows
of the great trees. Outesie, with beating heart, folded her
babe in her arms and followed her husband.

Again that loud report startled the echoes. It was mingled
with the dying shriek of Outesie! A bullet from the white
man’s musket had pierced her loving heart. She staggered
forward and fell at the roots of the reverent oak which had
been her place of tryst, the babe still clasped to her heart.

Mattakan knelt beside his wife; he saw the life-stream
welling from the cruel wound in her bosom; he met her soft
eyes, upturned to his own, in a long, last lool of affection; and
then, as she sunk upon the sward, Mattakan knew that
Outesie was no more. The leaden death of the pale strangers
had robbed him of his beloved.

Fury filled the soul of the Pequod chief. Raising a wild
peal of the war-whoop, he rushed to the water’s edge, and,
fitting an arrow to his bow, launched it at the retreating boat.
The shaft fell short of its mark, and a shrill laugh of tri-
umphal scorn came from the white men. <A. discharge of
muskets hurled a dozen bullets around the chieftain’s form;
but he heeded them not, though the plume was struck from
his scalp-lock, and his wampum-necklace was cut in twain by
the missiles. Why should Mattakan now fear death? His
heart was with the dead Outesie.

Slowly he retraced his steps to the oak tree, while the
white man’s boat glided away on the misty waters of the bay.
And when the last rays of day had fled from the scene, and
the night shades drew heavily around, Mattakan stood beside
a grave that he had scooped out in the sand beneath the oak
tree.

In that grave the Pequod chieftain buried the body of his

 
 

  

20 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

beloved Outesie. But first he knelt upon the sand beside hig
lost one, and, severing a tress of her long, black hair, placed
it in his bosom, murmuring a few low words. ‘The tress was
wet with the blood of his murdered wife, and the words
which Mattakan breathed were a yow of vengeance upon the
pale-faces. ,

Wrapping the young child in a garment of its slain mother,
he pressed it to his heaving heart, and then departed into the
wilderness.

Many moons passed away, but Mattakan was seen no more
upon the shores of the Massachusetts, and his voice resounded
not in the wigwams of his tribe. Mattakan: hunted no more
upon the three hills of Shawmut.

The small mound, beneath the ancient oak that marked the
grave of Outesie, began to crumble before the encroaching
waves, and soon the waters encircled the oak itself.

But Mattakan came not, and none among his nation knew
whither he had wandered.

 

 
SAVAGE REJOICINGS. 21

CHAPTER IY.
THE NARRAGANSETT TRIUMPH.

Over the green hillsides, through deep woods and across
swollen rivers, journeyed a long line of dusky savages, each
treading in the footsteps of the one who preceded him, as they
tracked their way toward the declining sun. They were all
hideously painted, and ornamented with the grotesque trap-
pings of aboriginal vanity. Feathers, shells, and strings of
wampum, mingled with the skins of snakes and teeth of
wolves, were hung about their necks and bosoms, and, in
addition to these customary decorations, many wore trinkets
of copper, and silver and golden crosses. It was evident,
indeed, that they were returning home with the trophies of
some recent victory; for, scattered among their under
accouterments, were torn and blood-stained articles of Euro-
pean clothing, fabrics of costly texture, fragments of gilded
wood, and finely-wrought drinking-vessels, which clinked
together as the short, quick trot of the savages shook them
‘rom side to side. :

The red-men were merry; for strange sights had they
witnessed, and great triumphs won. They had met the white
strangers from beyond the waters, and beheld his “ big canoe”
shattered by the terrible breath of Hobbomocko, and seen how
its great ribs were broken upon the rocks of the seaside.
They had smitten the pal¢-faces, as they gained the shore, and
made their hands red with the blood of the white strangers.
And now they journeyed homeward with great joy, for many
scalps of young and old danced before the eyes of the Narra-
gansett warriors. Envious would be the tribes of the Massa-
chusetts, when news of the bold deeds of the Narragansetts
should reach their ears, as they sat amid the squaws in their
wigwams.

The war-party pursued its march, till at length the village

 
 

  

22 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

of the tribe was neared, and the Narragansett hunting-grounds
stretched before the gaze of their returning owners. Whoop-
ing and yelling, the savage warriors quickened their pace, and
tossed in the air the bloody poles on which were stretched a
hundred gory scalps. And forth from the lodges and wig-
wams, to greet them, came the old men, and squaws, and
children, leaping wildly about, and serceching, like demons, a
welcome to their victorious friends. O, it was a horrible and
unearthly scene to look upon—that demoniac welcome home!
for distorted figures, naked and frightfully painted, danced
beneath the old forest-trees, in the light of blazing pine-knots,
which they whirled above their heads, and a chorus of terrific
cries mingled with the beat of wooden drums and blast of
conch-shells, frightening the wild beasts to their lairs by the
more intense wildness of savage men. It was a ee
welcome, indeed, to the returning warriors, but a fearful greet-
ing to their wretched captives, who, tattered, scourged, and
fettered, marched in the midst of the whooping band. There
were two prisoners—one youthful and fair, with delicate limbs,
now, alas, all bleeding and bruised from blows and the hard-
ships of travel; the other, with white locks and reverend
brow, alike bruised and wearied, but pressing bravely onward,
his shackled hands folded meekly on his breast.

Vainly had Louis de Luzerne struggled for freedom—vainly
prayed for death; the goading spears of his cruel captors
urged him forward on the toilsome march, though his pinioned
limbs had grown stiff with pain and fatigue. The aged priest,
like himself, was half bowed to the ground under a load of
trophies, which the Indians had compelled them to bear ; still,
the good Abbe, forgetful of self, whispered words of conso-
lation in the young man’s ear.

“Courage, my son!” whispered the old priest. ‘Marie,
thy sweet sister, may still be saved, like ourselves.”

“ Alas! her scalp may even now dangle amid those which
yon savages toss about, like demons that they are. Better for
Marie, truly if she indeed perished on the mountain !”

“She would. then rest where the wicked might not trouble,”
responded the priest.. ‘ Nevertheless, the Almighty may have
preserved her, my son, and as Christian men, it is meet that
we give not way to despair |”

  

st gt

  
A PRIEST'S CONSOLATION. 23

“Would that I were lying beside my sister!” cried Louis,
refusing to be consoled by the good Abbe’s words. “ Would,”
he continued, more bitterly, “that these heathen savages were
done with their mummery, that they might be speedy in their
sacrifice of which we are to be the victims !”

“Nay, tempt not Heaven with impious wishes! We
indeed suffer, but One has suffered before us. Trust in that
One, my son—eyen Him in whom the young Marie trusted.”

The youth did not reply, for a whisper, low and sweet as
the summer wind, seemed to echo the priest’s words. The
memory of his sister’s voice descended like dew upon his
bruised heart, and he felt that, if the maiden was indeed no
more of earth, her spirit would be near him in the hour of
trial. He bent his head and went silently on.

The unearthly scene—the horrible faces of the Indians, and
their terrific gestures, seeming to menace death to the captives
at eyery contortion of the dance—began to swim indistinctly.
before the eyes of Abbe Claude and his young countryman.
Soon it seemed that only a confused whirl of dusky figures,
gleaming torches, and upheld spears and hatchets, danced
before them, and then they heard but a din of yells and horrid
laughter, mingled with dull tomahawk-strokes upon the post
to which they were fastened. Then, as the savage triumph
grew wilder and wilder, Heaven vouchsafed relief to the
wretched prisoners. Fear, exhaustion and suffering paralyzed
their senses. Their eyes closed, and they became uncon-
scious of torture.

 
  

’

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

OH APT HR! Wo
ROBIN BALL.

“T poust, Captain Pierre, you and I and all of us will rue
that luckless shot ere we be clear of these heathen savages,”
said the voice of a man who held the rudder of a large boat
which, filled with his companions, was skirting the jutting
points of a long reach of rocks forming the entrance of what
is now the Mystic river.

“And I doubt, Robin Ball, you will one day provoke me to
send as luckless a shot into that English pate of yours,”
replied Captain Pierre.

“A luckless shot, and a luckless hand, and a Juckless soul,
will be that which shall seek harm to Robin Ball, and he live
to know the same!” retorted the Englishman. ‘“ Nathless, I
will say, what I said before, that it was a coward act to shoot
that young squaw out of rank wantonness! What need was
there to waste powder at all, Captain Pierre.”

“Fave care, Robin Ball, of your speech’, else there will be
more than words between us. What think ye if I leave
ye ashore among your good friends, the red-¢men? By my
faith, it were fair wages for mutinous grumbling wherewith ye
would breed evil blood among comrades.”

“Call my speech what ye may, Captain Pierre, there shall
not be wanting a hand to back what the mouth utters,”

“Dog! do you threaten me?” cried the Creole, starting
from his seat in the middle of the vessel, and half raising his
sword, as he leaned toward the boat- steerer. “ Another word
from that mutinous throat, and there’ll be one less of this
good company.”

“Say you so, Cuptain Pierre?” retorted the Englishman,
letting go his hold of the rudder, and grasping instead the
barrel of an arquebus, which lay beaidd him at the stern of
the boat. “If Rob Ball be a dog, he is no dog of a Creole

 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   
 
 
    
  
 
   

 

ap nnn aie

  
 

 

aay ste

INSUBORDINATION, 25

buccaneer. What, ho, my masters!” continued the seaman,
glancing from one to another of his comrades in the pinnace:
“Will ye see your messmate tossed overboard to the sharks,
because he doubts the good policy of murdering squaws,
when we have thousands of bloody savages tracking us night
and day since the shipwreck ?”

The seaman’s appeal was not without its effect, for a
murmur ran from one to another of the crew, and Captain
Pierre's uplifted arm dropped irresolute by his side. The
Creole, however, was not a man to be easily alarmed. He
knew well the natures of those who composed the greater
portion of the company, since it was true that several of them
had sailed with him in former years in quest of adventures
quite as perilous as the present one. On the other hand, he
was aware that the English sailor, Rob Ball, was a fellow of
address and boldness, and possessed not a little influence over
many of the crew. Beside this, the unfortunate termination
of the voyage had disheartened most of the men, who had
heretofore not been backward in expressing themselves in
terms of insubordination quite as positive as those of the
Englishman. Captain Pierre, therefore, saw that his better
policy was to temporize.

“Come, come, Robin Ball,” he said, releasing his clasp of
the sword-hilt, and.stretching out his hand to the boat-steerer :
“Let the past be forgotten between worthy comrades! If the
squaw had held her peace, no harm had been done. As it
was, comrade, I sought not to slay the woman—it was the
red dog I aimed at.”

Robin Ball doggedly took the hand which was extended to
him, but he gave it no grasp of reconciliation.

“Tt was a coward shot, I’ll maintain !” he muttered.

Captain Pierre overheard the remark, and bit his lip, while
the dark blood mounted to his face. ‘Nevertheless, he only
laughed, displaying his white teeth, and said :

“ Well, worthy Rob, the next shot shall be yours! But,
look ye, comrades—the smooth beach and quiet cove of yon
little isle will give usa snug harbor for the night. I like
not skirting these thickets in the full glare of the moon,
And, see! the wench is just peeping from behind those tall
trees! Presently her beams will light up the waters, so that

 
  

26 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

we shall be quite too fair a target for the arrows of red marks-
men! Prythee, good Robin, point the boat shoreward, an’ it
please you!”

But Robin Ball’s temper seemed to be far from placable on
this occasion. He gloomily held his peace, and though, as
directed, he steered the pinnace into shoal-water, and gained
the narrow cove, beyond which a patch of hard beach, glitter-
ing in the rays of moonlight which now began to glimmer
through the forest-leaves, offered a secure landing-place, it was
evident that no gentle fecling warmed his heart with referénce
to his commander. Of this, however, the Creole apparently
took no note, waiting quietly in his place till the boat’s keel
struck the sands, and then springing ashore with the rest of
the crew, seemingly losing all recollection of the late war of
words. Robin Ball muttered a few grumbling words, as he
aided in dragging the boat upon the beach, and securing it for
the night, and then joined his companions in disposing of his
allotted share of the scanty remnant of provisions which they
had saved from the wreck, but to which had been added an
abundant store of succulent Indian corn, gleaned from an
Indian plantation encountered on their devious voyage in the
pinnace.

Captain Pierre was well vedios in savage craft, for he
had dwelt in the Havana, and among the islands of the
Spanish main, and, withal, was a politic and fearless adventurer,
who made light of dangers and adversities which might have
gone far to dishearten one of weaker mould. Under his skill-
ful pilotage, by rowing in the shadow of the banks, and keep-
ing watchful eye both for canoes upon the bay and savage
lodge-smokes on the land, the band which he led had for a
week navigated the mouths of various harbors, and even
ventured fur along the banks of rivers that manifestly pene-
trated the far interior ofthe land. It was not, indeed, till the
mentioned evening that the Creole, on discovering, as he
thought, a solitary squaw reclining near the beach, conceived
the wicked project of obtaining possession of the defenseless
creature, and thus gaining information concerning the red

tribes who dwelt on the shores of the Massachusetts. Other -

and cruel purpose had Captain Pierre, which he as yet
imparted to but two or three of his followers, and this was to

 

 

|
j
|
|

    
 

 

 

A NEFARIOUS DESIGN. 27

oblige his prisoner to conduct the band to some village of the
red people, which he proposed surprising in the night, and
making captures of a goodly number of children. These
prizes secured, and the pinnace safely steered from the bay, the
Creole thought that little difficulty would be experienced
in coasting the land southward to Havana, where his captives
could be profitably disposed of as slaves to the planters in that
island. It was a nefarious design, but one quite in keeping
with the character of the buccaneer, and not, indeed, at
variance with the customs of the time, inasmuch as other
adventurers, English as well as Spanish and French, had
amassed large fortunes by the same traffic. 3

Pierre Dacot, therefore, or Captain Pierre, as he was called,
found no difficulty in reconciling his conscience to the deed
thus contemplated ; and, though foiled in his attempt to abduct
the Pequod woman, by the sudden appearance of her husband,
whom the rover feared might be accompanied by other say-
ages, he determined, at the earliest opportunity, to carry into
execution his project of kidnapping. The pinnace was large
enough to accommodate, beside his crew, some dozen or more
close-pinioned children, and, by these latter, Captain Pierre
hoped to realize a few hard pieces of gold as soon as he should
reach the Havana,

Jt was necessary that all his companions should be made
acquainted with the enterprise proposed. He knew the
obstinate disposition of Robin Ball, and likewise that this
stolid fellow had been much disaffected since their abandon-
ment of the emigrants; and yet it was of the first importance
that’ Rob, who was much regarded among the men, should

‘give his earnest co-operation to the business of kidnapping, in

order to insure its success. The Creole regretted bitterly the
dispute which had occurred between himself and the English-
man, and resolved to heal the breach as speedily as possible.
No sooner, then, was the pinnace secured for the night, and
the men dispersed under the leafy covert of the small island
where they had sought a sheltered repose, than the captain
drew near to Robin Ball, and said, in a coaxing voice:
“Oomrade! if I spake word of offense, or if the rash deed

- of the enemy has stirred ‘up bitterness between us, it is not

meet that comrades in danger should harbor malice. Here,

 
   

  

28 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.
then, Robin, is my hand, and let us be friends once more, for
I love you too well to sleep in anger with you.”

The English seaman held the rover’s hand a moment,
without speaking, though he returned the pressure which it
gave his own. Then he said slowly—“ Captain Pierre, there
be many natures and many paths in the world. Your nature,
I doubt, is not my nature; and when this voyage is over, our
paths will very like be wide from each other, But as you
say, comrades in danger should-harbor no malice. Therefore:
let us be no more at strife till we meet in Christian land.”

“With all my heart, brave comrade,” said the captain.
“ And if, when we are safe among Christian men once more,
Robin Ball shall show cause of grievance against Pierre Dacot,
by my troth, I shall be ready to settle the score, with sword,
dagger, or pistol, as the case may be.”

Rob Ball appeared greatly mollified by this promise on the
part of the leader, and shook the latter’s hand with earnest-
ness, as he replied: “That's fair and frank, and beshrew me
but Robin will give Pierre whatever satisfaction he may claim
—as my hand on the bargain now warrants. So good night,
captain !”

Saying this, Rob Ball was about to cast himself on the soft,
grass, where he had already made a pillow of leaves, covered
with his thick sailor's gabardine, but Captain Pierre had.not
yet finished the conversation to his liking.

“We have had the fiend’s own luck in this voyage,” he
eried, seating himself beside the sailor. “Look you at me,
comrade—stripped of all I possessed by the wreck, and
obliged to begin the world without a marayedi. Now, if
some stroke of fortune were to offer—if we could but get away
from. this savage land, and fall in with some rich galleon that
a few stout blows might master—”

“Mass! but it would be better than shooting squaws for
marksmanship,” said Rob Ball. “Faith, Captain Pierre! I
value my life as highly as any man’s—but if a good Spanish
merchantman were to be had by the risk of it, never fear to
find Robin lagging in the background.”

“T doubt you not, Robin, I doubt you not,” answered the
Creole. ‘But, we are not yet at the Havana, and when the
Havana is reached, it is many a league to Tortugas’ Isle, and
further still to the Oroonoco, and the Spanish main.”

   

 

 
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

ie
|

WHAT ROB BALL THINKS OF IT. 29

“Good-by, then, to Spanish galleons!” said Rob Ball,
moodily.

“Not so!” answered thé crafty Creole. “Have you not
heard, Rob, of your bold countryman, Walter Raleigh, who
sailed the great main, and went in search of the Golden People
of Guiana 2”

“Ay, marry have J,” cried Rob, “and of Drake, the good
mariner, who took great store of wealth from the Don
Spaniards.”

“Well, there be Drakes and Raleighs now on the main,”
said Captain Pierre; “there be bold mariners who go out in
boats not bigger than our pinnace here, and with no arms
save pistols and cutlasses; and the great galleons strike their
flags when they see them, and the Dons fall on their marrow-
bones, begging for quarter.”

“By my troth !” exclaimed Robin Ball, warmed up by the
Creole’s words, “say you that such bold freebooters be there ?
Here is my hand, then, thrice, Captain Pierre. Let bygones
be bygones, and go we speedily to the brave Spanish main !”?

“Oh, we are not yet there,” sighed the rover. ‘“ We must
first reach the Havana |”

“But the pinnace will weather her way thither, Captain
Pierre. Have you not promised us that ?”

“Small fear have I of the pinnace,” returned the Creole.
“And that we shall reach the Havana, I doubt not; but what
think ye, comrade, will be our luck among the» Havana
planters, save, indeed, we have gold wherewith to provide for
our voyage to the main? Now, I have a thought; Robin
Ball—”

The captain paused, apparently revolving some new idea in
his mind, while the Englishman half rose from his pillow to
listen. ‘

“Tf we can manage to catch a few of these wild natives,
and transport them safely to the Havana,.the red hides*would
stand us some broad pistoles, Robin Ball.”

The seaman’s blue eyes opened widely.

“What say you, Captain Pierre—mean you to sell the
Indians ?”

“In good sooth I do. The heathen dogs—more especially
if they be likely youth of fifteen years or thereabout—will

 

  
 

 

  

380 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

bring a good price with the planters—some fifty pistoles per
head, or thereabouts, Robin Ball.”

“And you will sell the flesh and blood of the poor people,
captain ?”

“For fifty pisioles per head—male and female, Robin !”

“Then may God's malison light on ye!” cried the English-
man, suddenly starting up, and confronting his astonished
leader, who had deemed his crafty words were listened to
with eager ears. “Am I a Turk, Captain Pierre, that ye pro-
pose this foul traffic to me? Out with ye, for a coward and
a kidnapper !”

“Robin Ball, have a care |”

“Villain that ye are, and no brave mariner—I defy you,
and if my life be spared till the morrow’s sun, I take my leave
of your company, come what may come.”

Captain Pierre’s small black eyes twinkled with malice, but
he made no reply to the Englishman, who threw himself back
upon his pillow, with a muttered malediction. After a pause,
however, the Creole glided silently away from the spot where
the conversation had been held, and proceeded noiselessly
toward the pinnace, in whose bows watched two others of the

crew.

  
    
  
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
  
 
 

MARIE AND HER CAPTOR.

OH AP ht Wiles /
, TISQUONTAM AND MONOMA,

WHEN the dismal war-whoop of the savages rung upon the
ears of Marie, and before her eyes stood the tall figure of a
red-man, his features grim with paint, his wild eyes gleaming
in the light of torches, and a deadly weapon upraised in his
hand, it was no wonder that the senses of the maiden forsook
her, or that all consciousness of what afterward took place
was lost to her vision. The dreadful attack, the struggle, the
capture of her brother and the Abbe Claude, were mercifully
concealed from the apprehension of the young girl, and when
she awoke to observation once more, the scene and all its
terrors had vanished.

Marie was no longer on the mountain’s summit, no longer
companioned by her beloved Louis and the priest, but, instead,
she felt herself compressed by the strong arms of a plumed

+Indian, who bore her rapidly through the dense forest, descend-
ing the declivities with the agility of a Weer, and treading
the greensward with a step springy and light, as if no burden
encumbered his progress.

For some moments after awaking to a realization of the
ehange which had taken place in her situation, Marie could
with difficulty reflect—all her intellect appeared confused and
chaotic. Strangeness and uncertainty seemed to encompass
her as with a cloud. Gradually, however, her brain grew
accustomed to the rapid motion with which she was borne

. forward, and her thoughts began to shape themselves,

Marie felt that she was unbound, and that no wound had
reached her; moreover, that her captor was alone—no other
footsteps following his own. He sustained her slight form
very easily with one stalwart arm, while the other bore hig
bow .and heavy war-club. Marie noted all this, and, at the

  
 

  

39 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

same time, became aware that her head was pillowed upon
the red-man’s shoulder, her cheek pressed against his glowing
neck. She started suddenly, and shrunk instinctively from
the contact.

The Indian’s coal-black eye, revealed in the moonlight,
seemed to flash to the maiden’s soul, as its quick glance was
turned upon her, recognizing her awakening. But, save a
short guttural expression, apparently of satisfaction, he gave no
other token of intelligence, but bounded onward with the same
elastic step. Thus onward through the forest and over grassy
hills, resplendent in the moonbeams, and through dim gorges,
cloven amid the rocks, until, at length, they reached the
margin of a quietly-flowing river, whose banks were clothed
with laurel, and sumach, and yellow-petaled lilies, waving in
the soft night-breeze.

Here the red-man laid his living burden upon the sward,
tenderly as a mother places her child to rest, and then, parting
the bushes that grew by the water, disclosed a light canoe of
birch-bark, which he drew to the bank. In the stern of this
frail bark he first deposited his bow, arrows and war-club, and
then, lifting once more the trembling form of his captive, dis-
posed her gently in the bow of the vessel, balancing it the
while so nicely, that even when his own heavy frame followed,
and reached its place in the middle of the craft, no motion
took place save a rapid gliding forth, straight as an arrow’se
flight, upon the river’s bosom. Imperceptibly, as it were, the
canoe seemed to strike the current, and, propelled by a light
paddle which the red-man wielded, shot with great velocity
down. the moonlit tide.

Sad and painful were the images which poor Marie con-
jured to her fancy, as she reclined at her captor’s feet in the
canoe, and beheld the dim river-banks, evermore changing, as
the birchen vessel glided swiftly past them.

Many hours, it seemed, elapsed ere the canoe was checked
by a stroke of the Indian’s powerful arm, and its prow
directed to the shore. Here, with the same deliberation with
which he had embarked, the savage drew the little bark
ashore, and first taking from it his arms, lifted his captive to
his stalwart shoulder, and bounded away into the dark forest
with unrelaxed speed. Presently, however, he reached what

 

 

  

 
AN INDIAN WIGWAM. 33

appeared the termination of the night's journey, and the eyes
of Marie opened upon a novel and beautiful scene.

The place where her captor had halted was an interval or
vale between two wooded hills, from each of which descended
a small stream of water, at first gurgling musicully over a
pebbly bed, and then lapsing into a gentle and noiseless flow,
between banks of soft grass fringed with lilies, and fragrant
with wild honeysuckle and sweet fern. The two streams met,
and, mingling with each other, parted again to glide on either
side of a small, oval islet, and then flow afterward in a broader
channel from the plain into the deep wood, where their course
was lost evermore from view. But it was the little islet that
most attracted the attention of Marie.

Upon it was a hut or wigwam, constructed after the rude
Indian fashion, but not repulsive or naked-looking, like most
of the aboriginal habitations. It was built between the massy
trunks of two sycamore-trees, patriarchs of the forest, whose
immense branches rose high above the roof which they
sheltered. The top was arched, either by accident or design,
and with the curved boughs above it, suggested somewhat of
a civilized effect. Over roof-tree and sides, likewise, and
around the door-posts, and on either wall, grew thick clamber-
ing flowers, honeysuckles, wild eglantine, and russet wood-
bines. Altogether, the wigwam, or cottage it might be called,

presented an appearance sufficiently remarkable and attractive

to divert for a space the thoughts of Marie, so that she forgot
the affliction of herself and friends in wonder at the beauty of
the scene around her.

The Indian placed her upon a moss-covered stone, washed
by the stream that purled beside it, and there leaving her for
a moment, with a light bound he crossed the water and stood
in front ofthe wigwam. A dog, barking loudly, immediately
ran from the open door, and the next instant a woman glided
out into the moonlight, and, darting forward, fell into’ the
Indian’s outstretched arms, her own hands clasping his bend-
ing neck. The dog, meantime, a creature of the small Indian
breed, leaped to and fro, and sprung upon the savage, and
then, running to the streamlet’s edge, barked sharply at the
strange figure which his quick eyes saw upon the opposite
bank,

 
  

84 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

The maiden witnessed this apparently joyful meeting with
emotions of sorrow and sympathy—sorrow as she thought of
her own desolate state, and sympathy with the affection which
was manifested in the actions of the wild beings before her.
At the same time it seemed to her that the embraces which
she beheld were a guaranty for her own future security—as if
they assured a gentle treatment to even a captive and an
enemy. And yet to whom was the delicate girl an enemy ?—
' she whose infancy and childhood had been passed among
associations the most peaceful and love-inspiring, whose child-
hood had been nurtured by the deep affection of an only
brother, and spent in the seclusion of cloistered walls! True,
the young girl had scarcely known a mother’s love ere it was
lost. to her forever in this world; but well she remembered
the beautiful face, with its sad smile, that often bent over her
infant slumbers, and the sweet voice that was wont to soothe
her with the dear name of “ daughter.” Another countenance
she half recalled, that of a majestic man, with clear, brown
eyes and noble forehead, whom her heart told her was her
father, but who, alas, had known as littie of his child as did
his wife; for the enmity of a nobleman, powerful at court, had
drawn upon the elder Luzerne the unjust anger of the king,
and he had been torn from his wife and children, in the Jat-
ter’s earliest years, and expatriated to the then dreaded clime
of America. His lady did not long survive him, but departed
from her lonesome state of widowed love, and left her two
babes to the care of a good man, her only counselor, the Abbe
Claude—him who, tothe last, had followed and watched over
his precious charge. Such was Marie’s brief history, and it
flashed vividly through her mind even in that moment, during
which her glance rested upon the Indian and his companion.
She had little time for reflection ere the savage was once more
at her side, lifting her in his arms preparatory to recrossing the
streamlet. Meantime, the Indian woman had ignited a torch,
and its bright light streamed through the woven branches of
trees and strips of birch-bark which formed the sides of the
hut, into which the white maiden was presently carried, and
placed upon a couch of soft furs that occupied a corner.
Here, in the light of the torch, she had opportunity to examine
closely the appearance of the two, whose singular attentions
began to inspire her with wonder, if not with fear.

 

 

 
  
 

 
   
THE CHIEF'S DAUGHTER. 35

The Indian, in whose arms she had been borne so many
miles, was a man of heavy frame, broad-chested, and erect as
a mountain-pine. His arms and breast were decorated with
painted figures and ornaments, and rows of wampum-string
hung about his neck, denoting that he was a chief of rank.
Buskins of deer-skin defended his feet and legs, and a tunic of
some fibrous material, stained with various colors, and sewn
with wampum, depended from his waist, over which usually
was worn the blanket with which he had covered Marie, and
which he now held in his hand. The chieftain’s forehead was
broad and high, though disfigured by a streak of crimson
paint, blotches of which likewise stained his cheeks. Above
the forehead the head was bare, save where a tuft of black
hair was gathered at the top of the skull, and bound with
wampum, out of which rose a bunch of eagle’s feathers. To
the eyes of Marie, the chief appeared to be a man of forty
years or more, though in his mien and eyes were apparent all
the vigor and spirit of youth.

The Indian girl—for it was evident that scarcely sixteen
summers had passed over the head of her who stood beside
the chief, and whom the French maiden at once divined to be
his daughter—was of slight but graceful figure, with regular
features, dark, dreamy-looking eyes, and hair of intense black-
ness, hanging nearly to her feet. She was clothed in a light
robe or tunic, woven of threads of bark, broidered with beads,
and knit together by shiny rows of shell, while a mantle of
delicate otter-skins was confined to one shoulder, hanging
gracefully to her knees. Her small feet were covered by little
moccasins of birch-bark, gayly spangled with shells and bits
of glittering grass. She stood beside her father in an attitude
of native grace, her form drawn up like his, and her arching
neck thrown back with the air of a princess. Nevertheless,
though proud in look and mien, the Indian girl’s eyes were
dwelling upon. the pale-faced captive with an expression of
tender commiseration, which at once assured Marie that in
the Indian’s child she had found a friend.

Perhaps, so thought the chieftain himself; for, ashe followed
the look of his daughter, it seemed as if his grim brow relaxed,
and something akin to a smile lingered upon his lip. The
red maiden caught his eye; the next moment she advanced

 
 

   

36 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

to the French girl, and, kneeling beside her, took her head
tenderly between the palms of her hands, and imprinted a kiss
upon her forehead. Marie’s heart grew full in a moment.
She forgot that her companion was a strange maid, that she
was a heathen and of a savage race. She only felt that warm
kiss upon her forehead, and saw two tender eyes gazing into
her own with a look of sympathy which won her confidence.
Marie sobbed aloud, and, throwing herself upon the neck of
the Indian girl, burst into a flood of tears.

The stoical red chieftain raised his hand to his forehead,
brushing it hastily across his eyes. Then, striding to the
door, he stooped his plumed head, and stood forth beneath
the moonlight.

“Ugh!” ejaculated the Indian, as his dark eyes cast a
backward glance upon the two maidens; “ Ugh! the warrior
feel woman his heart !”

And he struck his broad breast heavily with his hand, as if
to recall his manhood.

 
A NIGHT IN THONGS. 87

OH AP PERS VL

THE RATTLESNAKE,

Ir was early day when the Abbe Claude awoke from a
lethargy into which, together with his young fellow-prisoner,

“he had fallen during the war-dance of the savages, on their

return to their village. It was with great difficulty that he
could recall to memory the incidents of the preceding night.
A recollection of some frightful scene, indeed, was dimly
present to his mind, but it was rather like the vagueness of
a half-remembered dream than the reminiscences of a fearful
reality. Gradually, however, as his eyes became accustomed
to the place in which he found himself, so the shadowy events
of the Indian feast grew vivid to his mind’s vision. Again he
listened to monotonous war-chants, sudden yells, horrid
laughter—again he heard the sharp whiz of a hatchet through
the air, and its dull stroke into the wood beside his cheek.

The Abbe strained his gaze until it was able to discern
something of the place in which he was. His limbs were still
bound, though not with that benumbing tightness which had
cramped them during his weary march to the Indian village.
He could slightly move his hand, and distinguish, beneath its
touch, the soft wolf-skin on whieh he lay. He soon ascer-
tained, from the noise of regular breathing around him, that
there were other persons near, evidently wrapped in profound
slumber, and he therefore concluded that he was confined in
one of the wigwams or lodges of the red-men, in the midst of
guards, as was customary with the Indians to bestow their
prisoners. But the uppermost thought of the good Abbe
concerned less himself than his friend and charge, Louis.
Anxious to discover if the young man was in his neighbor-
hood, he raised himself cautiously, as far as his thongs would
permit, and cast a scrutinizing glance about him.

 
   

  

88 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

A swart savage, holding in his sleeping grasp a hiige war-
club, lay close beside the priest, while a dozen more, all appar-
ently slumbering soundly, were dispersed over the wigwam
floor; but the Abbe’s gaze fell first upon the form of Louis,
encompassed by the brawny arms of a Herculean Indian. THe
breathed a silent prayer of gratitude, as he saw that his youth-

ful friend was sleeping as quietly on the broad breast of his.

guard as if suffering and captivity were things unknown to his
experience,

Upon a log, at the wigwam-entrance, reclined a gigantic
watrior, with his weapon—a knotted, jagged, but beautifully
polished maple club—grasped in his sinewy fingers. As the
increasing light, falling between the branches of a forest-tree
above, played over the red-man’s features, the prisoner was
struck at once with their solemn and devout expression. The
copper. brow seemed gilded with the morning beams, and a
strange seriousness, as of awed thoughts, invested the sayage
face with a quiet grandeur which drew the admiration of the
priest. :

“Perhaps the Indian prays! and doubtless his prayers—
even his untutored prayers—are accepted of the Lord !”

Again Abbe Claude turned his head toward the spot where
Louis slept in the arms of his guard; but a thrill of deadly
terror crept through his frame; he gasped for breath as his
glance rested on the young man. Erect, at the very head of
young Luzerne, its scaly body glistening in the dull morning
light, the priest beheld the wriggling folds of a large serpent.
Its malignant eyes, like sparks of fire, twinkled close to the
captive’s cheek, and its forked tongue played around his fore-
head,

The lodge was silent, saye the measured breathing of the
unconscious sayages. The priest alone, palsied with unutter-
able horror, beheld the writhing snake. A moment the
venomous reptile stretched its length beside the captive; then
it reared itself, with crested head, once more, and threw back
its fanged mouth, as if to strike its victim. He vented his
stifled feelings in a cry of terror.

Immediately, and indeed before the Abbe’s cry had ceased,
the sleeping Indians were upon their feet, clutching their
weapons, while a succession of short yells rung alarm

  

|
|
|
i aaah

INDIAN DOCTORS. 89

through all the village. The reclining warrior, at the lodge-
door, sprung up, brandishing his club, and a crowd of braves
and screeching squaws poured into the wigwam. They
beheld Father Claude half rising from the ground to which he
was fastened by wooden stakes driven through his thongs,
and pointing with outstretched arm toward his fellow-captive,
who lay gasping upon the earth. The serpent, gliding toa
corner of the hut, reared its crest again. It was but the work
of a moment, however, for a stout brave to hurl his club at
the angry reptile. It fell, crushed and dying, upon the ground,
and the Indian’s moccasined foot bruised its head.

A gentle-featured Indian woman ran from among the
squaws, and, kneeling beside the young captive, lifted his
drooping forehead from the mat on which he had fallen from
the arms of his guard. Louis struggled for breath, as though
overcome with pain or fright, and the woman, baring his
arm, disclosed upon the shoulder a few drops of blood. The
snake had struck its victim surely, and its poison was in the
wound. This sad fact was attested to the senses of Abbe
Claude by the sudden guttural exclamation that ran from one
to another of the savage spectators. The priest strove to
crawl toward his friend, but the strong hand of one of his
guards restrained him, and a short “ugh!” imposed silence.

It became evident at once to the Abbe that his fellow-
prisoner was not to be left without immediate aid. The squaw
who had raised the youth, and discovered the hurt, now tore
away the covering of the captive’s neck, and, stooping beside
him, applied her lips to the venomous bite inflicted by the
rattlesnake’s fangs. At the same time an old savage, who
stood by, plucked some grass that grew near the lodge-door,
and, placing it in his mouth, began slowly to chew, while
the woman sucked at the youth’s arm. Abbe Claude gazed
wonderingly at the coolness and silence of the Indians, for,
since the serpent had been struck down, not a word had fallen
from any of the party, save the guttural “ugh!” of the guards.

For a few minutes the wild group remained in a circle, and
the Abbe intently watched the squaw, as she knelt beside his
youthful countryman, her lips glued, as it were, to his wound,
At length, withdrawing her mouth, the woman turned toward
the old savage who had been chewing the weeds, and, receiving

 
  

 

40 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

from him the masticated pulp, placed it upon the shoulder
of Louis, covering the inflamed spot where the snake’s teeth
had entered. Then, winding thin slivers of ash about the
arm, and binding a bandage of bark tightly over all, the squaw
concluded her rude surgery; after which, obedient to some
directions which she gaye, two Indians, lifting the wounded
captive, bore him in their arms from the large wigwam.

Abbe Claude essayed once more to rise, btit the savage
nearest him touched his tomahawk significantly, and motioned
him to lie quiet. Then the guard took his seat beside the
lodge-entrance, and the other warriors, together with the
squaws, retired silently from the hut.

Morning wore on, and the many sounds peculiar to an
Indian village began to be heard. Dogs passed the lodge
with a short, quick bark; fowls screamed; the noise of stones
with which the squaws were grinding their corn mingled with
the sound of wooden drums and conch-shells, making a not
unpleasing dissonance to the ear. The guard at the wigwam-
entrance leisurely filled his stone-pipe, and presently a power-
ful odor of the tobacco-weed filled the lodge. Insensibly, the
Abbe sunk into a feverish sleep.

When he awoke, it was near midday, and another savage
smoked at the hut-door, The new guard offered his prisoner
food, of which the priest ate ravenously; for long abstinence,
and the exhausting excitement that preceded his sleep, had
made him like a child in weakness. The savage jailor smiled
grimly as he beheld the old man devour the savory succotash,
and then, unbinding his thongs, he motioned him to rise.
Abbe Claude obeyed with difficulty, for the withes had
cramped his limbs while he slept; but, summoning all his
strength, he followed the stately form of his Indian conductor
out of the wigwam, and through the monotonous bustle of an
aboriginal town.

A singular scene was presented to the European’s eyes.
Stalwart savages lay dispersed in various attitudes, in front of
their huts, or upon the green carpet of soft grass, lazily recum-
bent, and surveying each other in dreamy indolence, while
groups of old men, youths and squaws were scattered here
and there, eagerly listening to young braves, recounting tales
of their maiden achievements in the late expedition. Square

»

 
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

 
   

   

 

 

THE CAPTIVE ADOPTED. 41

ovens of stone were smoking near some of the lodges, at which
squaws were preparing food; and steaming haunches of wild
deer, and huge joints of moose-meat, hung from the boughs
of trees, attesting the great success of the hunters who- occu-
pied the wigwams nearest to them. Lean, stunted dogs were
running to and fro, sporting with the naked papooses who
rolled on the grass, or, strapped to boards, were placed upright
against. the. gnarled foot of oak trees; and bands of urchins,
with tiny bows and blunted arrows, were performing. mimic
battles, or hurling light tomahawks at targets with wonderful
dexterity and precision.

The Abbe’s guide strode toward a spot of elevated ground,
where a group of young men and women were dancing and
singing, recalling to the captive’s memory the scene of the
preceding night. A monotonous chant sounded from their
midst, and, high above their heads, they tossed weapons and
hoops wreathed with evergreen, yelling and leaping, the while,
in confused chorus. Father Claude shuddered, for he remem-
bered now too well the horror of the war-dance, and a fearful
thought darted through his brain that perhaps himself and
companion were to be sacrificed in some heathen rite. He
recovered his calmness in a moment. : :

“The good God seeth us, and we are in His almighty hands,
to dispose of as He willeth,” were his thoughts. :

The Indian stalked onward, and the Abbe soon found him-
self in the midst of the wild throng of dancers. But his
hopes revived, and a prayer of confidence rose to his lips, as
he marked the scene which now unfolded itself.

A group of young men and maidens were swaying to. and
fro in the movements of their singular dance, circling a green
bank with measured steps, while they sung in rude cadences,
and waved aloft green branches and garlands of wild flowers.
Seated upon the bank, as on a rural throne, sat the gentle-
featured squaw who had sucked the poison from the wound
of Louis; and the young captive’s head now reposed quietly
upon her bosom, while green leaves and blossoms were strewn
thickly around them by the group of mirthful dancers.

Abbe Claude, familiar with the customs of savage tribes,
recognized at once the ceremony by which a prisoner was
adopted into an aboriginal community. He saw that the
   

 

     

42 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

Indian woman had chosen the young strangcr as her son,
having probably lost some youthful brave who had before
called her mother, ‘The life of the pale-face was henceforth
safe, and the youths and maids were now celebrating the
adoption which had secured the captive from sacrifice.

‘ Louis raised his head, as he beheld his reverend friend, and
feebly offered his hand, Father Claude knelt upon the sward,
and murmured : ,

“Thank the good God, my son, you are sayed! For me
it matters not! I am but'a withered branch !”

OMA PT ER. WITT,
GABRIEL 8T. ELMO.

Gasrie, Sr. Exmo was a youth of scarcely cighteen
summers, but of a vigorous frame, and, animated by a daring
and adventurous spirit, had determined to seek his fortunes in
that distant clime to which thousands of adventurers were
flocking, and which promised to their ardent imaginations a
realization of all the dreams that Eastern romance had
pictured in the remote countries of the furthest Ind. %

Gabriel had not perished, as was thought by the captive
survivors of the vessel’s living freight. At the terrible crisis
when, amid the roar of breakers, he had felt the light skiff
dashed upon sharp rocks, and despairingly released his hold of
her, he gave himself up for lost, But Providence had not
designed that he should share the fate of his companions. He
found himself whirled into deep water, where he came in con-
tact with one of the ship’s spars, which he grasped with a
desperate clutch.

Awful was the spectacle revealed to his gaze during the
brief seconds that he drifted in sight of the wreck! <A. pro-
longed shriek, as of mortal agony and fear, rose around him
from the voices of drowning men, women and children; but,
above this shriek his sharpened senses could distinguish the
triumphal yell of the savages on shore, exulting over their

 
  

  

 

 

CAST UPON AN ISLAND. 43

anticipated victims. A. flash of lightning occasionally dig-
closed to his horror-stricken eyes the features of some dying
wretch, sinking for the last time beneath the surge, or the
mangled corpse of one beaten to death upon the reef. But
these lamentable sights speedily vanished, for the waves,
careering like wild steeds, whirled the spar to which the youth
clung, far away, dashing it hither and thither until, at last, one
end rested upon a shelving sand-bank, where it remained fast.
St. Elmo crawled landward, till he reached the hard shore.
He ascended the bank, and, feeling secure from the ocean, fell
exhausted on the wet grass.

When he awoke, the sun was flooding all the sea with
radiance, and he discovered that the place where he had been
cast was a small island, at a distance but still within view of
the headlands and line of reefs on which the ship had stranded.
Far away eastward extended the ocean, far as his vision could
scan, and landward only immense forests were to be seen.
He looked in vain for any portion of the wreck upon the point
where it had broken up. Not a fragment was visible, save
the spar on which he had himself escaped.

It was not long, however, before St. Elmo, from his shel-
tered position on the island, could discern signs of life upon the
opposite shore. Smoke curled above the tree-tops, and pres-
ently the figures of Indians could be descried, going back and
forth from the woods to the sandy beach. The savages were
at too great a distance for their voices to be audible, but the
young Frenchman knew very well that they were occupied in
collecting from the shore whatever articles belonging to the
ship had been cast there by the waves. Occasionally a group
of the natives would clasp hands and dance about ina circle, as
if rejoicing over some new prize, and then they would
disperse, or disappear in the woods. St. Elmo did not venture
beyond the covert of woods which grew nearly to the island
shore, lest the vision of the savages, keen as his own, might
spy out a new victim for their cruelty.

At last, however, the youth began to realize very sensibly
the important fact that he had tasted no food since the
previous noon. He penetrated the woody recesses of the
island, searching eagerly for berries .or fruit, but the place
appeared barren as a desert. He ascertained, however, to his

 

 

   
 

 

   

  

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES,

 

satisfaction, that the island was totally uninhabited, and had
apparently never been entered before by a human being.
Many birds hopped in the branches over his head, and some
flew so near that he might have struck them with a stick; but
St. Elmo contented himself with devouring a few eggs of
which he rifled a nest, and a root or two of palatable flavor
which he digged from the earth. Somewhat satisfied with
this scanty provender, he returned to the beach in time to
behold, with astonishment, a fleet of canoes, containing
hundreds of Indians, crossing the water that intervened
between the island and the mainland.

_ St. Elmo’s first impression was that his retreat had been
discovered, and that the savages were in pursuit ofhim. For
a few moments he gave himself up to despondency, for he had
neither weapon of defense—if, indeed, defense were’ available
against so formidable a host—nor any mode of escaping from
the insulated patch of woods, in which concealment would be
impossible. But a little reflection assured the young man that
the Indians could have no suspicion of his presence in this
place, and that, even should they discover the spar, he might
himself remain hidden in the intricate thickets of the island-
wilderness. One apprehension, indeed, troubled him—that the
sayages might tow away the spar, in which case he would be
left without any means of leaving the isle; but even this
reflection was succeeded by the thought, as his quick eye
measured the distance to the other shore, that in the last
extremity, he could reach the mainland by swimming. He
watched the fleet of canoes as they advanced, resolved, should
they discover the spar, and be tempted to land, that he would
make at once for the center of the island to await whatever
fate might be in store for him.

But, as it soon became evident, he had little cause for dis-
quiet. Following the leading canoe in which sat a plumed
Indian grasping “a great club, the rest turned to the left, and
passed the island in an extended line, shaping a course for
another promontory far to the southernmost point of the
coast. He saw in every canoe, as it passed, that one or more
of the sayage occupants held aloft a hooped pole, on which
dangled human scalps, the long curls of women, the short
locks of men, and the flowing ringlets of children, all engan-

  

 
 

A FEARFUL SCENE. _ 45

guined with blood—ghastly trophies of savage triumph. Sick
at heart, he turned away, till the last canoe had disappeared,
and then, sitting down upon the shore, he buried his face in
his hands, and wept long and bitterly.

At length, rising from his despondent attitude, he saw that
the sun had nearly reached its meridian, and was pouring its
burning rays upon the heated sands,

“Why should-I remain here?’ he soliloquized. “ This
island affords no means of sustaining life, and one may as well
be eaten by savages as to have nothing to eat himself. By my
faith ! I think I will make at once for the other shore, which
the red villains have left. At any rate, there is no good to be
gained by passing a night more or less with nothing to fill the
stome@ch—as is very plain will be the case—on this desolate
island. $0, my good piece of a ship, I will e’en take com-
mand 0’ thee once more.”

In good time, the young man drew his good spar safely to
the mainland, and then kneeled down, as of right he should,
and thanked the kind Providence which had thus far pro-
tected him. This done, he looked about his new locality, not
alone for wherewithal to eat, ut for a resting-place through
the night—as his voyage from the island had consumed the
greater part of the day, and the sun was now entirely sunk
behind the forest-trees. ;

At the first dawn, the young man sprung from his couch of
leaves, and, traversing the beach behind the dreadful reef and
the rough headland where the ship had met her doom, reached
that portion of the shore where, on the night of the catastrophe,
the savages had kindled their war-fires and danced in ferocious
expectation of their enemies’ destruction. Here, what horrors
were awaiting his sight! The bodies of his late shipmates,
and companions among the emigrants, were lying cold and
rigid in the gray dawning, their naked flesh mangled by the
rocks or the weapons of savages, their scalpless heads half-
buried in the sands. All had been massacred who escaped
alive from the wreck—strong men and feeble women and
babes had all fallen beneath the rancor of savage torture.
Gabriel St. Elmo looked but a moment upon the fearful scene ;
he hurried: away sickened from the spot.

Various traces of the wrecked ship met the youth’s eyes as

x

 
   

   

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

he wandered along the beach; fragments of her heavy timbers,
spars and clumps of cordage strewed the sands; and St. Elmo
knew that much of her cargo and armament must have been
cast ashore and fallen into the hands of the savages. He dis-
covered a stout steel-headed pike, such as were used in hand-
to-hand sea-combats, and, wading into the surf, he hastily pos-
sessed himself of the weapon. He judged it well, however,
not to remain long in the vicinity of the wreck, as the quan-
tity of articles belonging to the ship—bolts of iron, casks, and
heavy chains and ropes, that had been washed up by the
waves—constituted a store of treasures for Indian cupidity,
which the youth doubted not would speedily induce another
visit from the savages.

Casting a last look at the ocean, he struck into the ferest,
turning his back to the rising sun, and directing his course
westward, toward the region where, as he had been told, was
a new settlement of Hollanders at the mouth of the great river
of Hudson.

Where, indeed, the Hudson itself lay was a problem. not
soluble by the young Frenchman’s geographical attainments;
indeed, the wisest minds of his time might have been puzzled
to describe its surroundings, inasmuch as but few mariners had
ever penetrated beyond its mouth; but St. Elmo had left his
native land for adventure’s sake, as well as to seck his fortune,
and it’ was enough for him to be satisfied that the Dutch col-
ony was near the Hudson, and that the Hudson lay to the
west from the Cape of Cod, to present to his hopes the cer-
tainty of ultimately reaching it. What to him, the youth
with a brave heart and strong limbs, whether he traversed a
wilderness of America or the forests of his own France? In
his hand was a good weapon, for boar, or wolf, or savage man,
and he doubted not that store of food could be found on his
journey. Therefore, he went sturdily forward.

.
|
|
 

v=

ROB BALL IN DANGER. 4%

CHA PT PR? PX
THE CREOLE’S TREACHERY,

Rosi Bar followed with his eyes the retreating form of
Captain Pierre, until the latter had disappeared, and then,
uttering an oath instead of a prayer, the rough seaman flung
his arm beneath his head, and rolled over to an unquiet slum-
ber, wherein dreams of shipwrecks, combats, quarrels, and
perhaps darker experiences of his past life, mingled their dim
shades with threatening visions of the future.

Captain Pierre, after reaching the boat, in which watched a
couple of the crew, conversed with the two men for some
time, with quite as much earnestness, apparently, as had
marked his previous colloquy with Rob Ball. He then left
the boat, and, moving noiselessly among the slumbering men,
awakened two others from their drowsiness, and with these
held another conversation. Altogether, it seemed that Cap-
tain Pierre was in no mood for sleep. E

In truth, however, the Creole had another object in view
than to keep awake or hear the sound of his own tongue.
He liad resolved on a little piece of villainy, and required
assistance in its perpetration. For this purpose he had pre-
pared the two men in the boat, and their comrades whom he
had awakened—all four staunch followers of their captain, and
ready at any time to do his bidding—to await his signal for
the commencement of the business in hand.

This business related most immediately to the dreaming
sailor, Robin Ball, who, all unconscious of any plot against his
person, lay tossing his arms about in broken slumber. The
obstinate refusal of Robin to enter into Captain Pierre’s plans
regarding a speculation in red flesh, had not a little interfered
with the latter’s usual equanimity; and, foreseeing that the
Englishman’s influence with a portion of the boat’s crew
might go far to balk his own intentions, he came to the

 
   
 
  
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
 
  
   

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

conclusion that there was no other course left for him but to
destroy that influence as speedily as possible. The most
certain method of effecting this was to destroy, or render
powerless, Ball himself

He devised a mode of ridding himself of the obnoxious
seaman, which would be quite as efficacious as downright
murder. This was, to seize him in his sleep, and, after
muffling and binding him, so that he could make neither alarm
nor resistance, to convey him quietly to the interior of the
forest, and there leave him helpless, a prey to wild beasts,
savages, or the slow tortures of starvation.
' This was a refinement of cruelty quite worthy of Captain
Pierre, and he chuckled not a little over the anticipation of so
easily disposing of his enemy. Captain Pierre silently motioned
his followers to proceed to their work; and before Robin
Ball’s fevered dreams were broken, the treacherous fellows
had gagged his mouth, casting over his head a thick sailor’s
jacket, completely precluding speech or vision, while they
quickly bound hand and foot the poor sailor, and dragged him
noiselessly away from the bank, through the covert of the
brush, into the recesses of the forest. The job was executed
with such dispatch, and was, withal, so entirely successful,
that Captain Pierre was surprised as well as delighted. Not
a struggle of Robin Ball revealed his peril to any of his neigh-
bors, who slumbered soundly, without a suspicion of what
was transpiring so near them. The Creole rubbed his hands
with satisfaction, as he beheld his dextrous accomplices return-
ing stealthily to the boat, where he had remained.

“You have disposed of him, my brave fellows?” he
whispered, eagerly, as the villains neared him.

“He'll trouble us no more, I warrant,” answered one of the

men—a short, low-browed Spaniard. “By St. Dominic,:

captain, the good Robin was as quiet as a babe. Neyer
before lay he so peaceably.”

“Fe is secure, think you, and will not be able to free him-
self?”

“Not if he were ten times as strong, the good bull-dog |
We bound him to a tree with the ropes, captain; and, by the
mass, there will he stay till judgment day, or I’m no sinner.”

The ruffian gave vent to a chuckling laugh, as he uttered
this speech, but Captain Pierre put his hand to his mouth.
3

 

   

FIENDISH REVENGE. 49

“ Be silent, friend, for Robin Ball has his lovers among our
crew. And now, T’lle’en take his place, for an hour's nap,
worthy Lopez,” added he, to the Spaniard. “Keep you
watch, and let the nights work be as secret as the grave.
Surely, I'll remember this brave service, comrades.” ¥

No rest visited Captain Pierre, for his midnight wickedness
had failed to give his apprehensions ease. He reflected that,
though Robin Ball was out of the camping-place, and exposed
to perish in a lonely and desolate situation, still, the tough
sailor might extricate himself by some means, and pursue the
boat, in which case the treachery would be exposed, and an
unpleasant settlement demanded by Robin’s friends. Revoly-
ing such thoughts in his busy brain, he resolved, at length, to
make sure, if possible, of his enemy’s harmlessness in the
future; and so, cautiously leaving his couch, he stole back to
the boat, and whispered a word to the Spaniard, Lopez, who
thereupon roused himself again, and, without alarming his
comrades, led the way out of the camp, penetrating the bushes
through which Robin Ball had been so quietly conveyed.
The Creole followed, amid the lonesome shadows of the forest,
until they reached a ‘wild nook, near where a rapid stream
dashed from a great chasm in a wall of rocks. On the edge
of this chasm grew a large buttonwood tree, and to this poor
Ball had been securely fastened. His person was completely
hid from view by underbrush that sprouted from the rocks.
Thus he was left to all the horrors of a lingering death. The
spot was but a few hundred rods from the shore where the
boat was drawn up, but it was, nevertheless, so hidden by
rocks, and concealed with tangled evergreen, that no_ better
tomb could have been selected in which to immure a living
man. Captain Pierre seemed to think so, as he looked at the
pinioned body of his late follower, for he gave a grunt of satis-
faction, and advanced toward the buttonwood.

“Ho! Robin Ball! we are quits now, I fancy. You will
keep a civil tongue in your head for the future, good friend.”

Robin Ball’s sinewy frame swelled as if it would burst the
strong cords which fastened him to the tree, while a stifled
groan came from his gagged mouth, which was covered with
his own jacket, tied tightly about his head.

“By St. Dominic! it is, after all, no *Christian thing to

  
   

  

50 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

‘leave the poor. deyil thus,” muttered the Spaniard, but the :

Creole only laughed, sneeringly.

“We will do well enough, Lopez. Nevertheless, I harbor
no malice, and would give him gutetws with my dagger’s
point, had I not a horror of bloodshed.”

“Tt were better to kill outright than to leave to wild beasts
or famine,” suggested the Spaniard.

“Say you so, comrade? Beshrew me, then; but your
poniard may as well end the poor fellow’s troubles!” said
Captain Pierre, shrugging his shoulders. ‘‘ Strike sure, Lopez,
and wipe off old scores for yourself and me, an’ it like you.”

The Creole said this with a savage smile on his dark lips, -

and his vindictive glance on his accomplice with the cold
glitter of a serpent’s eye. But the words had scarcely been
uttered when a rustle was heard near them. Suddenly the
pinioned form of Robin Ball sprung from the tree, and fell full
against the body of the captain. With a shrill whoop, a wild
looking figure bounded from behind the buttonwood, to level
the gleaming point of a spear against Captain Pierre’s bosom.

The Spaniard, Lopez, with a shriek, rushed toward the
camp, fully impressed with the belief that a legion of savages
was in pursuit of him. The Creole likewise fled, crying at
the top of his voice—

“ Indians ! Indians !”

Robin Ball, the while, lay upon the ground, where he had
pitched headlong, for, though released from the tree, his hands
were still fastened behind his back, his mouth gagged, and his
head muffled.

The sleeping boat’s crew, aroused suddenly by the shricks

“of Lopez, sprung at once for the pinnace, which they cast off
immediately, paddling off, at a hundred yards’ distance from
the shore, upon which they momentarily expected a thousand
savages, threatening pursuit and destruction of their small
vessel. But all remained in silence.

Captain Pierre and Lopez looked at one another, wondering
what mysterious power it was that had interposed to shield
their victim.

“Tt is the cunning of the red demons!” at length cried the

Creole. “They think to allure us back to shore by keeping

quiet. Row, men, and let us be clear of the dogs.”

 

Sea Se
———

Seana eens

CAPTAIN PIERRE RUNS. 51

“ Saw you Indians, surely ?” cried a sailor, as he bent to
the oar.

“ By the bones of St. Dominic, a legion!” cried Lopez, in
response. “Did not the lance of a red villain scathe our
captain here ?”—and the Spaniard appealed to Captain Pierre
to confirm his declaration. ;

“That the heathen’s lance was at my heart, I am ready to
be sworn,” answered the Creole; “but no harm came, for my
heels were nimble as your own, good Lopez.”

“Ho !” cried one of the crew, “ where is Rob Ball ?”

“Rob Ball!” “ Where is bold Robin ?” echoed from one to
another of the men, their bronze faces betraying surprise, as
they leaned upon their oars.

“Tet us go back,” cried the Creole, with well counterfeited
sympathy. “But, alas!” he added, “what boots our array
against a forest full of foes ?”

“Ay, what, indeed ?” cried Lopez, coming to the relief of
his leader; “lucky for us that our throats were not all cut as
we slept, comrades.” Moodily looking at one another, the
oarsmen resumed their task, and urged the pinnace into the
middle of the bay.

Meantime, after falling heavily at the foot of the tree to
which he had been tied, Robin began presently to feel a pair
of hands at work in the effort to release him from his bonds ;
and it was not long before his eyes were once more permitted
to look upon the moonlight, and his tongue, long gagged and
choked, was able to shape itself utterance.

“ Mass! but it was a scurvy trick!” at length muttered the
seaman, as he looked about him wonderingly. “ Where ran
the villians ?—the kidnapping Pierre, and his dog Spaniard ?
And who are you, my fine fellow, and what do you here ?”

These rapid interrogations were addressed to an individual
who stood at a little distance from the Englishman, leaning
on a spear.

“T am what I am, Robin Ball.”

The Englishman started back in amazement at hearing his
own name pronounced.

“Are you a Christian man or a savage Indian, or Sathanas
himself?” ejaculated he.

“Rob Ball! where’s your manners to forget an old friend?”
exclaimed the other.

 
 

  

52 THR FRENCH CAPTIVES.

“ Gabriel St. Elmo !”

“At your service, Robin Ball,” answered the youth, gayly,
as he shook the hand of his English friend. ‘“ And ye may
well thank Heaven that Gabriel St. Elmo was near you
to-night, for small chance of life had ye, good comrade.”

“Faith, an’ ye work to such good purpose, my young friend,
T'll not quarrel with your likings.”

St. Elmo proceeded to acquaint Robin Ball with the manner
in which he had effected his release; how, after journeying
all day through the forest, he had made his couch for the
night near the streamlet that gushed by the buttonwood, and
had there been aroused by the approach of three of the late
ship’s crew, dragging the pinioned figure of a fourth, whom
they fastened to a tree, and then left; how he had waited
anxiously for a long while, fearful to discover himself to the
deserted man, until at length Captain Pierre and Lopez pre-
sented themselves; and how, hearing the Creole’s proposition
to murder the defenseless sailor, he crept nearer to the
buttonwood, and, with his sharp pike, severed the cords which
confined Robin Ball to the tree, at the same time springing
boldly upon the captain with a yell like the whoop of a
savage. :

Robin Ball listened to his young preserver’s recital, and
warmly grasped his hand in gratitude, while he vented his
rage against the treacherous leader.

“ And now,” he cried, “stand by me, Monsieur St. Elmo,
and if we turn not the tables on this caitiff, my name’s not
Robin Ball. Come away, and ye shall see me unmask the
villain, and, if he refuse me fair combat like a brave man, by
the mass, but ye shall see his foul throat black under my
fingers! Come away, my young friend, and remember that
ye have gained Robin Ball’s good will, as long as he has life
to show it.”

The sailor led the way in the direction in which he judged
the men to be. In a few moments the two stood upon the
bank where lately the boat was drawn up. No boat was
there now, and no trace of the ship’s crew. But, as Robin
directed his gaze across the water, he could see, far away, a
dark object upon the surface, and catch a plash like that of
oars, The Creole had escaped, and Robin Ball was abandoned.

 

 

 

ess

  
 

 

ig py Spat

|

BLANCHETTE, 53

CHAPTER-X.
TISQUONTAM A PRISONER.

Tisquonram, the Sachem-of Mannamoset, who dwelt, with
his daughter Monoma, in the little wigwam to which Marie
had been conveyed, was a warrior whose youth had been one
of strange adventure, and whose future life was. destined to
yet. greater vicissitudes. He was not one of the native chiefs
of the Massachusetts, for his cradle had been swung in the
sound of Niagara’s booming waters, and his childhood nur-
tured among the Thousand Isles of the great river of Canada,
where now the children of France had planted their lodges.
There he had dwelt till the blood of manhood coursed through
his veitts; there he had hunted the otter and sable; there
pursued the salmon as it leaped from rapid to rapid of the
swift river. And there, too, among the first band of pale-
faced strangers who pitched their tents on the hunting-
grounds of his nation, he had beheld a dark-eyed daughter of
the white race, a maiden of France, who had come with her
parents to the wilderness of America, in the freshness of her
youth and beauty. Tisquontam saw and loved the gentle
French girl, and. Blanchette returned the passion of her wild
admirer; for he was graceful in form and noble of soul, and
might have found favor in the eyes of many a princess of his
own race. Brief had been their courtship, but their affection
was sincere, and Blanchette hesitated not to exchange vows
with him. But, alas! the Iroquois tribe, to whom the young
brave belonged, did not share in the friendliness of Tisquon-
tam to the white strangers who had come among them. Ris-
ing suddenly, they attacked the small settlement of French,
and massacred every family. Only one could Tisquontam
save, of all the hapless emigrants—and to do this, he was
obliged to fight his own tribe. He defended the parents of
his beloyed until they fell beneath the arrows of his Iroquois

s
«

 
 

54 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

kindred, and then fled with his rescued wife into the great
wilderness toward the Mohawk. Many moons did the two
lovers wander through the forests, pursued by the vengeful Iro-
quois, who were furious against Tisquontam for the part he
had taken toward them; but the Great Spirit protected his
children’s flight, till at length they reached the shores of the
mighty ocean. Here Tisquontam made his lodge by the river
of Mannamoset, near where, afterward, the pale-faces were to
build their first lodges in New England; and here, with his
fuir Christian wife, the savage dwelt, till it pleased the Great
Spirit to bless his eyes with a beautiful child, the pledge of
their happy union. ‘Tisquontam was happy in his exile,
roaming the forest to hunt for his beloved, storing their wis-
wam with the sports of the chase—skins of a hundred beasts,
and plumes from a thousand birds. Blanchette did not regret
her destiny, for she swayed the noble heart of her husband,
and taught his lips to pray to the Christian’s God in her own
native tongue. But the Great Spirit at length summoned her
to rejoin her parents, and Tisquontam was left in his lodge,
with only the young child to comfort him.

Bitterly did the red hunter mourn the loss of his wife, and
long and often did he weep at the flower-covered mound
which marked her resting-place; but the infant prattle of his
motherless Monoma recalled him to the duties of life. Again,
therefore, he took bow and spear, and roamed the forests, to
hunt for his child, as he had once hunted for Blanchette.

Monoma grew up gentle and lovely as a wildwood flower,
and Tisquontam rejoiced to minister to her every wish, -For
her he built the islet lodge; shaped a light canoe; searched
out a thousand flowers in the valleys and on the hills; for her
he gathered shells by the shore, mosses on the mountain, and
rare plants in the deep forests. Monoma was to Tisquontam
the angel of his life—the angel whom the Great Spirit had
given him for his lost Blanchette.

Meantime the bravery and skill of the Iroquois hunter had
won him the esteem of the ocean tribes, on whose borders he
dwelt—the Narragansetts, the Pequods, and the Mohegans;
and he would have been gladly received as a warrior among
either; but. Tisquontam chose to dwell at Mannamoset, which
was between the country of the Narragansetts and Pequods,

   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   

 

$e
 

 

 

 

  

MARIE, AND MONOMA,

for there was buried his Blanchette, and there he, himself,
wished to lie down when the voice of Manitou should sum-
mon him. Tisquontam was known by the tribes as the Lone
Sachem of Mannamoset, and they decreed that he should pos-
sess the land he had chosen; while, in return, the Iroquois
warrior assisted them in their hunts, and oftentimes defended
their villages against the incursions of hostile nations. He
thus became of influence in the councils of the ocean-tribes,
and respected by their wise men and braves.

When news came to Tisquontam, as he sat with Monoma
in their islet-wigwam, that a ship of the strangers was
stranded upon the rocky coast, he straightway grasped his
arms and departed to meet the victorious Narragansetts, not
to join in their atrocious exploit, but to save, if possible, some
victim from their cruelties. But, when he reached the shore,
the massacre had been finished, and he saw only the scalps of
the emigrants dangling from their lances, He, however,
accompanied the Narragansetts in their triumphal journey
homeward, and with them discovered the path of Louis and
his companions, pursuing the trail to the mountain Wachusett.
Here, unable to gain more from the good will of his savage
allies, he had demanded a captive in return for services pre-
viously performed, and to his great joy had been allowed to
choose the young girl Marie. Thus was the maiden saved
from Narragansett captivity, and borne to the lodge of Tisquon-
tam, to be the companion of his gentle Monoma. Glad would
have been the heart of Louis could he have divined the fate
of his sister.

‘When Marie felt the warm kiss of Monoma upon her lips, -
she heard the accents of her native France murmured by the
Indian girl. At once the two orphans could commune with
each other, and as they lay folded that night in the embrace
of sisters, Marie learned a new reyelation of innocence—the
innocence of a maiden, born and nurtured in the solitude of
an aboriginal forest, with no voice to speak to her but that of
fatherly affection, and no unhallowed influence to disturb the
deep religion that she daily learned from the solemn teachings
of nature—the litanies of waving woods and rolling streams—
the sermons of sun and stars and changing seasons.

Next morning, Marie awoke to find the tender eyes of

 

  
  

56 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

Monoma watching her, while Tisquontam stood at the wig-
wam-door, arrayed for the chase. The Iroquois smiled as the
French girls half-frightened gaze encountered his own, and
he reached out his hand with an action at once graceful and
encouraging. Marie rose from her soft couch, and advanced
toward him.

“Has the white bird slept well in the tent of the Iroquois ?
Behold! the nestling of Tisquontam’s lodge has pale blood in
her veins. The white bird has naught to fear.”

This was spoken in broken French, and the Indian’s man-
ner at once banished all apprehension from the mind of Marie.

“T do not fear my red father!” she said, placing her hand
in that of the chief.

The hunter looked pleased at her frank demeanor, while
Monoma stole softly to the side of her new friend, and wound
an arm around her neck. The two maidens were very lovely,
as they thus stood together, and Tisquontam’s eye grew moist
as he looked at them. But, presently, Marie’s fair brow
became clouded, and she sunk suddenly at the pana 3 feet,
clasping her hands as a suppliant.

“Oh!” she cried, “ where is my brother—my beloved Louis?
Where is Abbe Claude ?” T

“Oh! chief,” she continued, “you have saved me—you are
noble and good! Save my brother!—oh! if he be not
already murdered by the cruel—” Marie could utter no more,
her sobs stifled her voice. Monoma’s tears mingled with hers.
Tisquontam was deeply affected.

“Was it the white bird’s brother?—the youth whom the
Narragansetts have borne to their village ?—and the old chief
the medicine-man—”

“Abbe Claude—the good father—alas !” murmured Marie,
with a flood of tears,

“Tisquontam will seek the trail of the captives !” exclaimed
the Iroquois, as if he had taken a sudden resolution. ‘‘ He
will bring the white bird tidings of her brother and of

the aged father. Let the white bird be happy; Monoma will
sing: for her a song of the pale-faces. Tisquontam will return
ere the sun falls upon yonder bank.”

Marie’s eloquent face expressed her gratitude to the good
Indian. She took hastily from her bosom a small gold cross,

   

 

 

a
 

 

 

7S

THE. KIDNAPPERS, 57

on which a talisman was engraved, and extended it to
Tisquontam, _

“ Here!” she murmured. “It is a cross which my brother
will recognize, and know that it is from Marie. It was the
last gift of our mother who is dead.”

The Indian comprehended her meaning, and then, pointing
to the mossy river-bank opposite the wigwam, where the last
rays of the sun were wont to tremble ere they were with-
drawn. in the west, repeated his promise to return at the hour
indicated, then turned and took his departure through the
forest-aisles, while Monoma tenderly dried the eyes of her
friend, and led her forth from the lodge to the flowery banks
of the islet-stream, where presently they were twined in each
other’s arms, exchanging their guileless confidences,

Tisquontam had traversed the league or two of thick woods
which bounded his own little domain, whence he could catch,
through the trees, a glimpse of the quiet bay—where, in a
small inlet, he had ready a light canoe, that he often used to
shorten his distances by crossing the water at this point—
when, as he diverged toward the shore, he was startled by the
voice of a child, apparently in extreme terror, The Iroquois
plunged through the thickets, and presently attained a- spot
where he beheld two men in strange garb, which he at once re-
cognized as that of the pale-faces. These men bore in their arms
two struggling Indian children, whom they were half strang-
ling to quiet their cries, as they carried them rapidly toward
the water. Tisquontam did not hesitate. Pealing his war-
whoop till it rung through all the wood, he sprung with
uplifted club upon the foremost white man, whom, with one
blow, he leveled to the ground.

The other pale-face, terrified at the sudden appearance of
an Indian, and the shrill whoop which was answered by a
hundred echoes, released the child and darted toward the
shore. Tisquontam found himself alone with two screaming
urchins, and the white man he had struck, lying bleeding at
his feet.

It was but for an instant; a pistol-shot, followed by another,
and a third, startled the air. Tisquontam félt a sudden pain
through his head. A mist gathered over his eyes; his limbs
grew faint; and he fell to the ground across the man whom

 
   

68 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

he had struck down beneath his club. Soon a figure, followed
by two or three, and then more, cautiously emerged from
covert, and approached him,

“By St. Dominic, captain! I believe you are right. There
was but one of them—though, as I’m a Christian man, I could
have sworn I heard a hundred yells,” cried the foremost of
the new-comers.

“And so you ran like a hundred devils?” sneered Captain
Pierre, as he followed close behind, “and left poor Francois
here, to be knocked ? th’ head! Look, man, quickly, and see
if his hurt be mortal!”

The Spaniard, Lopez, thus adjured, dragged the Indian
from the body, and, raising the latter in his arms, disclosed a
severe wound upon the skull, which was bleeding profusely.
The man breathed, however, and was apparently only
stunned.

“Now, up with him to the boat!” cried the Creole, in a
sharp, abrupt tone; for, since his riddance of Robin Ball, he
had little difficulty in controlling the rest of the crew—* and
the youngsters—where are they ?”

“Safe and fast, captain,” answered a stalwart ruffian, who
was’ engaged in gagging one of the Indian children, while
Lopez secured the other. The poor creatures, after ‘hearing
the report of the firearms, had made no effort to escape,
apparently transfixed with fright.

“To the boat with them |”

“ Ay, ay, captain !”

“Ts the redskin dead?” said Captain Pierre to Lopez,
stooping over Tisquontam.

“No! ’tis but a flesh-wound! ‘The bullet has grazed his
skull, though, and clipped the savage’s scalp-lock! Look
you, captain—shall I finish him %”

“Te’s not dead, say you?”

“By St. Dominic, no! And, faith, ’twere shame to kill so
stout a knave! Look at the varlet’s muscle, Captain Pierre.
He were worth seventy pistoles, an’ he were at Bermuda or
the Havana !”

“Think you that, Lopez?” cried the Creole, his eyes spark-
ling with greed. ‘“ Away with him, then, to the boat, for I
doubt we shall get no more 0’ the cattle. We must away

   

 
 

 

 

 

   

LAMBS FOR THE MART. 59

from this bay, or a legion will be after these cubs of heathen-
dom. Lively, comrades !—to the boat!”

Without more delay, the kidnappers lifted Tisquontam,
together with the Indian children, and bore them to the pin-
nace, where already five other children of either sex lay pin-
ioned hand to foot, like lambs for the mart. The Iroquois
was securely fastened, when the oarsmen immediately pulled
the pinnace out into the sunlit bay, through the calm waters,
skirting the coast, toward the sea. Meantime, some of the
crew were busy in rigging the masts and bending a lateen sail,
while others stowed compactly in the boat’s bows the store of
provisions which were to sustain them on their bold yoyage
to the southern islands. There were thirteen men of the
crew, who had kidnapped seyen red children, together with
Tisquontam, Captain Pierre chuckled as he looked upon his
captives, and calculated how many hard pistoles so fine a
cargo would fetch him,

Meantime, Monoma and Marie waited expectantly for the
sun’s decline, when the Iroquois was to return with news
from the Narragansett village. But the parting beams of
light trembled upon the mossy river-bank, and long shadows
stole around the wigwam; then twilight, and gloom, and
moon-rising followed—but Tisquontam came not.

  
 

     
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

od ACE Delets . terls
SAMEEDA, THE DAUGHTER OF MASSASOIT.

Many moons passed, and still the white captives remained
unmolested in the Narragansett village. Abbe Claude learned
that -his life, as well as that of his young charge, Louis, had f
been decreed sacred by decision of the savages in council.
Whether the Narragansetts, who, in the heat of their triumph,
had sacrificed all the other emigrants thrown into their power,
were now disposed to preserye the remaining two as living
trophies of the prowess of the tribe, or whether some other
line of savage policy actuated their course, could not be divined
by the captives; but, it became evident that they were both
received under the protection of the red-men, and that, though
still watched as prisoners, they weie treated as members of
the common family.
It might be that a spice of superstition mingled in the
natures of the Indians, and that they deemed it better to
restrain the exercise of further cruelty toward the strange
invaders, whom they firmly believed to be sent by Hobbo-
mocko, the Evil One, for the especial trial and tribulation of
the red possessors of the land. As the Chinese and Yezidees
endeavor at all times to keep, as they express it, “on good
terms with the devil,” so the aborigines were accustomed to
pay a sort of deference to the Arch Enemy, for the purpose
of conciliating any unusually hostile feelings which he might
be supposed to entertain ; and thus, in the reservation of their
captives, the shrewd Narragansetts doubtless conceived them-
selves to be subserving a double purpose: that of retaining
“living monuments of their own valor, and palliating with
- Hobbomocko the deed of wholesale massacre they had com-
mitted upon the hapless passengers of the ship.

During many seasons and years, mysterious and startling ,
rumors had been rife through all the northern tribes. Strange :

 
  

 

 

 

LOUIS A FAVORITE. 61

intelligence had reached them, by runners who had visited the
red nations of the South, concerning armies of terrible men,
with beards and white faces, who had come from across the
great waters, walking the raging waves in a “ big canoe,” and
carrying in their hands thunder and lightning. But now, at
length, the tribes of the North had delivered their brethren of
the strange enemies. The “big canoe” was now no more;
it had been ground to pieces on the rocks of Massachusetts,
and the invaders had become as the dust of the earth.

These were the words of the medicine-men and chief coun-
cilors in the grand lodge of the Narragansetts; therefore the
warriors of that tribe no longer feared the pale-faces. They
resolved that their captives should be held as slaves, in order
that the far southern tribes might know the valor of the ocean-
Indians. For the Narragansetts could behold the great sea
from their hunting-grounds, while the south-tribes dwelt
among the big rivers and swamps.

So, moons passed away, and still Father Claude and Louis
remained prisoners among the red-men. They had Jearned
the tongue of the Indians, and mingled in the councils of the
chiefs. Abbe Claude spoke words of wisdom to the old men,
and Lonis hunted with the young braves, trapping the beaver
and shooting the wild deer in the forest.

The good Abbe spoke to the ancient chiefs, who no longer
went forth to battle, of the sweetness that dwells with peace.
Te told them of the great Manitou of the white men, and His
mighty works. He comforted the aged braves when the Great
Spirit’s voice was heard calling them to the eternal hunting-
grounds; and his tongue murmured gentle words to the little
children whose fathers were no more.

Louis soon became beloved by the Indian maidens. They
wove rich belts of wampum to hang his quiver, made soft
moccasins for his feet, and plucked the feathers of eagles to
knit him a ‘warrior’s head-dress ; for the young stranger was
comely to look upon, skillful in the chase, and graceful in the
dance.

Sameeda, the daughter of the Sachem, Massasoit, was the
pride of her father’s tribe. Whose voice was so sweet in the
songs of morning? Whose feet moved so lightly in the
evening dance? Who was so fleet upon the hills? Like a

 

 

   
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
    
  
    
  
 
 
    
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

SE ES

”

62 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

young fawn was Sameeda, daughter of the mighty war-chief,
Massasoit. ,

Sameeda, the Narragansett princess, learned to love the
young stranger-chief who had been made captive by her
father’s bow and spear. The voice of Louis became like the
murmur of fountains in her ears, and his glances stole into
her bosom like sunlight into the wild-wood bowers. She
loved in secret, speaking no word, for she feared the wrath of
her stern sire. Therefore she would wander away in the
stillness of night to seek the shores of the sea—there to think
alone of the young pale chief.

To the silent shore oftentimes repaired Louis; for he, too,
loved to gaze upon the broad ocean, and dream of the land he
had left beyond it. No wonder then that upon the lonely
beach the youth and maiden met, and, need we say, loved ?

He whispered to her, in broken but intelligible words, tales
of his far native land, and told the sad story of his own
orphaned life, and of that beloved one, the sister of his youth,
whose fair form he believed was now mouldering on Wachu-
sett’s height. Sameeda’s heart throbbed with beautiful sym-
pathy. She wound her arms around the neck of her lover,

she dried his tearful eyes with her long, dark hair, and then .

murmured sweetly, in the musical language he had taught
her: 5

“Sameeda will be the sister of the white chief The
daughter of Massasoit will make her couch at the feet of him
she loves !”

Ah! how rapturously sped those hours of dear communion
by the sounding sea. But a cloud was arising to darken
loving hearts and starry hopes.

Sakanto was a mighty chief, and medicine-man of the tribe,

wise in council, and cunning in the field. The enemies of

the Narragansetts feared his valor and wisdom, and no less
was he dreaded by the braves of his own nation; for he dealt
in strange secrets, and it was said that Hobbomocko had
charged his evil spirits to minister to Sakanto’s will. Men
feared his eye when its glances crossed their own ;, children
fled from his path, to hide their faces in the bosoms of their
trembling mothers.

But Sakanto was chief among the war-councilors, and hig

 
 

   

THE LOVERS AND A RIVAL. 68

fame went far abroad, along the sea-shores, among all the
tribes that dwelt by the waters. He it was who had called
together the young braves, and bade them watch the big
canoe from the dark forests that overlooked the ocean. He
it was, the old men said, who commanded the spirits of air to
lash up the waters into anger, and to drive the big canoe upon
frightful rocks, that his red nation might conquer the white
strangers. Therefore was Sakanto feared. by all—even more
than was Massasoit, the Sachem of many nations.

Sakanto stalked from his wigwam, through the village,
smiling not on the maidens, nor nodding his haughty head to
the braves. He entered the lodge of Massasoit, and smoked
with the Indian king the pipe of council. When the dark
chieftain returned again to his wigwam, a whisper went from
one to another of the youths and maidens that Sameeda, the

beautiful princess, had been betrothed to the medicine-man !

Sorrow bowed the hearts of the youthful princess and her
lover, when next they met beside the murmuring sea.
Sameeda knew the power of that dread chieftain who sought
her hand, and that Massasoit would never dare to provoke
his anger, even should her own prayers be able to move her
father’s sympathies,

“Alas! must I fly from my beloved?” she cried, weeping
upon the bosom of her pale-faced friend. “Must Sameeda
sit down in the lodge of Sakanto, and smile no more ?”

“Never!” answered Louis, passionately. “One being
whom I loved have your cruel kindred torn from me; but
from Sameeda I will never part !”

As the youth spoke, the figure of a man approached. It
was the aged Abbe Claude, whose calm voice was now heard :

“My son! is it indeed so? Do you love this daughter of
the red people ?”

“Father—father, unite us !” was the earnest reply of Louis.

“Hear me! we are one in the sight of Heaven, but let us
be made one by the rites of our holy religion. 0, father ! unite
two loving hearts in the blessed bonds of marriage Y implored
the young man.

“My son, what would you do? Know you not that
Sakanto is the most powerful chieftain of the nation, save
alone the king Massasoit? We are but captives, and at the
mercy of our rude masters.”

*

 
 

   

64 ‘ ‘THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

“We can but die, Abbe Claude. Unite us, and let us fly
together far from the Narragansett villages. I have learned
from a runner the route to the English settlements in the
South. hither we will fly! Say you not so, Sameeda?
Wilt go with me?”

“Sameeda is the wife of the white chief. She will follow
him to his nation’s hunting-grounds.”

“Hear you that, Abbe Claude? No time is to be lost.
Unite us in marriage, and we will away together. God will
conduct us.”

Louis supported the light form of Sameeda, who gazed into
his eyes with a look of mute confidence. She knew not what
marriage meant; she cared to know but one thing—that her
fate would be joined to that of the young pale-face forever.

“ Heaven wills it !” at length murmured the Abbe, devoutly.
“YT feel that it is right, and that our Father in Heaven sancti-
fies the union. Ye shall be married, dear children !” .

Joining the hands of the youthful lovers, the good priest
knelt and prayed that thelr union might be blessed by the
Creator of Love.. There, in the sight of the bright stars and
the rolling ocean, in the hour of night, Sameeda plighted her
faith to the stranger who possessed her heart, and received
the earnest response of her lover’s vows. And then Abbe
Claude uttered the solemn adjuration :

“Whom God hath joined together, let no one put asunder.”

The nuptial party then stole from the lonely beach; all
became quiet, save the low murmur of surges upon the sands,
or the sough of swaying forest-trees that overlooked the
waters.

But the quiet was broken by the plash of a paddle in the
waye, and from the shadow of a jutting rock, close beneath
the spot where Sameeda and her lover had knelt, shot forth
a small canoe. It skimmed over the smooth water, along the
shelving beach, and erect within it, his ominous glance follow-
ing the receding figures of the maiden, the youth, and the
priest, appeared a dusky Indian form.

It was SAKaNnTo, medicine-man of the tribe !

 

 

  

 
 

   

 

   
 

THE BRIGANTINE.

CHAPTER” 211.

THE CREOLE’S PIRATICAL CRUISE.

MBANWHILE, during the transition of events in the Narra-
gansett village, Captain Pierre and his crew steered their little
vessel to the southward, coasting the perilous shoals of Cape
Mollacar, rounding the isles of Oapewak and Sagaquob, names
now forgotten, or usurped by modern appellations, and keep-
ing close to land withal, until the compass which they had
preserved from the wreck showed them the favorable place
for striking forth to the islands lying nearest to the continent.
No storms interposed, and their progress during the long sum-
mer days and moonlit nights, was checked by no tedious calin;
without dagger or delay, they at length reached the Havana
Here, taking counsel with their leader, the company disposed
of the pinnace, and sold the Indian children to the captain of
a merchantman, who was about to sail forthwith for Bermuda,
where servants of the sort were then in great demand. Tis-
quontam, who had recovered from his wound, was kept, in
hopes of his fetching even more than forty-five pistoles, the
round sum which had been received for each of the seven
children, male and female; and then the gold, gained by the
sale of the pinnace and slaves, was, by Captain Pierre’s
advice, invested in the purchase of a brigantine, wherewith
they resolved to essay their fortunes on the high seas.

The Creole found no difficulty in increasing his company
by the enlistment of several desperate fellows, then idling about
the island, ready for any adventure, and who gladly entered -
into an engagement to share the excitement and profits of a
rover’s life. The Creole selected the Spaniard, Lopez, for his
chief officer or lieutenant, and, mustering the men, now increased
to a score or more of reckless desperadecs, opened his plans
in business style.

“We are now about to follow the example of many brave
  

66 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.
gentlemen,” said Captain Pierre. “There be great store of
treasure for strong hands to win, and I bethink me, comrades,
of a notable place whereto we may gallantly steer. It isa
cruising-ground near the island of the Dutch, called Curassou.
In those seas resort divers merchantmen, and Spanish boats
withal, Jaden with gold and silver, silks and Indian stuffs,
laces, ribbons, and quicksilver, together with spices, vanilla,
cochineal and cocoa, which fetch heavy prices at the Havana,
or in the new colonies of America. Peradventure, comrades,
if we take a dozen of these Spanish boats, as they go on their
trading occasions, we shall find such mass of rich booty as will
buy a great cruising ship for us. Then can we trade briskly
in slaves, which are easily caught, as were those heathen imps,
and mayhap make capture of some great galleon of the Dons
or Portugals, so that we be speedily enriched for our lives.”

The announcement of this scheme was received with much
favor by the Creole’s motley followers, and they set themselves
directly to the work of fitting their brigantine for the voyage.
Nevertheless, as it was not thought best to leave any traces
whereby their course from thg Havana might be too easily
traced, Captain Pierre directed his lieutenant, Lopez, as well
as others of the crew, to give out among the townspeople
that the vessel was bound to France, to bring thence certain
stores for the new colonies of that nation. Meantime,
Captain Pierre purchased arms and ammunition, with such
hard pieces of gold as he had saved from the wreck of the
2inigrant-ship. :

Very soon the brigantine was made ready for sea, and
word given to her crew to repair on board, which all were
right glad to do, impatient for the adventures and booty
promised by the leader. But, as tlrey were about to weigh
anchor, there appeared a tall, well-favored man upon the
shore, whose bronzed countenance gave evidence of ils pos-
sessor’s acquaintance with the vicissitudes of American
climates. He was, moreover, well appareled, and wore a
mien of much dignity. With him came a sea-captain, who
commanded a large ship of Britain, which was anchored in
the roadstead, and behind followed a couple of mariners, who
bore a heavy and iron-bound box.

“T would have speech immediate with the captain of this

   

 

 

 

    
 

 

 

 

A PASSENGER. 67

brigantine, whereof I hear that she is presently departing for
France,” said the new-comer.”

“Tam at your service, monsieur,’ replied the Creole, in
French, which was the language used by the other. ‘“ What
would you of Captain Pierre Dacot?”

“Captain Pierre Dacot—if that be your fant desire to
bargain with you for my passage hence to France, whither I
am bound,” said the stranger.

The Creole started, for he had not looked for such an appli-
cation. Nevertheless, he found himself compelled to make
answer, and therefore rejoined that the brigantine’s accommo-
dations were very narrow, and badly suited to the comfort of
a man of quality such as the applicant appeared to be.

“Oh, as for that matter, worthy Captain Pierre Dacot,”
returned the stranger, “I am not difficult to please in the
matter of accommodations, having botne many hardships in my
day. But it is necessary that I depart speedily, for there be
those in France I would fain see before I die. Some store
of wealth I have, Captain Pierre!” continued he, with a glance
at the iron-bound box, which a sailor had deposited on the
-dand at his feet-—“ and I promise you will be no loser by the
bargain we shall make.”

The Creole’s avaricious spirit was roused at once; and as
his eye became riveted on the chest, wherein his active fancy
already pictured ingots of gold, and precious stones in glitter-
ing confusion, he paused a moment, evolving in his dark
mind the first inception of a scheme to get possession of the
stranger’s treasure, at small risk to himself.

“If such be your willingness, monsieur,” he said, presently,
‘and if you can. abide such poor comforts as we can
bestow, I will gladly make shift to dispose a berth at your
service—yourself being without company.”

“Myself and this ‘chest are all the extra burden your
brigantine will have to carry,” replied the other. ‘“ My good
friend here, ani brave captain who commands yon English
ship, proffered mie a cabin, which I would gladly accept; but
unluckily he must wait for fréight of peltries from the main-
land, and I must needs make what haste I may.”

“And good faith,” responded the bluff merchant-captain,
“Tam right loth to lose your good company, sir, which I

 
 

  

68 THE FRENCH GAPTIVES.

have had from the French settlements. Fare you well, sir,
for what says the song—‘The best of friends must part.”
Saying this, the Briton shook the hand of his late passenger,
and, turning to Pierre Dacot, cried out—“ You'll find him a
prince and a Christian man |”

The Creole’s lip twitched, as he attempted to smile; and
the stranger, with another friendly grasp of the merchantman’s
hand, prepared to get aboard the brigantine, first ordering his
strong box to be lifted from the strand. ‘The trash is some-
what weighty,” he remarked, “and ’twill tax a sturdy man’s
strength, mayhap, to handle well.” t

“Whip up yon savage Tisquontam,” said the Creole, address-
ing Lopez. “He is strong as a bullock, and will have the
chest stowed safely in a trice.”

The two villains exchanged glances; while Tisquontam,
driven ashore, was comnianded to. take up the box, which he
did with scarcely an apparent effort, much to the astonishment
of two English mariners, who had strained their tough joints
somewhat in conveying the ponderous burden from their own
vessel to the shore. The Indian, in grave silence, carried the
chest over the brigantine’s side and deposited it on the deck,
as if it had been but a traveler’s portmanteau.

“A lusty rascal, Captain Pierre,” remarked the English
skipper, surveying Tisquontam’s muscular proportions and
stately demeanor with an admiring glance; while the Indian
himself, having accomplished his task, remained with folded
arms, and calm eyes, near the taffrail.

“The dog is sturdy enough,” answered Pierre Dacot ;. “ but
his room were as good as his company in my small craft. So,
if you like, friend, you shall have him for a hundred pistoles.”

“Tig too much,” said the Englishman. ‘Mayhap, we
might agree on a matter of sixty pistoles; but, a hundred—
my purse would never stand that, shipmate.” So saying, the
Briton turned away. .

“Get you forward, there, red dog!” cried the Creole; but
Tisquontam, absorbed, perchance, in thoughts of the daughter
of his love, appeared not to hear the gruff voice of his kid-
napper.

“Hound! do you mock me?” roared Captain Pierre,
observing the Indian’s inattention. “Take that, now, to help

 

 

 

 

 

   
 

  
 
  
 
 
    
 
 
  
 

soc

 

 
  

  

TISQUONTAM SOLD. . 69

  

your savage wits!” Seizing a repe’s-end, he dealt his uncon-
scious captive a sudden blow upon the face, stripping the skin
from his forehead in a bleeding welt.

“By St: Denis !—that’s a cruel stroke!” exclaimed the
French passenger, in disgust at the unprovoked assault.
“Nay, nay!” he continued, interposing his arm; for he per-
ceived that the Creole had already raised his weapon for
another blow, as if apprehensive of the red-man’s resentment,
‘ODis no Christian act to strike the defenseless! Look you,
sir, how the poor man bleeds !”

“Bleed he, or die he, the loss is mine own, since there’s no
sale for such cattle at a fair price!” rejoined the Creole,
moodily. “But there’s no danger—the heathen dog is tough.”

The stranger turned from the brutal rover and caught the
eye of Tisquontam fixed on his own, with a glance at once
intelligent and grateful. He felt compassion moving him at
the sight, and a sudden impulse inspired him to rescue the
poor savage from his cruel owner. Turning immediately to
the English mariner, who, like himself, had witnessed with
disgust the uncalled for brutality of Captain Pierre, he said, —
hastily : :

“When good friends part, Captain, it is a good custom that
bids to exchange tokens of remembrance between them. Give
me now that plain gold ring on your little finger, Captain, and
on my part, I will bestow this Indian Hercules upon you for a
body-servant. Nay, no demur, I pray you, friend—I like it
well.” ;

Saying this, and in spite of the opposition of the British
captain, who protested against the smallness of the equivalent
which the Frenchman demanded, being a ring of little value
against one hundred pistoles, the price asked for Tisquontam,
the money was counted out aud paid into the Creole’s hands,
though the latter would fain have retracted his offer, when he
saw that his passenger was to pay for the slave. For the
treacherous Creole had resolved in his own mind to make
away with the Frenchman, so soon as they should be got upon
their voyage, in order that the strong box, which, as he rightly
deemed, contained much wealth, might fall into the hands of
himself and pirate-crew. Z

But Heaven had ordained. all these events for its own wise

 
  

70 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

purposes, and so Captain Pierre was constrained to adhere to
his bargain, and transfer the Indian man Tisquontam to the
merchant-captain. The poor sayage, who seemed very well
to comprehend the motives of compassion which had impelled
the French stranger to become his purchaser, cast a look of
renewed gratitude toward the latter, as he followed his new
master and the two sailors from the brigantine. Captain
Pierre, looking after him with a gloomy expression, gave
hurried orders to cast off the vessel. Presently the forts and
harbor were passed, and, before evening, the swift-sailing little
craft had many a league of ocean between herself and the
Havana.

But the Creole, impatient to obtain possession of the strong

box belonging to his passenger, and to proceed, thereafter, on
his voyage of plunder to the windward islands, did not delay
developing his design to the Spaniard, Lopez, and a few of
his ready men. It was resolved at once to attack the French-
man in his sleep, and make away with him as speedily as

_ possible, casting his body into the sea; after which his treas-
ure could be ransacked, without making known the circum-
stance to all the rovers; and thus, whatever valuables should
be secured, could be divided among the few actual participants
in the deed of murder, In this manner the Creole desired to
rob his passenger and cheat the most of his followers of their
share of the plunder.

At the dead of night, the Frenchman was startled from his
slumber by the sudden stroke of a knife, wielded by the
ruffian Spaniard, which, though intended to penetrate his
heart, fell short of the mark, and only inflicted a slight wound,
sufficient to arouse the intended victim to a vigorous struggle
for his life. No less than three villains were assailing him at
once, while, by the glimmer of a binnacle-lamp, the malicious
eyes of Captain Pierre overlooked the work of his myrmidons.
Opposite the Frenchman’s resting-place—a small locker in the
round-house—was an open window, and through this could be
discerned the water, black as the grave, for neither moon nor
star was visible in the heavens.

It had been the intention of Lopez to strike so sure a blow
in the sleeping Frenchman’s breast, as should deprive him of

_ all power of resistance, when he might be dragged imme-

 

 

   
  

 

 

    
 

 

ee

eat

A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 1

diately to the round-house window and cast into the sea.
But either the dim light misted his sight, or his unsteady hand
deceived him—he missed his aim, and the next moment felt
his own throat compressed in the gripe of his contemplated
victim.

Then took place, in that narrow round-house, a deadly
conflict. The passenger, armed only with a short dagger,
made shift to keep at bay not only the three villains, but the
captain himself, who came, cutlass in hand, to their assistance.
Naught illumined the scene but the dull binnacle-light, whose
rays dimly entered through the open door of the round-house,
and no noise was made but the wrestle of those who attempted

-to grasp the Frenchman, and once or twice the sound of a

heavy stroke against the panels of the berth. At last, a des-
perado, who had approached within fatal range of the brave
passenger’s weapon, received a powerful downward blow upon
his heart, and sunk heavily to the deck, mortally wounded,
while the Frenchman made a desperate spring for the round-
house door.

“We must call the crew—this fellow is a devil!” muttered
Captain Pierre, placing a whistle to his lips, and blowing it
shrilly. Immediately a rush of feet was heard from the
forward part of the brigantine, and the Creole, darting from
the round-house, beheld Lopez, the Spaniard, and his French
passenger, grappled together beside the starboard taffrail of
the vessel, bending like wrestlers in a close embrace, their
arms locked, and the knife of each glittering in the obscurity.

“Upon him, comrades! Hew him to pieces !—the French-
man! He has killed one of us already!” cried Captain
Pierre to the men, who now came hurrying aft. “Stab him,
or Lopez will be strangled. 4

It did indeed seem that the Spaniard’s breath was about to
be effectually stopped, for the Frenchman had suddenly
dropped his own weapon, and, clasping the armed hand of
Lopez with his left fingers, shifted his right to the throat of
his adversary, which he pressed against the taffrail with a
grasp like iron. The lieutenant’s comrades saw his danger,
and, with raised cutlasses, rushed together upon the now
unarmed Frenchman. But, ere they could reach him, the
combat was decided by the weight of the two men breaking

 
  

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

the taffrail on which they pressed so heavily.. It parted with
a crash, and pirate, as well as passenger, fell headlong from
the brigantine, and disappeared beneath the black waves under
her quarter.

A single sound—half gurgling gasp, half shriek—came to
the ears of the horror-stricken rovers. Then the brigantine
plunged on her way, and the moaning wind in her shrouds
was all that disturbed the night’s stillness.

Captain Pierre, quickly as possible, ordered the vessel to
be rounded to, and a boat to be got in readiness. But in vain
the ready sailors listened for a voice or struggle in the water.
All remained quiet, and the Creole, with a curse, led the way

to the round-house, where, all stark, lay the body of the.

ruffian whose breast had been cloven by the Frenchman’s
dagger.

“Curses! this business has cost me two of my best men !”
muttered the Creole. “ Ay, indeed, better had. I lost three
than Lopez, for he stuck at nothing that I commanded !”

Thus grumbled Captain Pierre, as the slain rover’s body
was committed to the waves; but his regrets became less
poignant when a scrutiny of the lost stranger’s strong box
revealed to him, not, indeed, as he had fancied, ingots and
diamonds, but still a goodly store of roubles and pistoles,
enough to ransom a whole ship’s crew from Barbary. The
Creole’s eyes danced over the plunder, and forgot Lopez. —

oe

 
 
  
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
   
  
  
   

 

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sateen teteni2

MONOMA’S SEARCH. 3

OHAP TER, SLI.
MONOMA AND HER GUEST.

Manin and Monoma watched long into the night, await-
ing the return of Tisquontam. Sleep, at last, overpowered
them, and the hour of morning broke once more. Still the
Indian hunter did not return.

“Twill seek my. father’s trail,” said Monoma; and, kissing
the cheek of Marie, she bounded away to the forest-path.

Monoma was no novice in woodcraft; her steps from
infancy had been accustomed to thicket and turf. She had
tracked the wild fox to his covert in the summer, and pursued

- during wintry moons the fleet-footed deer or howling wolf

far away over icy crusts and drifted snows. She was familiar
with every sign by which the aborigines trace their friends or
foes through the pathless wilds; for often had she roamed
with her father for leagues and leagues away from their islet-
home, scaling the great hills of the interior, or launching their
birchen canoe upon the rivers of the Penobscot, the Merrimac,
and Piscataqua, even to the far Connecticut. Consequently,
Monoma thought little of threading the wood-depths, and
found no difficulty in striking very soon the trail of her father,
Tisquontam, on the following day.

What terror shook her frame when she reached, at length,
the spot where the brief struggle between the Indian and his
captors had taken place. She knelt upon the trampled grass,
and saw the discolored blades where the blood that oozed
from Tisquontam’s wound had dried. She marked the rough
trail made by the kidnappers as they dragged their victims to
the pinnace, and at last saw, with renewed grief, the print of the
boat’s keel upon the white sands of the shore. Then, as the
full realization of her father’s fate broke over her mind, and

she felt that he had been carried away by enemies, she sat

down upon the shore overwhelmed with sorrow.

 
  

74, THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

But no tear came, even then, to moisten the burning eyes
of Monoma; for her wild nature, even in its despair, refused
the manifestations customary to civilized life. She remained
mute and motionless, thinking of her sire, but even in her
agony striving to shape forth plans for following and rescuing
the captive warrior.

Monoma well knew, by the signs she had diligently
examined, that no war-party of Indians had made prisoner of
her father; for, apart from the fact that Tisquontam was on
the best of terms with all the neighboring tribes, and that
distant red-men could not have approached these shores
without previous notice of their coming, she knew likewise
that the print upon the shore-sands must have been caused
by another bark than a canoe; therefore her quick apprehen-
sion told her that Tisquontam must have fallen into the hands
of some survivors of the white strangers lately cast upon the
coast. But this conviction increased her alarm, for she feared,
after discovery of the marks of conflict on the grass, that her
father might’ have incurred the anger of the strangers, or been
seized as a victim in revenge for the massacre of the wrecked
emigrants.

Monoma ventured to hope even amid her despair. Tisquon-
tam was acquainted with her mother’s tongue, and could
therefore explain his kindred as well as friendliness to the pale-
faces; and perhaps, reflected the maiden, after all, he has
been taken but as a guide to the strangers through the islands,
and will be allowed to return when he has safely conducted
them to the great ocean. Monoma stifled her grief, and
turned her face once more to the lodge where the lonely
Marie waited her coming with ill-concealed anxiety.

Another night passed, and with returning morn Monoma
prepared to set forth on a journey to the Narragansett village.
For, during the sleepless hours, the Indian girl had promised
her mourning friend that she would herself seek to discover
whether Louis and the Abbe still lived. Monoma had often
accompanied Tisquontam on his visits to the neighboring
tribes, and twice she had passed the threshold of the great
Sachem Woosameguen, which was the warrior’s name of the
powerful Massasoit. She now resolved to go alone to the
lodges of the .Narragansetts, not to make known the disap-

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
    
  
  
   

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VISIT TO THE NARRAGANSETTS. 5

pearance of her father, but only to note if the white captives
were still spared from sacrifice. Marie, in truth, desired to
know the worst, for the dreadful suspense in which she
remained, concerning her brother, was torturing in the
extreme. Rather, indeed, would she welcome death, know-
ing that her friends had preceded her to the Mansions of
Rest.

Monoma, therefore, promising to return by evening, set
forth at the first dawning to traverse the woods and hills
toward the Narragansett town. Much she dreaded that she
should arrive only to witness the catastrophe of sacrifice, or to
hear that the fearful rite of vengeance had been consummated.
She hoped, however, that the captives were still living, and
resolved, even though it might involve her own safety, to
intercede for their preservation with the king, Massasoit,
should the tribe have yet delayed their death. With these
feelings her fleet footsteps soon carried her to the shore,
where Tisquontam’s canoe still lay concealed. The little
bark clove the still waters of the bay from point to point,
until the country of the Narragansetts was gained, and she
stood among Woosameguen’s lodges.

Many daughters of chiefs and young braves greeted the
arrival of Monoma in the village, for she was known far and
wide as the child of Tisquontam, the Lone Sachem of Manna-
moset; but to the interrogatories concerning her father, the
prudent maiden only replied that he had gone forth on the
hunt alone, and she had come to visit for a few hours her
Narragansett cousins, and then return swiftly to the lodge of
Tisquontam. This answer satisfied all inquiries, and Monoma
was permitted to range freely with her young Indian friends
from wigwam to wigwam of the village: It was not long,
therefore, before she learned all that could be communicated
by the Narragansett maidens, and discovered, greatly to her
joy, that the captive youth, Louis, was adopted by a squaw
of the tribe. Moreover, she soon obtained a glimpse of the
French youth and his elder friend, and saw that both ap-
peared calm and in good health. Monoma bade adieu to the
admiring braves who had greeted her, and, with a flowery
garland or two presented by some gentle squaws, set out on
her return to the islet, which she reached without difficulty
just as the sun was declining.

 
   

  

%6 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

Great. was the sorrow of the Indian maiden to find that
Marie was unable to comprehend her words or even recognize
her at all. The anxiety, excitement and fear, which had
alternated in the poor French girl’s mind during the last few
days, had at length forced her delicate frame to succumb, and
she now lay upon her bed in the lodge, burning and tossing
with a raging fever, that completely deprived her of reason.

Tenderly, though sadly, throughout that night, Monoma
watched beside Marie, preparing for her relief the simple
herbal medicaments which, in common with all aboriginal
females, she knew well how to cull and prepare for use, But
the French maiden’s malady was of a grievous nature, and did
not yield lightly to the young leech’s skill. Not alone that
night succeeding her return from the Narragansett village, but
many nights, and many weeks succeeding, Monoma tended the
sick and wandering girl, till at last the fever broke, and the
light of intelligence once more revisited the stricken Marie.

When the crisis of the disease was at length over, and Marie
could realize the sweet hope of life, and feel that, though in
savage captivity, Louis was yet in no danger, but, with the
good Aljbe, was allowed all liberty to rove amid the tribe, she
began soon to gather strength, and looked forward with
returning confidence to a meeting with her brother in the
forest, and perhaps their ultimate escape to the white settle-
ments. Monoma encouraged the anticipation, though her own
spirit was growing every day more despondent, because of
the long absence of her father.

Meanwhile, the store of provisions with which, at Tisquon-
tam’s departure, the wigwam had been bountifully supplied,
had long since been consumed, and Monoma’s skill was fain
to supply the place ofher father. Daily, ere the sun penetrated
the forest, and often at night, when Marie slept, the Indian
huntress would steal forth through the glades and by the river
banks, to set her snares for game, or launch her arrows with
unerring dexterity, until, loaded with her spoils, she could
return to the lodge, unperceived by Marie, who dreamt not
of the arduous labors of her young hostess. Often, indeed,
Marie beheld the trophies of Monoma’s hunting exploits in the
soft skins of beaver which lined the hut, as well as the many
wild birds and other game upon which her returning appetite

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

°

MONOMA AND THE PANTHER. 77

feasted deliciously. But little did Marie know of the really
perilous as well as difficult expeditions which Monoma under-
took, nor know that the Indian maiden’s hands had worked
the ground and gathered the maize of which was made the
excellent succotash which tempted her palate in the mornings.

Thus months wore away—summer passed, and the glorious
Inodian-summer followed with its gorgeous train of glowing
sunsets, cloudless skies, and moonlit nights of dazzling bril-
liancy. Need was there now for Monoma to exert all her
skill and energy in taking advantage of the proper hunting
season in order to lay in store of food for the winter’s con-
sumption; for well she knew the glorious autumnal noong
would be succeeded by storms and snows, when her islet-home
would be barricaded by great drifts, and the great bay waters
congealed, so that no fish could be taken by her weak hands,
and when, mayhap, for months, naught would be heard in the
wilderness but the howl of wolves and panthers ravenous for
prey. All this Monoma knew, and, hopeless of her father’s
return, she prepared to exert herself to the utmost in provid-
ing the lodge with stores of game, and corn, and other
necessaries, by means of which the winter might be passed in
something like comfort; for she felt that Marie was ill-calcu-
lated to bear privation, and resolyed, with generous courage,
that no want of her friend should be unsupplied which her
devotion might anticipate.

Thus, indeed, Monoma exposed herself to many risks which
she might otherwise have ayoided; and thus it happened, one
lonely starlit night, as she eagerly pursued a wild fawn over
hill and through dale, the dauntless maiden found herself
suddenly checked by the ominous growl of a- panther, which,
crouching on the gigantic bough of an oak immediately
in her path, was prepared to spring upon her as she
passed.

Marie, at the fearful sight, would have fainted and been
devoured in aninstant. Monoma was ofa different mould, and,
moreover, accustomed to wilderness-perils. She, therefore, as
her quick eye caught sight of the crouching panther, mani-
fested no symptom of alarm, but quietly swerved from the
direction in which she was bounding, and sprung for the
shelter of another tree at a few paces distance. She was thus

  
  

%8 ; THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

saved for an instant, but only to be placed in increased danger
by the anger of the animal, which, baulked in its first design,
hastened, by leaping to another tree, to gain a position where
it could pounce upon the anticipated victim.

The Indian girl, far from giving. way to despair, coolly
placed an arrow in her bow and let it fly at the animal, just
as it made a furious spring toward her. The shaft entered
one of the panther’s eyes, so truly was it aimed. The beast
fell short of the maiden, who adroitly slipped around the
great tree.

The wood resounded with the horrible cry of the panther,
as, terribly galled by the shaft which still stuck in his bleeding
_ eye, he dashed with terrible force at the tree where Monoma
stood. It seemed as if the noble Indian girl must fall at once
a victim to the ferocious animal.

Providence, however, had ordered otherwise, and, in this
great strait, sent an unlooked for deliverance; for, in the
moment when she herself believed no hope remained, a loud
shout was heard close beside her. A man sprung forward,
ran boldly at the panther, striking it full in the breast, and
bearing its ponderous body against the tree, within a foot of
Monoma herself. At the same moment another figure emerged
from the thicket and advanced toward the tree.

“Well, Robin Ball, have you settled him?” demanded the
new-comer, in a voice which made the heart of Monoma leap
in her breast, for it spoke in the French tongue, and was per-
fectly intelligible to her.

“Mass! St. Elmo! but I think he is done for!’ was the
reply of Robin Ball, as he shook the dead panther from the
heavy pike of St. Elmo.

“Let us see, then, what manner of being you have rescued
from the ferocious beast,” said St. Elmo, stepping forward,
while Monoma threw herself at the feet of Robin Ball, and, in
her sweet accents, thanked him in excellent French for his
timely action which had sayed her life.

Had some yisitant dropped from the skies, Robin and St.
Elmo could not haye been more astonished than they were
now, to hear the foreign language spoken by an Indian Diana,
who had just narrowly escaped death from an American tiger.
It was not, therefore, to be marveled at, that they both pres-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    
ca ices Leal

 

ROBIN BALL AND ST. ELMO. "9

ently plied the young huntress with questions, or that they
speedily learned of the relationship in which Monoma stood to
the white race. On his part, feeling instinctively that he
might trust the red maiden, St. Elmo informed her that him-
self and companion had dwelt for several months in a cavern
hard by, where they had stored provisions and furs, the spoils
of their chase in the surrounding wilds. Much Monoma won-

‘dered that she bad never before encountered the white

hunters, but the circumstance was accounted for by the fact
that they had roamed the forest with great caution, never ven-
turing far’ from their retreat, lest they should meet and be
taken captive by savages, many bands of whom, at divers
times, they had seen traversing the wilderness,

But, what was Gabriel St. Elmo’s surprise and joy, when
Monoma informed him that one of his countrywomen had sur-
vived the wreck, and that the name of that one was Marie.
The youth was nearly wild with delight, and implored to be
conducted at once to Marie, and testified such ardent emotion,
repeating over and over the French maiden’s name, that
Monoma at once, with a woman’s tact, perceived the relation
of the youth to her fair young friend.

All this time Robin Ball had remained gazing upon her
sweet countenance, with a stare of blank wonder. So royal
in her wild huntiog garb, yet, withal, so gentle and engaging
did Monoma appear to the rude English seaman, that he could
find no words which he deemed suitable to address her in
reply to the gratitude that she had expressed for his opportune
service; and it was not till, in answer to St. Elmo’s*earnest -
prayer to be conducted to Marie, and Monoma had stepped
forward to lead the way, that Robin could collect his faculties
sufficiently to withdraw his gaze from her. Then, heaving a
sigh, which seemed to shake his great heart, and wiping on
the grass the bloody pike with which he had slain the panther,
Robin Ball followed St. Elmo and the Indian maiden away °
from the glen, in the direction of Tisquontam’s wigwam.

 
  

 

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES,

CHAPTER XIV.
THE SANOP OF THE DEAD.

A soxrrary Indian stood upon a lofty rock that frowned
over the shores of the Connecticut, near the mouth of that
beautiful river. . His arms were crossed upon his broad bosom,
and his tall form, towering in loneliness upon the ridge of the
precipice, seemed like a statue wrought from the rock itself.
It was Mattakan, the Pequod chieftain. He was not alone.
Reposing at the base of the rock, concealed in its shadow, lay
nine swarthy sons of the forest, savages of the Pequod nation.
They were the war-brethren of Mattakan, and sworn avengers
of the Indian’s wrongs. :

Many moons had come and flitted since Outesie had been
slain, with her babe in her arms. During these months Mat-
takan had neither crossed the threshold of his council-lodge,
nor joined in hunt or war-expedition. But away from his
tribe, along the shores of the big waters, and to the settle-
ments of the pale-faces on the great Hudson, had the chieftain
wandered, to behold the stranger-ships as they came from the
great ocean, Mattakan nursed but one image in his memory
—the form of the white man who had slain Outesie; he
nursed but one desire—for vengeance on the murderer of
his wife.

The chieftain’s deserted wigwam mouldered in the forest ;
his babe pined among the Pequod squaws; but Mattakan
beheld it not, till at length the child sickened and died. Then

’ the father took it from his village, and buried it with Outesie,

in the lonely grave bencath the oak tree. But Mattakan
spoke big words no more in the councils of his tribe, nor
smoked with the ancient braves, nor hearkened to the songs
of Pequod maids. The life of his heart was no more; he had
buried it with Outesie and her child.

But, eyer and anon, when the wandering chieftain returned

 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
   
  
   
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 

WAITING FOR REVENGE. 81

from afar, he whispered low words to the brethren of his
youthful days, and they bent their ears, listening to the tale
of the white man’s wrong, and then, grasping each others’
hands, swore by the Great Spirit that they would revenge the
death of Outesie. Then Mattakan and his nine war-brethren
went forth from their nation, and roamed among other tribes,
and afar to the white settlements, seeking evermore the mur-
derer; till at length the pale-faces grew fearful at the dark
looks of that Pequod band, and the white squaws hushed
their children with the name of Mattakan, the Sanop of the
Dead. ,

But Mattakan warred not against the innocent pale-faces
who dwelt near the great sea, nor against those whose lodge-
fires smoked in the forests. He waited in patience to dis-
cover the slayer of Outesie, for the Great Spirit had talked to
him in dreams, and promised that he should one day stand
face to face with his enemy. So Mattakan waited for
revenge.

Nor, in good sooth, was the time far distant when the
wronged Indian was to encounter his desperate foeman ; for
Captain Pierre was even then not far from the shores whither

“the Pequod war-brethren had followed their leader. The
brigantine had, it is true, pursued her expedition, and the
place of Lopez, the Spaniard, had been speedily filled by
another of the reckless crew, after which, for some months,
they cruised upon the main; till at length it chanced that in
an attack which Captain Pierre made upon the Spanish boats
near Curassoa, he encounterd a resistance totally unlooked for ;
and, though the pirates succeeded in capturing the trading
boats, with a great store of merchandise, yet their own num-
bers were so thinned in the fight, that it became necessary
for the Creole to retrace his course, and steer for some point .
where he could recruit the band. He dared not enter Curas-
soa, or St. Thomas, near by, neither to venture to the main
coast opposite, since many of those Spaniards who manned
the merchant-boats had escaped from the combat, and the
rover feared would give the alarm to men-of-war of their own
country; in which case his own vessel might be shortly cap-
tured, and his own career ended on the scaffold. So, Captain
Pierre deemed it his wisest course to shape at once for the

 
 

  

82 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

north shores of America, and strive for recruits among the set-
tlements of Virginia or Hudson’s river, where, he doubted not,
many restless spirits were to be found, disgusted with the
hardships of emigrant-life; more especially among those who
had been, in times past, followers of Walter Raleigh and the
other English adventurers. It happened that the Creole
arrived in his brigantine, and stood off near the straits of the
ocean that lead into Hudson’s waters, at the moment that Mat-
takan, his enemy, was tarrying with his comrades at the
mouth of the river Connecticut. Wondrous are the disposi-
tions of Providence, which, when even known not, are work-
ing to the good and eyil of mankind, according as their
deserts determine. :

It was near eventide when Captain Pierre’s vessel passed
around the long island which lay at the entrance of the waters
upon whose banks a few huts and a trading stockade, planted
by Hollanders, marked the small beginnings of what was here-
after to grow into the great commercial metropolis of the New
World. _ The rover had, indeed, steered for the Virginia coast ;
but, miscalculating his neighborhood, had run around the
rocky capes at the northward, and found himself at night near
the waters claimed by Dutch settlers. Accordingly he resolved
to visit them, and perhaps, after a profitable trade of his
plundered cloths for beavers and other furs, to finish the
expedition by another foray for slaves among the aborigines,

But the evening approached while yet the brigantine
sounded through the unknown channel which she had
entered, and, as the sky gave no promise of a moonlit night,
but rather wore a murky and unusual hue, the buccaneer
resolved to cast anchor in the shelter of a jutting point, near
which emptied into the sea a wide river, exidently rising far
inland. So, when the evening grew darker, the shallop rode at
anchor upon the channel’s edge, her trim hull motionless, and
scarcely definable as it swayed sluggishly with the tide. One
dim lantern hung over the.bows, its flickering rays revealing
a swivel-gun there mounted; but all portions of the brigan-
tine were wrapped in the increasing obscurity of the night.

But, though the weather’s aspect was gloomy and unprom-
ising, no sign of approaching tempest was observable ; rather,
it seemed, that a sluggish calm had dropped over land and

 

 
 

 
 

4

   

  

MATTAKAN FINDS HIS FOR. 83

water—one of those sultry calms, when life seems to stagnate,
and-all nature yields to apathy. Nevertheless, Captain Pierre
and his reckless crew seemed little influenced by the heavy
atmosphere, but, as they gathered with song and jest in the
roundhouse of the brigantine, and quaffed deeply of Jamaica
spirits, sweetened with the cane of St. Eustatia, appeared
resolved on maintaining the soundness of the favorite though
questionable morality contained in one of their drinking
songs :
“Nor care nor fear hath the bold buccaneer,
The headsman’s stall he troubleth not—
He keepeth his prayer till he swings i’the air—
For he’ll need it then if at all, God wot,”

But better had it been for that roystering company had
they watched with fear and care in those unknown waters;
for they had then beheld, perchance, the dusky human form
that swam cautiously about the shallop, and climbed to the
anchor-cable; and. they had met, perhaps, the glare of those
savage eyes which, through the open window of the round-
house, looked in on them with ominous glare, fixed upon the
dark features of the Creole captain with a look of hate, deadly
as the fascination of a serpent.

But no suspicion crossed the drunken minds of the rovers,
as they plied their cans, and bandied jest and song. Matta-
kan, the Pequod, marked well the murderer of his-wife, and
then, noiselessly as he had come, descended from the cable,
and clove his way to shore beneath the sultry cloud that
concealed the water like a pall.

Far into the night extended the revels of the buccaneers,
their hoarse laughter mocking the solemn stillness of nature—
the ominous unnatural stillness of all things else. Throughout
that sultry night the waters remained sluggish and dark, not
a breath of air rippling their surface, not a passing zephyr
flapping the listless canvas. Motionless the brigantine lay
upon the midnight sea.

On the shore, likewise, brooded a similar stillness. Eyen
when the gray morning gave signs of breaking, no breeze
arose to bear away the clouds; the birds remained silent, or
dropped from their tree-top nests to the ground, or wheeled
above in slow, bewildered circles. The quiet over nature’s
face appeared, indeed, like the quiet of death, for it was that

 
 

  

84 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

quiet pregnant with presentiment—the quiet that presages the
earthquake’s approach.

The tradition that tells of this first strange convulsion of
nature known to New-England chronicles, is almost lost in the
mazy histoty of two hundred and forty years. Still, in a few
legends preserved in the white man’s books, and more vividly
in the unwritten stories still rife among the remnant of
Eastern tribes, it yet lives—descending by the mouths of old
men, who relate it in the language of their fathers—how the
big waters upswelled, and then subsided into dead calmness ;
how the voice of Manitou was heard in the heavens, and from
the wood-depths and caverns the wild breath of Hobbomocko
replied to him; how the red-man’s corn was uptorn, and their
dwellings made Jike canoes to swim upon the swollen waters;
how hundreds and thousands of trees were uprooted—tall oaks
and walnuts blown from their places, and wound up like
withes by the hurricane; and how, at last, the moon shrouded
her face in the great darkness which followed, and medicine-
men shuddered, and soothsayers prophesied the doom of the
Indian. The tradition yet lives of all this, though the
historian scarce notices date or event.

Mattakan, as his stately form towered loftily amid the nine
Pequod war-brethren, and his straining eyes watched the
breaking of night’s shadows around, could behold a heavy
black cloud hanging like a pall over the broad mouth of Con-
necticut river—making darkness from the heavens to the
ocean; and he knew that within the bosom of this cloud lay
the brigantine of the pale-faces. Descending to the river-
bank, followed by his Pequod braves, he pointed toward the
spot, and then silently took his station in the prow of a canoe,
which, though apparently so slight that a child’s finger might
rock it, was yet of capacity sufficient to accommodate the ten
Indians. Quickly a dozen paddles dashed aside the waters,
though their plash was almost noiseless, and the dark birchen
vessel shot out upon the wide river, unnoticeable in the thick
gloom. ;

Afar at the east stretched a sickly yellow line, marking the
struggling break of day; but in the west, the ominous cloud
mingled with a dense fog that arose from the river. Silently,
and shrouded in the mist, crept the Pequod’s canoe toward

 

  

 
   

 

 

UNINVITED GUESTS AT A REVEL. 85

the hidden shallop of the stranger; while still the solemn and
deathlike apathy brooded over the life of all things else, and
the terrible immobility of nature was unbroken by breath or
agitation.

Meanwhile, Captain Pierre and his reveling companions
continued unwearied their night’s orgies. The Creole held
aloft his foaming goblet, and trolled a reckless distich, while
anon the laugh of his crew echoed the drunken strain. The
watchmen on the brigantine’s deck drew near to the round-
house, joining in the mirth of their comrades, or exchanging
with them some covert jest. But Captain Pierre, as he thus
made merry on these strange waters, did not remember the
crimes that gathered darkly behind him during the five moons
since he had arrived in the French ship, off the headlands of
Wollocar—did not recall his cruel desertion of the emigrants,
his cold-blooded murder of the Indian wife, his attempted
assassination of Robin Ball, and the kidnapping of Tisquon-
tam and the red children. Yet, though all these wicked deeds
had been committed within the space of a single summer, and
near the spot where his bark now rode at anchor, Captain
Pierre little dreamed that ‘his presence had been traced with
the unerring cunning of a savage, or that his revels that night
were watched by Mattakan, avenger of the murdered Outesie.
So he drank and reveled with his rover-crew.

What plash was that beside the anchored shallop? What
shadows were those which stole silently up the cables, and
crouched in the shadow of the galley? The dead quiet
remained unbroken by the watchman’s alarm—naught had
been seen by his drunken eyes.

What glimmer, as of angry eyes, was that which suddenly
intercepted the lantern-rays? The watch beheld it not, yet it
marked the stealthy progress of Mattakan and his braves, as,
slowly and silently, they crept toward the round-house, and
drew near to the careless sentinels.

A wild yell rung upon the sluggish air, and then a shout,
like the war-cry of demons; then followed a struggle, a groan,
and the watchmen were hurled backward upon the shallop’s
deck, their foreheads red with the mark of tomahawks.

The revelers in the round-house sprung appalled to their
feet. They beheld, crouching at the door, a half-dozen red

  
   
    
  
   
   
 
  
   
 
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
   

86 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.
men, and heard the Pequod war-whoop pealing through the
brigantine. And, foremost of the yelling savages, his wild
eyes seeking but one object, Captain Pierre beheld Mattakan.
The Creole instantly recognized the stately warrior whom he
had once seen upon the shores of Massachusetts bay; and at
the same instant the chieftain’s eyes encountered the slayer of
his loved Outesie. He had tracked the murderer to his lair,
and the oath sworn at the grave of his wife would now be ful-
filled. Many moons had Mattakan waited for this hour; it
had come at last!

Captain Pierre’s quick glance ranged over the dark faces
clustering around the Pequod chieftain, and then fell upon his
own few men. The savages outnumbered the pale-faced crew,
but what recked the buccaneer of that? He knew that his
own stalwart arm and iron blade could sweep a red-man to the
deck with a single blow, and his firearms were” all within
reach. Yet, he paused a moment, dropping the point of his
raised sword, and waving his hand, as if to invoke parley—

“Brothers !” he then said, in a low voice.

But Mattakan’s brow grew dark as midnight.

“ Outesie !” he cried in answer, and, springing back from the
round-house door, seized a pine-knot from one of his savage com-
panions, and then, plucking a hatchet from his wampum-belt,
broke the glass that protected the binnacle-lamp, while a yell
of the Pequods, and a sudden rush of all toward the round-
house, cast the white men at once upon their defense.

But Captain Pierre, as he beat back the first Indian who
advanced, kept his eyes fixed upon the motions of Mattakan,
and beheld the chief ignite the resinous wood which he held,
and then, as its blaze streamed wildly out, cast it among the
cordage and sails that flapped heavily against the masts of the
brigantine. In an instant a besom of flame swept the rigging
and overspread the deck as with a woof of fire, while beneath,
the red and white combatants confronted each other, their
wild countenances illumined by the light that streamed far
across the gloomy waters. With foot advanced, and hatchet
brandished above his head, pressed Mattakan in their midst,
and opposing him, with bronzed brow shining in the red
gleam, stood his enemy, the Creole. It was but for one
mament, however, that the antagonists thus remained; the

   
THE EARTHQUAKE, 87

next, ullering a fierce yell, the Pequods mingled with their
foes.

Captain Pierre cast his back against the solid lockers of the
round-house, and with a sweep of his heavy sword struck the
foremost Indian bleeding to the deck. Then, white and red
met, and presently interlocked in furious struggles for mastery.
Mattakan, the Sanop of the Dead, sprung before his brethren,
and hurled his tomahawk at the captain’s forehead. It struck
the iron blade of the Creole’s sword, and fell harmless to the
deck. Instantly the Pequod had grappled his foe.

But what meaneth that dismal shiver of the waters around
the brigantine? Whence that moaning rush of wind through
the forests that skirt the river’s mouth? ‘Truly doth the
black cloud that filled the heavens now sink suddenly down,
swallowing the yellow line of morning.

The earthquake ! the hurricane !

It rushed suddenly from the forest-caves—ilt swept up from
the river’s mouth—it fell darkly from the heavens—at once,
and terribly.

The waves uprose like a boiling caldron—the water rocked
to and fro, and the slight vessel was lifted in the air. Her
masts groaned and snapped; the burning sails streamed afar
like banners of fire. Then came a shock, a heaving swell, a
horrible crash around the entire horizon; then a hundred
lightnings leaped from the sable cloud, while the roaring of
multitudinous thunders seemed blent in the one fierce throb
of earth, sea, and sky.

The hatchets of the Indians feil upon the bloody deck, and
their fingers loosed the gripe of quivering scalps. The white
men likewise paused, affrighted at the new and supernatural
peril which threatened them.

In a moment the stroke of the hurricane fell, and the
brigantine rolled over in the trough of the sea. The swelling
waters mounted in an immense wave, and swept her decks of
red-men and pale-faces; the hurricane clove her like the
sudden sweep of a sword, and, ere a cry of horror could be
raised, the grappling combatants were hurled into the black
waters,

 
“THE FRENCH CAPTIVES,

CPAP TE Ray
THE FRENCH PASSENGER AND HIS HISTORY.

To be awakened from a comfortable slumber by the mis-
directed stroke of a dagger aimed at his heart; to be com-
pelled to fight for life against four stalwart pirates; to plunge
headlong into the ocean, grasping the throat of an assassin—
are experiences well calculated to dampen the energy of any
man; therefore the French passenger of the brigantine, when
he rose from under the water where he had sunk with Lopez
the Spaniard, was, as may be imagined, in no comfortable
frame of mind. Nevertheless, it behoved him to strike out
for immediate safety, though the night was dark as Erebus.
Neither the brigantine could be seen nor the pirate whom he
had grappled with, and the braye man swam lustily for a few
moments; then, becoming somewhat freed from his bewilder-
ment, floated for a few moments upon his back, reflecting on
his novel situation.

The Frenchman was not unused to adventure, nor, as he
had assured Captain Pierre, unacquainted with hardships ; yet
the predicament in which he now discovered himself decidedly
transcended in interest all his previous experiences, But, at
the moment he was debating the chances of his surviving long
enough afloat to become a living meal for the sharks that
infested those latitudes, the sudden contact of his limbs with a
floating object startled his thoughts. Striking out his hands,
he immediately felt a fragment of wood, which he at once
concluded was a piece of the taffrail that, in breaking, had
precipitated himself and the Spaniard into the ocean. Scarcely
had he grappled with what promised to assist him to sustain
himself, when he heard a feeble voice near him cry :

“St. Dominic preserve me! it is he !”

“Fah!” cried the Frenchman, “is this my caitiff antago-
nist? Truly, we are both at even chances for life! Ho,
friend ! art not drowned yet ?”

 

 
   

   

 

AT SEA ON A PLANK. 89

“Mercy !” gasped the trembling voice of Lopez, sounding
through the darkness in the ear of his intended victim; for,
so dense was the black fog which enveloped the sea, that the
two men, though clinging to extremities of the same fragment
of taffrail,; were yet unable to discern one another. “We
must die—we must drown!” -

“Speak for yourself, my good fellow,” returned the French-
man. “For my part, I intend to live as long asI can, and so
I shall stick to this bit of wood, advising you to do the same.”

“Do you forgive me?” gasped the wretched Spaniard.
“Are you not about to cast me off from this frail support ?”

“T have as much Adie do, good fellow, to keep my own
grasp, without troubling myself about casting off a fellow-
creature. There is support for both, as it chances, so I counsel
you to hold on fast.”

“ St. Dominic reward you !” murmured the Spaniard. “But
—alas! I see no way of escape !”

“Truly, one must have better eyes than mine to sce at all,”
said the other man. ‘“ Nevertheless, morning can not be far
away, and meantime we are in no great peril, the sea being
so calm. Therefore say your prayers, good fellow, and ask
St. Dominic to forgive you for the grieyous crime that you
would have perpetrated.”

Lopez groaned, and presently began to implore the mercy
of all: the saints in his calendar, at the same time venting not
a few maledictions upon Captain Pierre, whom he charged
With all the responsibility of his own sins. But the French-
man gave little heed to the wretch’s abjurations, being him-
self intently watching for the streaks of day, which at length
began to dissipate the mist that shrouded the ocean. At first,

-indeed, he could distinguish nothing save the sea; but as the
dull, gray light broadened by degrees above the gazer’s vision,
he could discern the outlines of a shore at the leeward, to
which apparently the taffrail was drifting. At the same time
the Frenchman’s regards fell upon the face of Lopez the
Spaniard, now revealed in the dim atmosphere, as he clung at
the other end of the fragment of wood. It was ghastly and
fear-stricken, and the fixed eyes almost glared in returning the
look they met.

“Well, comrade! what think you now of our chances?
  

90 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

cried the Frenchman, in a cheery tone, willing, if possible, to
raise the spirits of his wretched fellow-sufferer. “ Mark you
yon land, to which we drift fast? God’s mercy has preserved
us both, and it is mect that we should be grateful !”

“Mercy !” muttered Lopez, in a despairing voice. “ God’s
mercy is not for the Jonah. But you, Monsieur, whom I
would fain have slain—do you pardon me in truth ?”’

“As freely as I trust in pardon myself for manifold trans-
gressions,” answered the Frenchman. ‘“ But now, lest the
sea may speedily ebb from the land, and thus bear us away,
I pray you strike out lustily, and let us swim together, push-
ing this taffrail withal. Thus shall¥e reach the shore and
be safe.” ‘

“Heaven help me! J fear I shall ne’er put foot on shore
again,” groaned the Spaniard. ‘Neither can I strike out nor
swim, for strength nor skill have I in the water. St. Dom-
inic be my witness, I can but hold fast to the wood.”

“Hold fast, then, in God’s name!” answered the French-
man. “I will strive if mine own limbs can force forward
both you and the taffrail.”

So saying, the bold swimmer forced the taffrail forward
toward the shore. Lopez hung a dead weight upon it. Thus,
by dint of the Frenchman’s exertions assisting the drift, they
approached the land, which appeared to be a small island,
until the white sands of the shore could be plainly discerned
gleaming through the transparent waves. Already the swim-
mer had slackened his efforts, sure that the goal would be
easily attained ; already Lopez began to hope, when suddenly,
immediately from the bright sands beneath, arose the form of
an enormous ground-shark. Turning, as it ascended, it pre-
sented to view its white belly, which flashed like silver in the
clear waters. ;

The ground-shark, infesting the tropical seas, is the deadliest
of its kind, being poisonous as well as ferocious, and, unlike
the more timid follower of ships, can not be frightened away
by blows or splashing of the waves. As this dreadful fish
became visible, the Frenchman, as he swam, cried loudly to
his companion :

“A shark—have a care! Leave the wood and make for
the shore |”

  
  
   
    
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
    
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
   

 
 

A SHORE AND A SHARK. 91

Then, with a generous thoyght to save the Spaniard, he
turned the taffrail about, so that Lopez was near the sands
and might easily scramble into shoal-water. But Heaven
had ordained that the wretch should perish, as he expected,
before reaching the land; for he persisted in clinging to the
wood, as it were, fearing to making an effort to gain the shal-
low water, which seeing, and being anxious to save his own
life, the Frenchman no longer held to the boards, but struck
off, and presently reached the shore. Then, casting his eyes
about, he beheld the spectacle he feared to encounter—an
agonized face appearing a moment beside the taffrail, then
another wild leap upward of the Spaniard’s mangled body, as
the teeth of the shark cut him in twain, his life-blood gushing
out on the waters, which it discolored even to the pebbly
beach. This was the end of Lopez the Spaniard, who had
been spared from the ocean only to meet a doom more fear-
ful, in punishment of his wicked life. The Frenchman felt
unbounded gratitude to the gracious Providence which had
preserved him from the fate of his companion.

“See, now,” he murmured, “ how inscrutable are the mer-
cies of Almighty Wisdom! Had not yon taffrail become
broken off, in my struggle’ on board the brigantine, we had
not fallen into the deep, it is true, but I should assuredly have
been slain by those desperadoes who sought my life. Then,
had not the wretch grasped the wood, and thus floated it,
unknowingly, near where I swam, peradventure I had soon
become exhausted, and sunk in the sea! And now, at the
last, Iam saved by the sacrifice of this unhappy man; for it
is plain that the fish would have made a meal of me, had not
the other been there! Truly, wondrous are thy ways, oh
Lord !” :

Thus the Frenchman communed, as he walked along the
beach from which the tide was now ebbing, as he had
expected, leaving bare the white sands where so lately had
lain in ambush the deadly ground-shark. But what was his
surprise and joy to discover, just as the morning sun had
partly broken over the ocean, irradiating every object, that a
large ship was in sight, apparently standing in full sail toward
the island.

This joyful sight renewed the prayers and thanksgivings of

 
 

  

92 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

the Frenchman, who impatiently ran back and forth upon the
shore, displaying a flag which he made with his torn doublet
and shirt, and shouting at the top of his lungs so soon as he
deemed the vessel to be within hailing distance. Presently he
became aware that his presence upon the island had been dis-
covered, for soon a boat was seen to leave the ship and shape
its course for the beach. In a little time, much to his satis-
faction, the Frenchman trod the decks of a first-class galleon
of England, bound homeward from the New World with a
cargo of fish and beaver-skins, in all near ten thousand pounds,
and of great value. To the master of this galleon the French-
man made known his wonderful adventure and deliverance.
From the English mariner he received all friendly consolation
and assurance of future safety, and presently stipulated with
the worthy captain to carry him as passenger to a port in
Britain. The Frenchman was far from being destitute of
means wherewith to bargain for his voyage to England; for,
closely sewn in the girdle beneath his doublet, were store of
diamonds and other precious stones, worth even more than
the strong box which he had left on board the brigantine.
These valuables, however, the Frenchman still concealed, only
bargaining with the English master to reward him for his
kindness when the ship should arrive at her destined port.

At this port, in time, the galleon arrived. And when the
adventurer had once more set foot on land, and generously
remunerated the master for all the ,attentions shown him on
the passage, he went about among the smaller shipping, to
engage some craft wherein he might immediately set out for
his native France.

“For since I have been preserved through many years of
hardship, and escaped divers perils, so that I now return with
store of this world’s goods, obtained by lawful toil and profit,
it now appeareth to me that Heaven, in its goodness, hath
determined on my future happiness, and union with my dear-
est family ! I will hasten, therefore, to lovely France, trusting
still in the good God who has ever been my support.”

Thus the pious Frenchman talked to himself, as he sought
among the mariners for one that could convey him to France.
What was his surprise, as he stood upon one of the quays, to
be greeted in his native language by a dark-looking man, clad

 

  

 
 

 

A GENEROUS ACT REWARDED. 93

in sailor’s garb, who came toward him with an air at once
dignified and deferential, and, removing his coarse hat, dis-
closed a face which he fancied familiar, yet could not imme-
diately recall to memory.

“The white chief does not remember the poor Indian. But
the Indian never forgets his friend !”

These words at once brought to the Frenchman’s recollec-
tion the scene upon the shore at the Havana, when he had
purchased g red-man from the brutal Captain Pierre, and
given him to the protection of an English merchant-captain.

“Ah! I now remember yuu well! and your worthy master
—where is he ?”

“Tisquontam has no master. The white chief is his
friend,” returned the red-man, proudly, as, turning, he made
way for the merchant-skipper of the Hayana, who now
approached and grasped the Frenchman’s hand,

In a few moments the latter related to the Englishman all
that he had endured since parting from him in the New
World, and in return was informed that the Indian Tisquon-
tam had proved himself a very valuable acquisition to the
ship’s company, and won the good wishes of all the crew,
He was not considered as a seryant or slave, the customs of
England repudiating the latter condition, at least at home,
and the native dignity of the red-man making it impossible
for a noble mind to treat him otherwise than with respect.
Tisquontam, indeed, bore himself with much freedom and dis-
cretion, and endeavored in every manner to testify his gratitude
te the Frenchman who had befriended him.

“The white chief” he said, alluding to the merclant-
captain, “will soon take Tisquontam back to his hunting-
grounds, to the lodge where his daughter mourns her lost
father. There Tisquontam will remember his French brother,
and Monoma shall pray for the chief who rescued her father
from the man-stealer.”

“Tam glad that my red brother remembers his friend,”
answered the Frenchman. ‘ Let him wear this to his lodge,
and present it to his young squaw.”

Saying this, he took a ring of plain gold from his finger,
and placed it in the red-man’s hand.

Tisquontam’s noble features were agitated with emotion.

 
  

RT

94 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

He seized the hand of his friend and raised it to his lips,
Then, as if suddenly recollecting himself, he thrust his hand
into his bosom and drew forth a small golden cross. It was
the token which Marie de Luzerne had given him to bear to
her brother on the morning of that unhappy day hierar he
had been kidnapped by the ruffian Creole.

“ Here,” cried the Indian, “Tisquontam has naught but
this. He will tell the white bird that he gave it to a chief of
her nation, his friend and brother, and she will—”

The red-man paused in sudden alarm as his glance rested
upon the fuce of the Frenchman, who had seized the cross
and was holding it extended at arm’s length, his eyes fixed
upon the cipher which, as we have before noticed, was
engraven ujjon the small relic that Marie had inherited from
her departed mother. His cheek grew flushed and pale by
turns, his bosom heaved, and all his limbs were agitated as
with violent emotion. Clasping his hands wildly together, he
exclaimed :

‘Tis hers—'tis hers !”

“The white-bird—Marie !” cried the Indian, as if intuitively
following the other’s thoughts.

“Ay! Marie—Marie! Whence came this cross? ‘Long
years ago I gave it to my lost wife. How is it I find it in
the hands of an Indian? Speak, Tisquontam! who and
what are you? How came you by this relic?”

Then gravely, but with minute accuracy, the Indian related
all the circumstances connected with his possession of the
cross—the fearful wreck of the emigrant-ship—the massacre
and captivity of its survivors—his rescue of Marie de Luzerne,
and the subsequent adventure through which he had been
deprived of his own liberty. The Frenchman listened, trans-
fixed with astonishment, till Tisquontam concluded the recital.
Then, falling on his knees, and raising his hands, which still
clasped the golden cross, he acknowledged anew the wonderful
power and benevolence of the Almighty Ruler of human
events.

“O Father of Mercies!” he cried, “I thank Thee for this
new work of Thy watchful providence—Thy protecting wis-
dom! Behold, through this savage, whom I but kindly
treated in a small thing, Thou hast chosen to manifest Thy

 
  
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
   
   
  
 
 
   
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
   

 

 
   

 

 

   

SIEUR DE LA LUZERNE. 95

love, and to reveal to me the fate of those dearer to me than
life! O Holy One, I thank Thee for all Thy wonderful
kindness, and may all my future life be witness to Thy
praises !”

It was indeed the Sieur de la Luzerne, the long-absent
father of Louis and Marie, who had returned to the Old
World enriched, it is true, by toil and adventure during his
exile, but yet weighed down with solicitude concerning the
fate of his family, from whom he had been parted for so many
years. His sentence of banishment, after haying doomed him
to an unjust expatriation from France, during the prime of
his life, had at last been reversed by the successor of the mon-
arch whose misjudging severity had inflicted it, and the Sieur
Luzerne hastened at once his return to his native land, to seek
out, if they were still living, the objects of his affection, But,
alas! ill-fated would have been his quest, disappointed his
hopes, had not the chance-meeting with Tisquontam, at the
Havana and in England, revealed to him what no other than
the Indian could have told—the fate and abiding-place
of his orphaned children. Reason, indeed, had the exile to
be thankful for Heaven’s kindness, and cause enough to

. admire that wonder-working Providence which had permitted
the Iroquois to be torn from his daughter and his home, in
order that through his instrumentality another sundered family
might be reunited. Tisquontam and the English captain, as
well as Luzerne, joined in acknowledgment of the Divine
Power, and together, with solemn steps, they wended their
way to the British galleon which was soon to sail again for
the Colonies, and in which the French exile resolved at once
to return in search of his beloved children.

It was not long before, with the Iroquois at his side, the
Sieur de la Luzerne stood upon the decks of the English ship,
and bade adieu to the white shores of Albion’s sea-girt isle, ag

the vessel clove her way once more across the wide Atlantic.
 

  

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES,

OC HOACE TH Re Be VoL,
CAPTAIN PIERRE AND THE AVENGER.

In the darkness that succeeded the stroke of the hurricane,
two stalwart forms arose in the boiling surf, and, unseen by
each other, breasted the billows, as they struck vigorously for
the shore. These were Mattakan, the Pequod, and the Creole,
Captain Pierre. They did not see one another, for the
immense cloud, which followed the hurricane’s, devastating
track, bowed down over the waters and land in an impervious
bank of mist.

Though appalled at the terrible manifestation of nature's
power that had interrupted his work of vengeance, Mattakan
plied his strong limbs in the effort to keep afloat, though his
eyes: were blinded by the spray, and his ears stunned by the
roar around him, mingled with terrific noises from the land to
which he sought to swim—the crack of whole forests snapping
like reeds before the ponderous force of the typhoon.

He reached, at length, a point of elevated earth, that once
had marked the extremity of the rivers banks; but in vain
did the chief now search for a landing-place. Water was all
around and before him—water, black and gloomy as the grave,
stretched far on either side. Mattakan then knew that the
river had overflown its boundaries, inundating the forests and
fields. The quick instinct of his savage nature taught him the
course of safety. He struck boldly forward for the hills which
he knew could not be very far away. After a fearful struggle
for life, his eyes were gladdened with the sight of land, and he
was soon under the shelter of a friendly shore. What a
scene of devastation met his view! Everywhere a wide waste
of waters—trees uptorn, deep channels cut in the land by the
earthquake’s mighty shock! Far away on the bosom of the
wild waters rode the shallop—a mere wreck of its former
beauty, and her decks silent as the stars in midnight. The

 

 
 

 
   

 

   

THE ROVER AND HIS ENEMY. 97

Indian sat down to contemplate the fearful change which had
so suddenly taken place, and mourned inwardly that his com-
panions should all have been lost ere their vengeance was
consummated by the tomahawk and scalping-knife.

Mattakan sought a brief rest in repose, for his powerful
frame was well nigh prostrate from his great exertion. He
slept peacefully for an hour. When he awoke it was still
dark, but to his surprise he found that the ship had been
driven into shore by the return tide, and was now lying
stranded at the river's edge.

The Pequod’s keen glance explored in an instant every
thing within its range, and noticed, what a white man might
have passed unkeeded, that there were signs of life about the
vessel. Hastily plunging beneath the water’s surface, he swam
silently past the dismantled shallop, and, gaining a clump of
trees which commanded a view of her decks, concealed him-
self among the leaves, patiently awaiting the setting in of night.

The shades deepened. Sky, forest and water darkened into
indistinctness, but the Pequod’s watchful eye was fixed upon
the brigantine, till at length it marked a filmy smoke mingling
with the gloom above her decks, and then a sudden light
gleaming through the window of the round-house. No human
form appeared, yet Mattakan knew that some living being was
there. Cautiously leaving his hiding-place, he swam to the
bluff, and noiselessly climbed his way to the vessel’s deck.
All was still as the grave, but the rays of light glimmering
from the round-house, guided the Indian’s progress, as with
wild-cat stealthiness he crawled along the slippery planks, and
at length reached the galley, close beside the half-open door
of the cabin, where, shrouded in darkness, he crouched low,
and peered forward. What did Mattakan behold ?

The murderer of his wife was there—the Creole, Captain
Pierre; and he slept.

The rover and his enemy, the Pequod, were the sole sur-
vivors of that terrible tempest. Their companions, white and
red, had perished in the swollen waters, and only the two foes
now met once more upon the decks of that fated bark.

Still the rover slept. An iron lamp burned on the table
before him, and near it the Creole leaned, resting upon his
folded arms, overpowered by the fatigues and perils of the
day. His pistols, primed and loaded, lay beside the lamp,
 

   

98 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

Mattakan cautiously drew nearer to the doer of the round-
house, and at last entered. Still the Creole remained motion-
less, and the Pequod crept on until he reached the table, and,
stretching out his hand, seized the firearms of his white
enemy.

Now, indeed, was the slayer of his wife within the red-man’s
power. The murderer of Outesie was defenseless before him.
He remembered his wife and child, and their grave beneath
the oak tree, on the borders of his native waters, and, raising
the deadly weapon which he had grasped in his right hand,
he pointed it at the white man’s heart. But Mattakan could
not slay a sleeping foe.

He struck the table with the iron muzzle of the pistol, and
pealed at the same instant the war-whoop of his race. Ter-
ribly rung that yell upon the still night-air, and was answered
by the alarmed voice of Captain Pierre, startled from his
slumber. The rover sprung to his feet, and beheld his pistols
in the hands of a red-man. He saw before him the Sanop of
the Dead, and heard one word uttered by the Indian’s lips:

“ Outesie !”

The rover’s cheek grew pale as he rolled his blood-shot
eyes around the cabin, in the vain hope of escape. Still his
craft did not forsake him. He knew something of the Indian
language, ag well as character, and at once essayed to parley.

“Tg my red brother a warrior?” demanded he, in the dia-
lect used by the northern tribes.

“ Outesie!” was the sullen response of the chief

“Tam not armed,” continued Captain Pierre. “ Will the
brave slay a chained buffalo ?”

“Mattakan will not slay his chained enemy.”

“Then Jet us fight with knives,” said the Creole.

“The pale-face shall have a knife! Let him be armed.”

“Be it so; we will then be even,” said the rover. And,
stepping back as he spoke, while the crafty Pequod still
held the pistol leveled at his enemy’s heart, he threw open
a small closet at the side of the round-house, = Within this
closet, or locker, were divers arms ranged upon a shelf,and on
the floor beneath, an iron-bound keg, the lid of which had
fallen off, and disclosed its contents. Mattakan shuddered as
he recognized in the open keg *the white man’s thunder-seed

  

 
 

   

 

-

THE PEQUOD’S REVENGE. 99

—the terrible gunpowder of the pale-faces. But his inflexible
Indian visage exhibited no trace of what he observed. His
eye calmly surveyed the Creole, who had grasped a brace of
hunting-knives.

“Now I will fight the red chief!” cried Captain Pierre, as
he extended one of the bright blades to Mattakan, who received
it but with one response—‘ Outesie,” and then flung the pistols
which he held upon the deck behind him.

“Ha! ha!’ laughed Captain Pierre, who had rightly
reckoned on this magnanimous action of the red warrior; and
then, quick as thought, he grasped a carbine which stood
loaded within reach of his hand, and, springing back, leveled
it at the Pequod’s breast.

_ The white man’s treachery had outwitted the simple Indian,
and the Oreole’s mirth rung out in anticipated triumph, But
Mattakan was cunning, and desperate as his foe.

For, scarcely had the royver’s laughter marked his sudden
possession of the carbine, than the Pequod’s hand was thrust
forward, and grasped the iron lamp which burned upon the
table. Captain Pierre divined his purpose, and snapped the
trigger of the deadly weapon which he held, but it was too
late. The red-man had hurled the burning lamp into the
powder which had caught his quick eye.

A. bright flash followed, a crash, and the rocking swell of
crushed timbers. And then, fast and thick, upon the startled
waters, the hill beyond, and the half-sunken trees, fell down
the fragments of destruction. Fragments of the doomed
brigantine rose into the gloomy air—then pattered on the
river’s face in terrible hail. And when the bright sun arose
on the ensuing morn, gilding the turbid Connecticut, there
floated from the silent river the mangled remains of two men,
blackened, mutilated, and scorched by fire, yet in death they
seemed to clutch each other, and interlock their limbs. They
were Mattakan, the Sanop of the Dead, and his enemy, Cap:
tain Pierre.

The Pequod had avenged his Outesie.
 

  

THE FRENCH CAPTIVES

Oa) AcP TRO XNVedels
FATHER AND CHILD.

Wurn Monoma returned to her islet-lodge, accompanied
by Robin Ball and Gabriel St. Elmo, Marie was sleeping upon
her sylvan couch. Monoma would have approached her
quietly, but St. Elmo’s impatience could not be restrained.
He rushed to the side of the slumbering girl, and, sinking on
his knees, murmured her name. Marie started. :

“ §t, Elmo !” she criec, and then, with a low cry, sunk back
upon the couch.

“Oh, Father in Heaven! I have killed her!” cried the
youth wildly, clasping the maiden’s hands, But Monoma,
with her gentle ministrations, was instantly at hand, and,
under her care, Marie soon awoke again to animation. Never-
theless it was apparent that, in her weak condition, all undue
excitement was fraught with danger, and St. Elmo was accord-
ingly banished immediately to the outer lodge which had been
once used by Tisquontam. Here he bore patiently the
reproaches of Robin Ball for his ill-advised conduct in so
rashly approaching the young inyalid.

“ An’ it were Bob Ball,” cried the bluff sailor, “no better
sense could be expected. But for you, monsieur, to my. mind
it was a shame to frighten the poor young body so woundily.”

“T know I am an ass—a.brute—and worse than the
heathen savages themselyes,” returned St. Elmo, with per-
plexed contrition. “But, Robin Ball, when I looked upon
that sweet maiden slumbering so quietly, I lost all thought
save the desire to hear her voice in greeting of my poor
name.”

“And so you would fain frighten her into dumbness for-
ever,” quoth Rob Ball. ‘ Beshrew me, but such things have
been where the Christian’s voice has been lost, only by reason
of great alarm like that.”

 

  

 
 

 

   

ROBIN BALL GROWS ELOQUENT. 101

“Oh that I had heeded the counsel of the Indian girl !”
cried St. Elmo, bitterly bemoaning his rashness. “She bade
me take caution when I approached.”

Sas me what a princess is that!” exclaimed the ‘Eng-
lishman; “a gentle and comely maiden, with a step like a
fawn, and movements as graceful as a dolphin. Ob, that a
heathen land should boast such a miracle of maiden beauty !”

“To!” cried St Elmo, smiling in spite of his previous
alarm, at the sudden enthusiasm manifested by his comrade.
“By St. Denis, you talk like an enamored swain, instead of

’ Robin Ball.”

“And if I be enamored of so dainty a damsel as yon red-
skinned maid,” answered the sailor, nothing daunted, ‘’twould
not be the first of my land who wedded with a dusky princess.
By my troth, but this huntress, or witch, or whate’er she be,
is quite as comely as the queen Pocahontas, whom Master
Rolfe brought to England with him, ere I set sail on my last
voyage.”

“She who saved the life of your countryman, Captain
Smith,” remarked St. Elmo.

“The same—a notable princess and daughter of a great
king in the Virginia country,” responded Robin Ball. “But,
by my troth, monsieur, this witch o’ th’ woods would shame
the Princess Pocahontas herself.”

“She hath plainly bewitched thee, poor Robin,” cried St.
Elmo, as he rose quickly to greet the Indian girl, who now
stepped lightly from the lodge. The sailor, on his part,
became silent at once, contenting himself with following with
his glances every motion of the graceful maiden.

Monoma soothed her protége to sleep once more, and com-
manded St. Elmo, with a sweet decision, that he should
attempt no more rash surprises,

“Tet the white braves now sleep!” said she, pointing to a
pile of soft skins which Jay in a corner of the outer wigwam.
“Mo-morrow the white bird will sing in the ears of her friend.”

And then, with a glance at'St. Elmo, which told the youth
that the shrewd maiden already guessed the secret of his love,
Monoma bade the white man good-night. But long after she
had departed, to watch beside Mary, Robin Ball, who imme-

diately regained his yolubility, kept himself and companion

  
   

  

102 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

awake by converse concerning infidel princesses and Indian
queens won by the valor of British adventurers, and leaving
their heathen homes to dwell in the far-off “ merrie England”
of their bold lovers.

On the following day Marie recovered from her agitation,
rejoiced to meet the young companion of her ill-fated voyage,
conversed long with St. Elmo, and listened with interest to
the quaint sayings of Robin Ball. Very soon the two stran-
gers became informed of all the gencrous treatment which the
French girl had experienced at the hands of Tisquontam and
his noble daughter, and how the Indian chief had disappeared
so suddenly, made prisoner, as was supposed, by white men ;
at which last piece of information Rob Ball broke out into a
malediction against Captain Pierre Dacot.

“Tt was that villain who did the deed!” cried the English-
man. “Oh that I had his skull here to crack like a cocoa-
nut with a good quarter-staff_! Pray heaven we meet some
time.”

Robin Ball knew not that the Creole’s brigantine was, at
this very time, nearing the coasts of America, and that a foe-
man keener for revenge than himself was waiting in prophetic
anticipation of meeting the Creole murderer.

Several days passed, and Marie, whose health was nearly
restored, and her spirits manifestly improved by intercourse
with the admiring "St. Elmo, who made no secret of his love
for her, was able to wander forth, well clad with Monoma’s
beaver-mantle, for the air began now to grow chilly in the
mornings and evenings, though the midday glowed with all
the intensity of Indian summer's heat. But as the French
girl’s frame regained its buoyancy, her mind dwelt constantly
upon her brother, who, she knew, was but a half-day’s
journey from the islet, but whose condition, whether happy
or miserable, in health or sickness, was quite unknown to her.
To behold her beloved Louis and the Abbe once more was
now the constant desire of her heart, and Monoma’ at length
proposed to set out for the Narragansett town, and, if possible,
arrange a rendezvous where the captive brother might meet
his sister, mourned as dead, but in reality so near to him.
Robin Ball, who, clad in skins, and decorated with wampum,
the gift of Monoma, presented quite an aboriginal appearance,

  

 

 
 

 

REUNITED. : . 103

was to accompany the Indian girl as far as the borders of
Massasoit’s village, while St. Elmo would remain near the one
to whom his every prayer was devoted. But scarcely had
this arrangement been made when a new incident changed
the plans of all.

Monoma had arrayed herself in huntress-garb, and her faith-
ful squire, Rob Ball, was admiringly regarding her; while
Marie, pale but beautjful, stood near them, leaning against St.
Elmo, whose arm supported her fair head. Without the hut,
a blue haze, the smoky vail of the Indian summer atmosphere,
was tinted with sunrise hues, and around the little islet had
fallen piles of brown leaves, the first tribute of autumn to the
winds which were soon to strip her garments away, and leave
her naked, waiting for the wintry grave. As yet, however,
the forests were beautiful, and on this ‘particular morning, the
usual chilliness was not noticeable, but, on the contrary, a
close and sultry atmosphere hung over the land and water,
as if a violent tempest were at-hand. On this day Monoma
and Robin were to set forth for the Narragansett hunting-
grounds.

But, as the small group stood in the wigwam, a step was
suddenly heard without, and a tall figure darkened the
entrance. St. Elmo and the sailor grasped their weapons, but
Monoma uttered a cry of surprise and joy, and the next
moment was clasped to the bosom of her father, Tisquontam.
At the same moment, a tall form, clad in European garb,
appeared upon the threshold.

“Where is she? My child!” exclaimed the voice of the
new-comer, as he gazed wildly around, and then advanced
into the lodge. Tisquontam, supporting the form of his
Monoma, pointed silently toward Marie—but already the French
maiden had been caught to the bosom of her sire.

“Marie! my beloved! image of my angel-wife ! do I again
behold thee? Oh, joy, joy! I thank Thee, Heavenly Father,
for this crowning mercy !”

Marie, bewildered and almost fainting, yet still sensible of
the dear kindred of that voice which called her daughter,
clung around the neck of Sieur Luzerne, while a torrent of
tears blinded her beautiful eyes. St. Elmo and Robin Ball
gazed in wonder at the scene,

 
 

  

104 ; THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

But all was soon explained—all tears dried, and every
throb, save that of happiness, calmed to rest in the loving
breast of the reunited ones. There, amid the quiet of the
little islet, and the shadowy forest, while the morning
sun struggled upward through the mists, each thrilling story
of the past was related; glad voices mingled in the utter-
ance of future hopes, till at length, as morn approached,
Monoma suddenly rose, and cried :

“Let us go to your brother, dear Marie. He must share
our happiness ?”

“The noble boy! to him indeed must we hasten !” cried
the Sieur de Luzerne. ‘“ At once let us set out.”

Tisquontam rose and left the wigwam, but only to repair
to the sea-shore, whence he speedily returned, accompanied
by his British captain, and a well-armed company of mariners.
These were soon marshaled, with St. Elmo and Robin Ball at
their head, and then the whole party set forth from the islet
and took their way toward the Narragansett village.

 

 

 
 

SAMEEDA AND LOUIS, 105

CHAPTER: ZS VILL:
THE BLAZING STAR.

Tue morning which followed the strange nuptials of Louis
and Sameeda on the moonlighted sea-shore, the princess
mingled as usual among the groups of youths and maidens
who joined in spirit and converse before the lodge of Massa-
soit, where gathered the old men and children of the tribe.
But Sameeda gave little thought to light word or gayety.
Her heart was like a rose filled with rain; and often during
the day tears would fill her eyes, as she murmured, half-
unconsciously, her lover’s name. :

Once a dark cloud covered her spirit, for she beheld Sakanto
enter her father’s lodge, and feared lest the watchful eye of the
medicine-man should read her secret. But the Indian’s eyes,
as he passed, were fixed upon the ground, and when he again
came forth, he greeted the princess smilingly, and spoke a
pleasant word, unusual to his silent mood. So Sameeda grew
cheerful again, and turned away, to think of her cherished
Louis.

A hunt had been appointed for the day, and Massasoit,
Sakanto, and the young white brave, were to follow the same
trail. Together they pursued the flying deer, driving their
arrows into his reeking breast—together they chanted the loud
hunting-song that called the squaws of the tribe to bear the
slain quarry to the lodges—and together, when the sports
were over, they returned to the village, and sat down to smoke
the evening calumet.

But when the general feasting was over, and the light of
burning pine-knots began to gleam from one and another of
the huts, Louis directed his steps to the sea-shore to mect his
beloved Sameeda. One day more were they to tarry among
the red-men, and then, through the unknown wilderness, shape
their course for the homes of distant white men. Louis

 
  

106 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

hastened toward the lonely trysting-place, but had advanced
not far ere he met the priest Claude, who grasped his hand,
and whispered hurriedly : .

“Son Louis! I dread there is danger abroad.”

“What fear you, Abbe Claude ?”

“My son! the craft of the savage is beyond our scrutiny
Tell me why yon lodge of Massasoit is illuminated, and why
those grim warriors stand like sentinels around the door ?”

“Tis but a feast, good Father Claude—a banquet of the
royal chiefs, to which we, as captives, can not be bidden.
Sakanto spoke this-day of it to Massasoit as we followed the
hunting-path together.”

“Ah! Sakanto! I fear that dark savage!” said the old
man. ‘He hideth deep cunning in his busy brain. But why,
my son, hath not Sameeda quitted her sire’s lodge to méet us,
as she promised, by the seaside ?” .

“Let us hasten thither, Abbe Claude! Doubtless Sameeda
there awaits our tardy coming. There together, father, we
will inyoke Heaven’s blessing on our purpose, and take coun-
sel, so- that the morrow’s noon shall behold us far on our
southern way, where the settlements of our race can protect
us against all the power of Sakanto or Massasoit.”

“But, my son, hear me! The princess has not yet left the

- king her father’s lodge. I watched it during the twilight, and
beheld her figure pass within—and there, also, Louis, was the
dark medicine-man !”

“T will go thither, then,” cried the young man. “TI will
demand to behold my wife!’ But the’ good Abbe checked
his rash footsteps.

“Stay! it were death for either of us to enter the king’s
lodge unbidden. But look! a warrior leaves the lodge!
He comes toward us!”

As the priest spoke, a plumed chief emerged from the wig-
wam of Massasoit, and advanced toward the spot where the
two pale-faces stood. Passing suddenly before them, he
delivered his message in a measured voice:

“Massasoit bids his white brothers to the banquet !”

Then, wheeling.slowly, he walked away in grave silence.

“We must follow,” cried Louis. “It is but one of their
rude festivals. We have naught to fear, and there shall I
behold Sameeda !”

 

 

  
   
 

 

DARK SAKANTO. 107

“Heaven grant that no evil is in store for us!” answered
the priest, shaking his white locks.

And, treading in the footprints of their plumed conductor,
the two captives entered the presence of the sachem Massa-
soit. The lodge was redly illumined by a score of pine-
torches, which flashed their flaring light upon thé dusky chiefs
assembled around the seat where sat their savage king at the
head of the lodge, glittering in wampum and war-paint.

‘Sakanto stood beside him, and on either side of the wigwam
a line of Narragansett braves smoked their pipes in solemn
gravity. Near her father stood the Princess Sameeda, holding
in her hand a rude drinking-vessel. Her eye brightened as it
marked her lover's entrance, and the goblet trembled in her
grasp. Sakanto and Massasoit exchanged looks, and the
Abbe Claude fancied that some hidden = lurked in
their regards.

“Let the white chiefs sit,’ said the Indian end, and then
dropped his eyes to the ground. Silence then reigned
throughout the lodge, every warrior fixing his keen gaze upon
Sakanto. ;

“Let the white father smoke the pipe of peace!” said the
medicine-man, and gaye his calumet into the hands of Abbe
Claude.

The priest trembled, for he noted an expression in the
cunning Indian’s face that boded some hidden design, and he
saw likewise that no pipe was extended to his young country-
man. At once the thought smote his mind that some treachery
was intended toward Louis, and he turned pale, as he placed
to his lips the pipe of Sakanto. But, aware that all eyes
were upon him, he recovered himself, and, breathing an
inward prayer, looked calmly around upon the dusky groups
that lined the wigwam.

Massasoit raised his head, and beckoned his daughter
toward him.

“Tet the heart of Sakanto the wise be made glad!”> said
the sachem. “Let Sakanto drink of the draught which the
child of Massasoit has prepared for her sagamore husband !”

«Sameeda’s cheek flushed, and Louis, as he looked upon her,
fancied that a tear glittered in the eyes of his beloved; never-
theless, the maiden knelt and presented the cup, which she

.

 
   

  

108 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

held to the medicine-man’s lips. Louis clenched his fingers
tightly together, and half muttered an impatient word, as he
beheld this action on the part of his betrothed wife. Sakanto
received the cup, and swallowed a deep draught of the liquor
which it contained. Then, returning the goblet to Sameeda,
he said, gravely:

“Let the daughter of Massasoit bear her father’s cup to the
young white brave. It is Sakanto’s greeting.”

Louis rose to his feet, and Sameeda’s eyes now glistened
with pleasure, for the transfer of drinking-vessels was accounted
a mark of high honor at an Indian feast. She approached
her young husband, and knelt gracefully before him.

“Drink!” she murmured.

“Fold, my son! drink not!’ gasped the old priest, press-
ing the youth’s arm.

_ Sakanto scowled.

“My father, there is naught to fear! He has himself
drank of this cup!” returned Louis, as he lifted the goblet to
his lips.

But Sameeda’s face suddenly changed. its clear expression,
for she had caught a glance at Sakanto’s countenance, and
beheld it lit with a demoniac triumph as he watched his rival.
A. sudden inspiration seemed to flash through the brain of the
princess, and ere a drop of the liquor which half filled the
goblet had reached the lips of Louis, her hand was extended,
and plucked away the cup.

Sakanto sprung to his feet, and all the braves arose, while the
white men gazed with appalled looks on the darkening
countenances around them.

“Sameeda!” cried the sachem Massasoit, in a harsh tone.

The princess made no answer. She half reversed the gob-
let, and permitted its contents to escape slowly. Then, hold-
ing it forth in the glare of the torchlight, the brave girl pointed
to its bottom, where glittered a couple of white bones.

“Does Sakanto give his brother to drink of the adder's
poison?” she said, calmly. ‘Has the white brave a charmed
life, that he shall fear not the serpent’s tooth ?”

And, as the light flashed upon the cup, Abbe Claude and
Louis saw that the white bones at its bottom were the
venomous fangs of a rattlesnake.

>

Se sae

 

————— eo
   
  

|
1
|
i
‘

 

    

THE POISONED GOBLET,

 

109

  

The dark cheek of Massasoit suddenly paled, and his firm
lip quivered like that of a woman. He had arisen from his
throne, and now stood beside Sakanto, who, with a fiendish
smile wreathing his lip, and a fierce glare in his eyes, regarded
the young white captives. The medicine-man was furious at
the failure of his attempt to. poison his rival; for it wag he
who, in the moment of his quaffing the first draught from the
goblet, had conveyed into it the serpent’s teeth.

“Poison!” cried Abbe Claude, and dashed the calumet
which he held upon the ground.

“ Poison !” murmured Louis, his eyes resting upon the
princess. ‘‘ By thee—by thee, Sameeda ?”

A terrible pain darted through the youth’s brain, and his
blood rushed coldly to his heart as he, for an instant, sus-
pected that his wife had been privy to the plot against his
life. Sameeda divined his thought, and an unutterable woe
sent the blood back to her heart in a chilling, sickening flood.
She tottered forward, and, losing memory of all save her
husband, cast her arms about his neck.

“Sameeda is innocent!” she cried; “Sameeda is the wife
of Louis! Sameeda is faithful !”

“T believe thee, my sister—my bride !”

He clasped her to his heart, forgetful of Sakanto or danger.
He gazed into her loving eyes, and, pressing his lips to her
brow, drew her closely to him till their two hearts mingled in
quick pulsations.

“Come with me! Away, my husband! Sameeda will go -
to the white man’s lodges. Come!”

Alas! the senses of the princess wandered, and, breathing a
long, shivering .sigh, she sunk insensible upon her husband’s
breast. Louis knelt on the ground, supporting the form of
his wife, while Abbe Claude cried out to the braves, who,
with Massasoit, were now crowding near:

“Back! ye have murdered her! Back, or Heaven’s ven-
geance will assuredly come upon all this tribe !”

“The watriors paused, for the white sage spoke as if
inspired. But Sakanto laughed, and advanced to meet his
rival. At this moment a great noise, as of bending trees, was
heard without, and a great clap of thunder suddenly rever-
berated through the heavens.

  

  
   

  

110 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

The torches flared brightly upon the scene within the
wigwam. Massasoit leaned upon his war-club, as if feeble,
for the sudden fainting of his child smote the sachem’s heart.
The warriors, grouped around, gazed upon the medicine-man,
who alone seemed unmoved. Abbe Claude kneeled beside
Louis, who was supporting his Indian bride, endeavoring to
recall her to consciousness.

Again the terrific thunder sounded without, accompanied
by quick flashes of lightning, beneath which the torch-glare
paled. Abbe Claude began to pray aloud, uplifting his arms
to Heaven.

The Indians, as they listened to the thunder, and beheld the
vivid lightning, and heard the low voice of Abbe Claude
invoking the Great Spirit’s protection, felt a superstitious awe
steal over their minds—all save Sakanto, who threw back his
plumed head and jJaughed scornfully.

““Why does the white sagamore waste his breath? Sakanto
will not harm the old man, but he will have vengeance upon
the young pale-face who would rob him of Sameeda. Is it
not so, Massasoit ?” he asked, appealing to the king.

Massasoit groaned, and bowed his head.

“Thus will Sakanto punish all his enemies!” cried the
medicine-man, emboldened by the king’s assent.

“The Great Spirit will not permit the wicked to triumph !”
answered the Abbe Claude, using the Indian tongue, while he
rose gravely to his feet. Meantime, the lightning continually
flashed into the lodge, gleaming on. the red-men’s forms, and
lingering like fire on the priest’s white forehead. “ The
Great Spirit will avenge the blood shed by his red children.
He will utterly destroy the tribes, and give their hunting-
grounds to those who live not like wild beasts, and betray not
the innocent.”

Massasoit shuddered at the white fathers words, but
Sakanto laughed, brandishing his war-club,

“The red-men are as the sands of the sea-shore in number !”
cried the arrogant medicine-man ; “the Great Spirit himself
can not destroy us, for we are too many!. Let the white
prophet be silent. He speaks lies!”

“Though ye were countless as the grains of dust upon the
mountains, yet hath the Great Spirit ways to destroy ye all—
ways that ye know not of !”

 

 
a

Ba

es

 

a

AN INTERRUPTION. Lil

“The white liar shall die!” cried Sakanto, furious at the
bold words of the priest.

A succession of loud whoops were now heard without the
wigwam. Immediately a warrior rushed into the circle, with
every mark of astonishment and fear upon his countenance.
Behind him followed Tisquontam, attired in the full costume
of a chieftain, and leading by the hand his daughter Monoma.
At their backs came the Sieur Luzerne, Robin Ball, and the
young merchant-captain, while several stalwart warriors,
heayily armed, appeared at the lodge-door.

Massasoit, as he beheld the strangers, preceded by the well-
known Tisquontam, was struck with the fear that the Iroquois
had become a traitor, and was now bringing the pale-faces to
avenge the fate of the emigrants. The sachem, nevertheless,
hesitated not to make a gallant show of resistance. He sprung
to his feet, and, with a single glance, summoned every red
warrior to his side, and then, fixing his eyes upon Tisquontam,
said calmly:

“Has the Iroquois taken up the hatchet? Is he now upon
the war-path ?”

“We are friends,” returned Tisquontam quickly. “The
pale-faced chiefs come to the lodge of Massasoit to smoke the
pipe of peace.”

“Ugh!” said the Indian, relieved of his apprehension.

But Sakanto’s ominous voice was now heard:

“The pale-faces are liars!” he cried, savagely, and a low
response ran around the groups of savages.

“They are friends to the Narragansetts!” answered Tis-
quontam. “They wish to bury the hatchet. This chief of
many winters has come to the lodge of Massasoit to seek his
lost son, who is a captive, and who now a by the

. daughter of the red chief”

Saying this, ‘Tisquontam pointed to Louis, who, with
Sameeda clinging to his bosom, looked wonderingly around.

The princess had recovered from her swoon, and her gaze
tremblingly followed that of her lover. At this moment a
low cry was heard at the door, and the maiden Marie, who
had been left for better security in charge of St. Elmo, with-
out the entrance of the wigwam, darted past the Troquois, and
sunk upon the breast of Louis, who opened his arms to receive

her.

 
 

  

te. THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

This new interruption caused silence for a moment -in the
lodge, which was broken by Sakanto.

“What does the white squaw among warriors ?” he cried.
“Tg the Narragansett sachem a dog, that his lodge should not
be respected ?”

“Let Sakanto listen and be wise,” answered the Iroquois.
“The white bird hath found her mate. It is the brother of
her heart, and this is the father of the captives, who seeks his
lost children!” And Tisquontam led the Sieur Luzerne
toward Massasoit, whose noble aaa expressed a quick
interest in the event.

But Sakanto, divining in a moment that the generous
nature of the Indian king was moved at the words of Tis-
quontam, now frowned upon the Iroquois, and then address-
ing the warriors, exclaimed, angrily :

“May the curse of Hobbomocko rest upon the Narragan-
sett who heeds the words of an Iroquois! May the curse
devour all who listen to the cunning words of a pale-face!
Sakanto will save himself!”

Uttering these words, the medicine-man sprung forward
from the circle of warriors, and grasping suddenly the hair of
Louis, who, folded in his sister’s embrace, and impeded like-
wise by the clinging arms of Sameeda, could offer no resist-
ance, dragged the young man violently to the ground, and
lifted his hatchet for a deadly stroke. All the demoniac
spirit of the wicked Indian gleamed in his eyes, and assuredly
it seemed that at the very moment when sister and father
were at his side, the youth’s hour had come. Massasoit
grasped his club, and Tisquontam and Sieur Luzerne sought
to rush forward, but the medicine-man triumphantly regarded

~ them, conscious that he could deal his murderous blow ere
their feet might advance a step toward him. But a power
mightier than Sakanto was now abroad, whose fearful pres-
ence was suddenly attested. The first sound of the hurricane
was rising on the shore, sweeping the high plain on which the
Narragansett village was situated; and, even as the medicine-
man poised his hatchet for the blow, the appalling roar of the
storm was heard without. The light roof of Massasoit’s wig-
wam was uplifted by the blast, and its thatched fragments
swept away like the dry leaves of a tree in the autumnal gale.

 

ab

  

 
 

ae is

THE HURRICANE. 3 113

Then, as all eyes turned toward the sky, a terrific chorus of
wild cries was heard from beyond the lodge, mingled with
the howl of the wind, which had swept onward in its destruc:
tive career. ;

But it was not the cries of horror and fear from the Narra-
gansetts without, nor the fierce sound of the hurricane’s
approach, that caused every red-man’s eye to remain fixed,
and made the bold brow of Sakanto to blanch, while the
tomahawk trembled in his nerveless grasp. It was a spectacle
of ominous character that appalled them. .

A glorious yet terrible phenomenon was presented to the
shrinking gaze of the Narragansetts. Across the western
skies, from horizon to zenith, stretched the blazing length of
a comet. Its fiery glare streamed down into the roofless
lodge. There it hung, an awful phantom in the lurid heavens,
menacing ruin and death to the world. With one accord
Massasoit and his terrified Indians rushed from the lodge, for-
getful of all save the immediate horror of the sight above.
Sakanto released his hold of Louis and staggered after the
king.

All the people of the village had now crowded before the
sachem’s wigwam ; affrighted groups of warriors, women, old
men and children. A dismal wail went up from all, for each
feared an individual fate, presaged by the dread master of the
skies.

Some threw themselves prostrate upon the earth, hiding
their faces in the grass; some leaped and ran wildly about ;
others, with bloodless cheeks and gasping breath, clung to one
another, gazing, spell-bound, upon the object of their fear.

“Save us, oh Sakanto !” cried Massasoit, as the medicine-
man followed him to the door. “ Let the Great Spirit’s wrath
be averted !”

And all the Narragansett people echoed the words of their
sachem :

“Save us, oh Sakanto !”

The medicine-man seized his bow, and fixed an arrow in

its string. Then, winding around the shaft a wampum
amulet, which he took from his breast, and yelling a wild
incantation, he shot upward, toward the star of fire. The
Indians awaited the result in superstitious awe, but no effect
appeared to follow their sagamore’s action,

 
  

 

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

114 THE FRENCH CAPTIVES.

Massasoit cast himself upon the sward, rolling his eyes
anxiously around upon the faces of his cowering braves. At
this instant Abbé Claude advanced from the lodge, and almost
instinctively the invocations of the multitude addressed him;
for they knew that the white prophet’s wisdom was great, and
that he discoursed of the moon and stars. Sakanto himself
made way for the priest, though he ceased not to mutter his
own pow-wows and mysterious incantations.

But the blazing star did not recede—its light streaming
balefully over forest, plain and waters. Abbe Claude paused
in the midst of the red warriors at the spot where Massasoit
had sunk to the ground, and, standing beside the king, gazed
with reverence upon the awful manifestation of his Maker’s
handiwork in the far-off deeps of space.

But when the good father beheld the medicine-man affix
another arrow to his bow, in order to repeat his useless magic,
he could no longer remain silent.

“Forbear, ignorant and presumptyous !” he cried. “ Tempt
not Him who made yon star, to hurl it upon His rebellious
creatures! Behold in yonder sign the token of Manitou’s
wrath against your blood-guiltiness. Lo! the words which I
spoke so lately are now made sure by the power of the Great
Spirit. Pestilence, and war, and desolation shall come upon
ye! Your land shall be possessed by the strangers, and ye
shall be scattered before them as the dry leaves are blown
before the winds. ‘Tremble, and repent !”

With these words, Abbe Claude passed beyond the groups
of shuddering Narragansetts, and joined his young country-
man, Louis, who, with Sameeda and Marie still clinging to
him, had left the wigwam, and now stood-at some distance,
surrounded by Tisquontam and his friends. Then arose from
the tribe a spontaneous cry, which had scarcely subsided ere
Massasoit began solemnly to chant the death-song; for the
sachem felt that Manitou had spoken by the white sagamore’s
mouth.

And as that monotonous death-chant arose from all the
warriors and old men, Tisquontam, the Iroquois, led the way
for his friends, from the Narragansett village, their path
illumined by the blazing star that shone luridly through the
murky air. Once Samecda looked back, to gaze upon her

    

 

     

 
 

 

 

x

VOLUNTARY CAPTIVITY. TABS

father, but the voice of Louis whispered in her ears, and she
hurried on at his side.

Well, indeed, was it that the Iroquois hurried away his
companions, and that, ere another night, the reunited friends
and relatives were safely embarked on board the galleon, far
away from land. For the comet had been the forerunner of
the hurricane and earthquake, and the next evening occurred
that fearful convulsion of nature which, as we have related,
hurried the Creole, Captain Pierre, to the doom that he after-
ward met at the hands of Mattakan. And ere many moons
passed away, the words of Abbe Claude became yet more fear-
fully verified. Pestilence came upon the Indian land, and of
the great Narragansett nation the twentieth man alone sur-
vived. Sakanto fell one of the first victims to the terrible
plague, which had doubtless been communicated to the say-
ages by some of the articles plundered from the emigrant-ship.
Be that as it may, however, it is certain that, afterward,
when the Plymouth settlers were first encountered by Samoset
and other savages, they learned how their coming had been
heralded by a blazing star, regarded by the Indians as an
omen of war and pestilence. The pestilence which smote the
red tribes was the small-pox.

 

Magsasoit lived on as s@them among his reduced tribe, till
long after the coming of the Pilgrim Fathers; but his daughter,
the wild bride of the stranger, dwelt with her husband in the
distant French settlements of Canada, and slept at last by his
side near the great waters of Niagara. There, too, tarried St.
Elmo, espoused to Marie, with Monoma, who had learned to
love Robin Ball, and under whose sway the rough sailor became
gentle as a lamb.. Tisquontam himself chose to remain near
the seaside, though yearly, at the Moon of Falling Leaves, he
visited his child and her pale-faced friends. And when, at

length, the English settlers made their homes on the Narra-
gansett shores, no red-man proved more faithful to their
interests than did the once-kidnapped Troquois.

THE END,

 
 
Ready September 2nd.
BEADLE’S AMERICAN SIXPENWY LIBRARY, No. 7.

BILL BIDDON, TRAPPER:
OR, LIFE IN THE NORTH-WEST.
BY EDWARD S. ELLIS,

AUTHOK oF “sETH JONES,” “FRONTIER ANGEL,” “COL, CROCKETT,” &c,

hu romance of exceeding interest, beauty,
nde and trappers in that vast region surrounding the head waters of the Yellow-

Rene and stretching away on the Red River trail.
weet love- story, and the excitement of the rescue of a beautiful white captive from the

lackfeet-Sioux Indians.

BEADLE AND COMPANY,
LONDON AND NEW YORK.

 

and life-like delineation of the life of

Through it runs the thread of a
| BEADLE’S AMERICAN SIXPENNY LIBRARY,

Ini is. the ta of fhe Publishers of: this Seri ios to introduce ba the pobies in
| Great Britain some of the

 

| ever placed within tae of. ie great m iss of readers. Each eee ad will |

contain 128 pages complete, and will be sold at the uniformly low price of

Siwpence, at every respecta ws-Agency in the Kingdom. The Ro-

| mances will embody those traits of society and individuals which have ren- |

dered American Slories so much sou ub for: Indian and ranger’s life ;

eee and frontier experiens and { |
and Californis