THE CAPTIVES.
With all the speed possible, Durant hurried off toward the Ohio, determined as soon as it could be done, to place that river between himself and captives and any pursuers that might follow them, when it became known that the lovers were missing.
It was a matter of wonder with Ellen's family what could keep her and Hamilton out so late in the evening; and when darkness set in, and they were still absent, the wonder changed to alarm. Search was instantly made; they were traced to their resting-place; the evident marks of a scuffle were visible; and the unanimous opinion of all was that they were in the hands of Indians. Preparations for pursuit were immediately instituted, and by daylight next morning, a strong band of armed pioneers, well mounted, were on the trail of the fugitives, determined to retake the captives, if such a feat were in the bounds of possibility.
Durant had everything so arranged, that his party need not be subjected to a moment's delay. Every member of his band, including the prisoners, expected a vigorous pursuit, and the lovers were not without hope that it would prove successful. In this hope, they, as far as circumstances and ability permitted, endeavored to retard the progress of the captors by slow movements; and Durant was finally constrained to threaten them, if they did not step with greater alacrity; for he feared they might be overtaken.
At length the hilly banks of the Ohio were reached; the clear waters of that noble stream lay before them; and between the prisoners and despair, and no friends in sight to bid them hope! Durant now concluded all was safe; and the malice of his heart, which the pressure of circumstances had kept smothered, began again to display itself. Pointing to the verdure-clad and tree-crowned hills on the other side of the river, he said:
"Once there, amid the lovely groves of Ohio, and you are beyond the last hope of recovery from my power, my beautiful girl! Then and there I shall have the exquisite pleasure of informing you more particularly concerning my plans for the future. For the present, receive my assurances, that nothing else could give me such unbounded satisfaction as the felicity unspeakable of having won my old and dear love from all competitors for her hand and person, and the certain assurance, that, for the time to come, she is all my own, without fear of rivalship!"
The bitter irony attempted in this malignantly polite address went to the heart of the fair girl; but she resolutely set herself against any display of fear, or the least manifestation of alarm, well knowing that the marks of such emotions would but increase the revengeful feeling of delight evinced by her adversary.
Just as Durant concluded his speech, the tramp of horses' feet was heard in the distance, and the cry raised by the Indians:
"White man come! white man come!"
All hands sprung to unmoor the canoes, which were in readiness, concealed among the drooping branches of some trees which overhung the margin of the stream. While thus engaged, Hamilton, who was watching his opportunity, knocked down the Indian who guarded him, sent Durant whirling round like a top to the distance of ten or twelve feet, seized Ellen in his arms, and with strength almost superhuman, and a speed miraculous under the circumstances, bounded away in the direction of the approaching horsemen, who were now visible through the interstices of the forest, a good way off, but coming rapidly on to the rescue, though, as yet, in ignorance of their near proximity to friends and foes.
"Seize them! seize them!—shoot the infernal dog!" roared Durant, in a hoarse voice of passion and rage, so soon as he recovered from the astonishment and fright into which the unceremonious assault of Hamilton had thrown him.
"Hamilton knocked down the Indian who guarded him, sent Durant whirling round like a top to the distance of ten or twelve feet."—See page 54.
His first command was not obeyed, for Hamilton and Ellen were already beyond reach when the order was given; but the second one led to the discharge of two guns without effect, and the leveling of a third by Ramsey, with a coolness and steadiness of nerve and aim which gave assurance of success. His finger was on the trigger, when Durant himself threw up the muzzle of the rifle, and sent the ball whizzing through the air, some ten feet above the heads of the fugitives.
"My revenge must be fuller than that, or not at all," he said. "The ball would have killed both, and I would not have had that for the world."
He had hardly uttered these words, when the sharp crack of the remaining Indian's rifle, who had recovered from the blow given him by Hamilton, and was glad of the opportunity of so speedily avenging it, rung in his ear with piercing shrillness, and looking in the direction of the flying couple, Durant saw Hamilton stagger with his burden, and then both fell to the earth. Instantly the demon was roused within him; every emotion of fear was swallowed up in his usually cowardly heart by the burning thirst for revenge which rankled in his bosom; and crying "Come!" he rushed to the spot where the lovers lay, followed by his comrade. Both were wounded, but neither was dead. Lifting the bleeding Ellen in his arms, he bore her back, while Ramsey and an Indian did the same by Hamilton. Springing into their canoes, and bending to the oars with all the strength they could muster, they were soon far out into the stream, and had just reached a point of safety, when the pursuing party of whites came up to the water's brink. Several shots were fired at the canoes without effect, and then the men tried to force their horses into the river; but by yelling and splashing the water with their oars by the enemy, the beasts were effectually frightened, so that no efforts of their riders could induce them to attempt the unwilling task of swimming across.
Durant could perceive the agony of the father and brother of Ellen, as they wrung their hands in despair, still vainly striving to urge forward their stubborn steeds. Feeling perfectly secure, now that the pursuers were effectually baffled in their designs, he gave orders to cease the frightening demonstrations, and continue their course. In a few minutes the Ohio shore was gained, and they soon buried themselves in the deep woods beyond and were lost to the sight of those on the opposite bank, who reluctantly turned their faces homeward, and, in deep and mournful silence, retraced their steps, revolving in their minds what next could be done.
Hamilton and Ellen were both severely wounded, the ball having passed through the right side of each, but no vital part seemed to have suffered, and the wounds were not deemed mortal of themselves, but might prove fatal if not properly attended to. Durant's first care was to have them dressed and bound up; and he used every means within his reach to expedite their recovery. He had them taken to a place of safety, a kind of cove, known to himself and Ramsey, which was in an obscure and unfrequented spot, where they were carefully nursed until in a fair way for speedy recovery.
Until now, Durant had been careful to say and do nothing that might tend to excite the minds of his captives, fearing that inflamation might ensue, and rob him of his anticipated triumph and revenge. But so soon as their convalescence was distinctly manifest, the crisis and the danger past, he began to torment his victims; the one of his wounded vanity, his disappointed avarice, and his venomous hate; the other of his envy and jealous malice. In consummating his revenge upon Ellen, he would not only gratify his malicious and vengeful nature, but minister, also, to the basest passions of a corrupt human heart. Seating himself in her presence one day, he said:
"I now understand why it was that I found no more favor in your sight while so foolishly attempting to win your love. Your heart was already occupied, a circumstance you took good care to conceal. Thank my stars, my rival is now in my hands! And do you know, my dear, that he is a doomed man? If not, permit me to inform you of the fact."
"Sir, what has he ever done to you that you should wish to harm him?"
"Done! Has he not robbed me of your love, your hand, and made my life a hopeless desert and a weary waste?"
"No, sir, he has not. My heart was his before I saw you, and you, sir, attempted the part of a robber, not Mr. Hamilton. Now judge yourself by your own rule and what fate should be yours?"
"Ah, very fine logic, truly; but, unfortunately, you have not the power to back it up. I presume you have never beheld the sacrifice of a victim on a funeral pile, nor more than read of prisoners burned at the stake; how would such a spectacle affect you, think?"
This was said with a peculiar expression, and was evidently intended to make a strong impression; but whatever its real effect upon the mind of his auditor, no visible tokens of dread or pain were manifested, and Ellen replied:
"I do not know, so much would depend on circumstances; but that I would abhor the actors in the scene of barbarous cruelty, I can well imagine."
This was not the kind of a reply expected, and Durant changed his discourse from an insinuating tone to a direct manner.
"I perceive it will be necessary for me to render my meaning more explicit, and I now change the form of my query, and beg to know how you would probably feel, were you compelled to witness the burning of your lover at the stake?"
A momentary paleness blanched the cheek of the fair girl, as this heartless interrogation was fully comprehended, but recovering herself quickly from the rude shock, she replied:
"I doubt not the sight would be a harrowing one, but I do not anticipate such an unlikely event."
"Pardon me, but I may as well tell you at first, that this fate is in store for you."
"Why do you persist in this attempt at refinement of cruelty? Bad as you are, I give you credit for too much humanity to believe your words are more than an idle threat, which you have no intention of putting into execution."
"Then you have given me credit for more humanity than is justly my due; for I never was more earnest in my life, and it is my fixed determination to do exactly what I have intimated."
Ellen, who had all the time been really alarmed, now gave way, in her reduced strength of body, to the feelings which, until now, she had kept in subjection; and, changing her tone, commenced pleading with the miscreant:
"Mr. Hamilton has never harmed you, and can, therefore, only be hated by you through me; do not, then, make him the object of your wrath, but let it fall on me. I will readily burn at the stake to save him."
This last remark, as it showed the depths and tenderness of her love for his rival, only excited him the more, and he repeated his intention of burning Hamilton at the stake in her presence, with many additions, purposely introduced to make a more horrifying impression. In vain she pleaded for her lover, and offered herself as the sacrifice; the only effect of her prayers was to render him more savage and determined in his intentions and avowals. The excitement of the interview, however, in her case, superinduced a state of fever, which bid fair, for a few days, to render her recovery very doubtful. This result was not expected by Durant, and he in turn became alarmed, lest his dearly bought vengeance should yet slip from him. Every exertion was put forth for her restoration, and finally success crowned the well directed but ill intentioned efforts of the villain. Ellen's fever abated, and she again began to mend. It would be some time, however, ere the monster would dare renew his threats, and in the interim, he set his wits to work with a little different object in view. A new thought had entered his mind, the ultimate end of which he would endeavor to carry out.
He had never fallen in love with savage life, because it was one of too much peril to suit his natural disposition to cowardice, and he would gladly return to civilized life, if he could do so safely—his Indian home and habits having only been adopted as a means, and the only means, of ministering to his revengeful desires. His idea looked to the accomplishment of this object, and he was fain to believe he saw a way to succeed. As Ellen was to act a part in his newly formed plan, his manner toward her changed. He was polite and respectful in his words and attentions. He was, also, very kind and considerate toward Hamilton. They were both surprised at this unexpected change in the demeanor of their captor, but were unable to account for it. All was explained in time. One day, after Ellen was much restored, he ventured on the following communication:
"I have," he said to her, "had very serious thoughts of late. A singular dream, which made a powerful impression on my mind, opened up to my mental vision the sinfulness of my past life, and convinced me of the necessity of repentance and reformation. I would gladly amend my ways, and lead a new and better life, but my way is hedged up before me. I am an outcast of society, made so by my own acts, the dark enormity of which I now behold with astonishment, and, unless some great influence is brought to bear in my favor, I dare not return to a Christian community, and if I remain here among the heathens, I may give up all hope at once, as it will be impossible for me, as one of the savages, to become a moral and Christian man. It is in your power, fair lady, to give me the requisite guarantee of safety. May I hope that you will extend to me the hand of salvation?"
Ellen hardly knew whether to believe in the man's sincerity or not; but hoping for the best, she replied:
"If in your good intentions I can aid you in any way, I shall be most happy to do so."
"Thank you; I expected as much from your generous heart, though I have merited nothing but hatred from you by my acts. I will consult Mr. Hamilton on the subject, before pointing out more definitely the mode in which you can serve and save me."
Leaving her presence, he placed himself before Hamilton, whom he addressed after this manner:
"I am aware, my good sir, that you are on somewhat intimate terms with Miss Walton, the lady in another apartment of this rather dismal abode, and, I doubt not, have much influence over her. If so, I very much desire the benefit of that influence, to aid me in the best and noblest undertaking of my life."
He then explained his intentions and desires of reformation, and the impediments in the way, much in the same manner as he had done to Ellen; after which he continued:
"Now, to relieve me from my embarrassing situation, I deem it needful to form a connection with some influential person or family, whose recommendation and protection will secure me from harm, and restore me to the bosom of that society from whose enjoyments and privileges I severed myself by a rash act, committed in an hour of passion, and followed up by a strange course of infatuation ever since. I know of none upon whose names and aid I would sooner cast myself than upon you and Miss Walton, as your families are of the first respectability, and could throw an effectual shield around me. I would, therefore, that you let me bear to the young lady the assurances that you approve my plans and purposes, (if you really do so,) and that you are willing to aid me yourself, and hope she will also, in carrying them out."
Hamilton was still confined by his wound, which had been a much more serious one than that inflicted upon Ellen; and in his then state of prostration, was not as well prepared to scorn the motives of Durant, or penetrate his designs, as he might have been under more favorable auspices; and having no reason to doubt the sincerity of the seemingly repentant man, he entered into his plans at once, with all the warmth of a benevolent and Christian heart. He said:
"I can hardly believe it necessary that I should say a word to Miss Walton, to induce her to put forth her best endeavors to serve you in so worthy a work; but, if need be, bear to her the assurance of my hearty approval of your designs and wishes, and that I shall do all in my power to aid you in the laudable efforts you are making to return to a Christian country, and a virtuous life."
"As I have, very unfortunately, laid myself liable to her distrust, will you have the goodness to place your approval on this slip of paper?"
Saying which, he handed him the paper and a pencil. He wrote as follows:
"Miss Walton:—The bearer, Mr. Durant, has laid before me his intentions and wishes, and the difficulties in the way of his reformation. I most heartily approve his plans, as they seem to be the most judicious that now occur to me, and hope you will assist him to the utmost of your ability in his very worthy object.
"Hamilton."
As Durant run his eye over the lines, a peculiar expression of satisfaction crossed his features, and with the warmest thanks on his lips, he departed, and lost no time in again presenting himself before Ellen, whom he thus addressed:
"I have just laid my case before Mr. Hamilton, whose opinion on the subject you will find here expressed in his own hand-writing."
And he gave her the slip. She read the lines traced upon it, when he proceeded:
"If I only dared to hope you would as readily approve and as heartily enter into my plans, all disquiet in my heart would at once be set at rest."
"I am quite sure I shall object to nothing Mr. Hamilton approves; and in all good endeavors, I shall be most happy to render you all the assistance I can command or bestow."
"Then I need entertain no further apprehensions, and will at once make known to you the details which seem to me necessary to be carried out. There are very few persons in the settlements who have any knowledge of my connection with the Indians, and my first request is that you never, under any circumstances, allude to this connection, or let it be known that I have been here. Have I your promise?"
"Most certainly."
"I desire, in the second place, that you will say as much good of me as you can, (and that, I am sorry to say, will be but little,) to those who may ask you for information concerning me; but if you have nothing good to say, then that you will say no evil, and especially if my Indian life is alluded to. May I hope for your favor in this respect?"
"I will do my best to exonerate you in all cases where your reputation is at stake, and to aid you in reaching a place of honor in society."
"Thank you. I have but one additional solicitation to make, and if to this you can give your assent, I shall be truly happy, delighted, and confident."
All this time he had been driving at one point, which he had now reached, but was slow to present. A momentary pause ensued; Ellen was in doubt as to the nature of the requirement, and he of the propriety of making it. But he had set his all upon the desperate stake for which he was playing, and it would not now do to leave the game. He at length went on:
"I shall not feel myself safe in society unless I can form an alliance with some family of note and respectability. I am not as extensively acquainted as some others—in a word, I know of no young lady but yourself to whom I can offer my hand, and having loved you so long and ardently, I can do nothing less than make this as my final request, that you consent to become my wife. I make this request the only condition of release, and upon your acceptance of my hand depends my present and future hope, my salvation in time and eternity. My fate is in your hands, and you can raise me to heaven, or cast me down to hell. Will you save me?"
It would be quite impossible to depict the consternation this announcement created in the mind of Ellen. In spite of her better judgment, and the precedents in the villain's former life, she had suffered herself to be beguiled by his seeming sincerity of manner into the hope that he was really desirous of reforming; and even now she could hardly believe her own ears, so consummate was his hypocrisy; but as the whole truth shone out to her comprehension, she saw through his scheme at once—that all his seeming repentance was a pretense as hollow as his own heart. The hope that had begun to swell in her heart was blotted out in a moment. She replied without hesitation:
"I cannot accede to your last proposition."
"Why not?"
"It is impossible."
"Then you willingly consign me to wretchedness in this life, and to perdition hereafter."
"I do no such thing. You are not responsible for my acts; and your repentance can be just as sincere without a wife as with one."
"You are mistaken. If I am doomed to remain among the Indians, I shall never be able to reform, however earnestly I may desire to do so; and if I go to the settlements, I shall be slain as a foe, unless protected by family ties and influence; these I can secure in no other way than by becoming your husband."
"I am of an entirely different opinion; and I think your whole scheme a very thin and flimsy contrivance, of which you ought to be ashamed."
"But there are two against you. Mr. Hamilton, as you have already seen, perfectly coincides with me in his views, and—"
"I beg leave to correct you. Mr. Hamilton never consented to your last proposition, for the very good reason that it was never mentioned to him; in this respect you have tried to deceive me; but to put the matter to rest, at once and forever, let me say, as mistress of my own decisions, that whether he should consent to your proposition or not, I never will!"
"Then, as you voluntarily cast me off, and consign me to infamy and hopeless wretchedness, be the consequences upon your own head. I came to you and implored assistance in my extremity, but you turned away, and left me in despair. Do not, therefore, accuse me of cruelty if I demand by force that which you have denied as a free gift. You know that I have the power of life and death over yourself and Hamilton, and I now ask you, as a last resort, to choose between assenting to become my wife and seeing your lover at the stake! You may well start and turn pale; for as sure as there is a sky above and the earth beneath us, I swear that one or the other fate shall be yours. Make your own election, and, in doing so, bear in mind that Hamilton's death will be gratuitous, if caused, for you shall then be worse than my wife. As a lawful companion, I will use my best endeavors to make you happy; as a companion in what the world calls guilt, I will bind myself by no such promise. Think of all these things, and then decide."
"Louis Durant, the very proposition you make, accompanied as it is by the alternative, is one of such black enormity, that if nothing else were added to debase you in my estimation, I would spurn your offer as I would the proffered hand of Satan himself or of the vilest imp in the loathsome pit of night where he reigns! You have your answer. As well try to pluck the sun from his place in the heavens or wrench the sparkling stars from the firmament as to alter my resolve."
"Perhaps you will think differently when the trying hour comes, perhaps repent when it is too late."
"Never, sir villain! Do you suppose I cannot penetrate the thin gauze that is intended to hide your motives? Your highest aspiration is after the Wealth you imagine me to possess; if I were poor, you would not even offer me your hand, let alone make such efforts to obtain it. I see through all your devices, base miscreant, including your sham repentance, which deserves the descent of God's just indignation upon your guilty head, and polluted soul!"
"Your perceptions are exceedingly acute, I must confess; but I leave you for the present, to reflect on the subject, so vital to us all, and hope that reason may yet prevail."
Much after the same manner he continued to persecute her, day after day, and with no better success. In the meantime Hamilton had so far recovered as to be able to walk about. To him Durant appealed; but his offer of freedom, on condition of using his influence to induce Ellen to consent to become his captor's wife, was rejected with the contempt and scorn it merited, and a brave man could give it.
This was the last peg upon which the villain hung a hope of working out his purpose, and he now resolved to fall back on his first intention, and execute his long threatened vengeance. The stake was prepared after the most approved Indian model, and the fagots piled high around it. The two victims were then led out to see what awaited them; and this excess of cruelty, this torture in advance, was forced upon the lovers with a view to shake their resolution.
Again they were separately and jointly appealed to; but with the same result as before; they were pale with hopeless despair, but firm and unwavering in purpose.
"I would die a thousand deaths of torture, my beloved Ellen, rather than persuade you to sacrifice yourself to save me," was Hamilton's language to his companion in distress. "Life without you would be a burden; and I can now die with a pleasing hope of reunion beyond the grave."
Durant would not permit a continuation of such interchange of thoughts, and they were separated.
On the following day Hamilton was fastened to the stake, and an Indian stood ready with a torch to fire the combustibles so soon as the word of command was given.
"Behold the fate of him you pretend to love!" said Durant to Ellen, whom he had dragged to the spot. "His destiny is yet in the balances; say but the word, and he shall go free!"
Pale as death itself, and scarcely able to stand, Ellen replied:
"The will of God be done! I am prepared for the worst!"
"The worst?" and he hissed in her ear some words of infamy.
"Oh, God! not that! not that!" and she reeled as if struck with a blow.
"Then, in the name of reason, save yourself, save both! It is easily done."
The villain's words calmed her in a moment, and she responded:
"Either fate is more than I can bear; but I will not perjure my soul to save myself from any fate it pleases God to send upon me."
"And you will not be an honorable bride, then?"
"Yours,—never!"
"Fire the fagots!" he commanded in a voice of rage, and the order was instantly obeyed by the Indian who stood impatiently awaiting the word.