America. — A Story of the Indian War
“I was at William Penn’s country-house, called Pensbury, in Pennsylvania, where I staid some days. Much of my time I spent in seeing William Penn, and many of the chief men among the Indians, in council concerning their former covenant, now renewed on his going away for England. To pass by several particulars, I may mention the following: ‘They never broke covenant with any people,’ said one of their great chiefs; and, smiting his hand upon his head, he said, ‘they made not their covenants there, but here,’ said he, smiting on his breast three times.
“I, being walking in the woods, espied several wigwams, and drew towards them. The love of God filled my heart; and I felt it right to look for an interpreter, which I did. Then I signified that I was come from a far country with a message from the Great Spirit (as they call God,) and my message was to endeavour to persuade them that they should not be drunkards, nor steal, nor kill one another, nor fight, nor put away their wives for small faults; for if they did these things, the Great Spirit would be angry with them, and would not prosper them, but bring trouble on them. On the contrary, if they were careful to refrain from these evils, then would he love them, and prosper them, and speak peace to them. And when the interpreter expressed these things to them in their own language, they wept till tears ran down their naked bodies.
“They manifested much love towards me in their way, as they did mostly to upright, plain-dealing Friends; and whilst I was amongst them my spirit was very easy: nor did I feel that power of darkness to oppress me, as I had done in many places amongst people calling themselves Christians.”—Journal of John Richardson, one of the early Friends.
They read of rapine, war, and woe,
A party by an English fire,—
Of Indian warfare in the wood,
Of stern and ruthless ire.
They read of torture worse than death—
Of treachery dark—of natures base—
Of women savage as the beast—
Of the red Indian race.
“Hold!” said the matron of the hearth,
A woman beautiful in age;
“And let me of the Indian speak;
Close, close that faithless page!
“My father was the youngest born
In an old rural English hall;
The youngest out of five stout sons,
With patrimony small.
“His boyhood was in greenwood spent;
His youth was all a sylvan dream;
He tracked the game upon the hills;
He angled in the stream.
“Quiet was he, and well content,
With naught to fret, and none to chide;
For all that his young heart desired
The woods and streams supplied.
“Small knowledge had a youth so trained,
College or school ne’er knew his face;
And yet as he grew up, he grew
Superior to his race.
“His brethren were of sordid sort,
Men with coarse minds, and without range;
He grew adventurous and bold,
Inquisitive of change.
“And, as he grew, he took to books,
And read what’er the hall supplied;
Histories of admirals, voyages old,
And travels far and wide.
“He read of settlers, who went forth
To the far west, and pitched their tent
Within the woods, and grew, ere long,
To a great, prosperous settlement.
“He read of the bold lives they led,
Full of adventure, hardy, free;
Of the wild creatures they pursued,
Of game in every tree.
“And how the Indians, quaintly gay,
Came down in wampum-belt and feather,
To welcome them with courteous grace;
How they and the free forest race
Hunted and dwelt together.
“And how they and their chosen mates
Led lives so sweet and primitive:
Oh! in such land, with one dear heart,
What joy it were to live!
“So thought he, and such life it were
As suited well his turn of mind;
For what within his father’s house
Was there to lure or bind?
“Four needy brothers, coarse and dull;
A patrimony, quite outspent;
A mother, long since in her grave;
A father, weak and indolent!
“At twenty he had ta’en a mate,
A creature gentle, kind, and fair;
Poor, like himself, but well content
The forest-life to share.
“She left an old white-headed sire;
A mother loving, thoughtful, good;
She left a home of love, to live
For him, within the wood.
“And that old couple did provide,
Out of their need, for many a want
Else unforseen; their daughter’s dower
In gifts of love, not scant.
“His father with cold scorn received
So dowered a daughter, without name;
Nor could his purposed exile win
Either assent or blame.
“All was a chill of indifference;
And from his father’s gate he went,
As from a place where none for him
Had kindred sentiment.
“And in the westren world they dwelt;
Life, like a joyous summer morn,
Each hope fulfilled; and in the wild
To them were children born.
“All that his youth had dreamed he found
In that life’s freshness; peril strange;
Adventure; freedom; sylvan wealth;
And ceaseless, blameless change.
“And there he, and his heart’s true mate,
Essay’d and found how sweet to live,
’Mid nature’s store, with health and love,
That life so primitive!
“But that sweet life came to an end.—
As falls the golden-eared corn
Before the sickle, earthly bliss
In human hearts is shorn.
“Sickness—bereavement—widowhood—
Oh, these three awful words embrace
A weight of mortal woe that fell
Upon our sylvan dwelling place!
“It matters not to tell of pangs,
Of the heart broken, the bereft;
I will pass over death and tears,
I will pass on to other years,
When only two were left!
“I and a sister; long had passed
The anguish of that time, and we
Were living in a home of love,
Though in a stranger’s family.
“Still in the wilderness we dwelt,
And were grown up towards womanhood;
When our sweet life of peace was stirred
By tales of civil feud.
“By rumors of approaching war,
Of battle done, of armed bands;
Of horrid deeds of blood and fire,
Achieved by Indian hands.
“We heard it first with disbelief:
And long time after, when had spread
Wild war throughout the land, we dwelt
All unassailed by dread.
“For they with whom our lot was cast,
Were people of that Christian creed
Who will not fight, but trust in God
For help in time of need.
“The forest round was like a camp,
And men were armed day and night;
And every morning brought fresh news
To heighten their affright.
“Through the green forest rose the smoke
Of places burn’d the night before;
And from their victims, the red scalp
The excited Indian tore.
“This was around us, yet we dwelt
In peace upon the forest bound;
Without defence, without annoy,
The Indian camp’d all round.
“The door was never barr’d by night,
The door was never closed by day;
And there the Indians came and went,
As they had done alway.
“For ‘these of Onas are the sons,’
Said they, ‘the upright peaceful men!’
Nor was harm done to those who held
The faith of William Penn.
“But I this while thought less of peace,
Than of the camp and battle stir;
For I had given my young heart’s love
Unto a British officer.
“Near us, within the forest-fort,
He lay, the leader of a band
Of fierce young spirits, sworn to sweep
The Indian from the land—
“The native Indian from his woods—
I deem’d it cowardly and base;
And, with a righteous zeal I pled
For the free forest-race.
“But he, to whom I pled, preferr’d
Sweet pleading of another sort;
And we met ever ’neath the wood
Outside the forest-fort.
“The Indian passed us in the wood,
Or glared upon us from the brake;
But he, disguised, with me was safe,
For Father Onas’ sake.
“At length the crisis of the war
Approach’d, and he, my soul’s beloved,
With his hot band, impatient grown,
Yet further west removed.
“There he was taken by the foe,
Ambush’d like tigers ’mid the trees:
You know what death severe and dread
The Indian to his foe decrees
“A death of torture and of fire—
Protracted death; I knew too well,
Outraged and anger’d, as of late
Had been the Indian spirit, fell
Would be their vengeance, and, to him,
Their hate implacable.
“When first to me his fate was told,
I stood amazed, confounded, dumb;
Then wildly wept and wrung my hands,
By anguish overcome.
“‘Wait, wait!’ the peaceful people said;
‘Be still and wait, the Lord is good!’
But when they bade me trust and wait,
I went forth in my anguish great,
To hide me in the wood.
“I had no fear; the Indian race
To me were as my early kin:
And then the thought came to my brain,
To go forth, and from death and pain,
My best beloved to win.
“With me my fair, young sister went,
Long journeying on through wood and swamp:
Three long days’ travel, ere we came
To the great Indian camp.
“We saw the Indians as we went,
Hid ’mong the grass with tiger ken;
But we were safe, they would not harm
The daughters of the peaceful men.
“In thickets of the woods at length
We came to a savannah green;
And there, beneath the open day,
The Indian camp was seen.
“I turned me from that scene of war,
And from the solemn council-talk,
Where stood the warriors, stern, and cold,
War-crested, and with bearing bold,
Listening unto a sachem old,
Who held aloft a tomahawk.
“I knew they were athirst for blood;
That they had pity none to spare;—
Besides, bound to a tree, I saw
An English captive there.
“I saw his war plume, soil’d and torn;
I knew that he was doom’d to die;
Pale, wounded, feeble, there he stood;
The ground was crimson’d with his blood;
Yet stood he as a soldier should—
Erect, with calm, determined eye.
“I would not he should see me then,—
The sight his courage had betray’d;
Therefore unseen we stepp’d aside,
Into the forest-glade.
“An Indian woman there was set,
We knew her, and to her were known;
The wife of a great chief was she,
Deck’d in her Indian bravery;
Yet there she sat alone.
“‘Woman,’ I said, the silence breaking,
‘Thou know’st us—know’st that we belong
To peaceful people, who have ne’er
Done to thy nation wrong.
‘Thou know’st that ye have dwelt with us,
As friend upon the hearth of friend;—
When have ye ask’d and been denied,
That this good faith should end?’
“The Indian did not raise her head,
As she replied in accents low,
‘Why come ye hither unto me,
When I am sitting in my woe?’
“‘Woman,’ I said, ‘I ask for life—
For life, which in your hands doth lie;
Go bid thy tribe release the bands
Of him now doomed to die!
“‘Go, Indian woman, and do this,
For thou art mighty with thy race!’
The Indian made me no reply,
But looked into my face.
“‘Mighty! said’st thou?’ at length she spoke,
‘Mighty!—to one no longer wife!
The hatchet and the tomahawk
Lie by me on the forest-walk;
The great chief in my hut lies low,
The ruthless pale-face struck the blow—
And yet thou com’st to me for life!’
“‘By that chief’s memory,’ I cried,
‘Whom ne’er the peaceful men gainsaid;
To whom the peaceful men were dear;
Rise, though thou stricken be, and aid!
“‘Crave not REVENGE,’ and with my words
My tears flow’d fast, though hers were dry;
‘But look upon this pictured face,
And say if such a one shall die!’
“Long looked she on the pictured face,
Which from my neck I took and gave;
Long looked she ere a word was spoke,
And then she slowly silence broke,
‘The hatchet is not buried yet;
The tomahawk with blood is wet;
And the great chief is in his grave!
“‘Yet for the father Onas’ sake—
For their sakes who no blood have shed,
We will not by his sons be blamed
For taking life which they have claimed;—
The red man can avenge his dead!’
“So saying, with her broken heart—
She went forth to the council-stone;
And when the captive was brought out,
’Mid savage war-cry, taunt and shout,
She stepp’d into the fierce array,
As the bereaved Indian may,
And claim’d the victim for her own.
“He was restored. What need of more
To tell the joy that thence ensued!
But sickness followed long and sore,
And he for a twelvemonth or more,
With our good, peaceful friends abode.
“But we, two plighted hearts, were wed;
A merry marriage ye may wis;—
And guess ye me a happy life—
In England here, an honoured wife,—
Sweet friends, ye have not guess’d amiss!
“But never more let it be said,
The red man is of nature base;
Nor let the crimes that have been taught,
Be by the crafty teachers brought
As blame against the Indian race!”