A TRADITION OF THE MINNATAREES.
At the distance of a sun's journey from the creek, called in the tongue of the white people the Knife Creek—which divides the larger and smaller towns of the Minnatarees from each other by a valley not much above four bowshots across—there are two little hills, situate at a small distance from each other. These hills are famous, throughout all the nations of the west, for the faculty they once possessed of imparting relief to such women as resorted to them for the purpose of crying and lamenting for the circumstance of their having no children. It was there, that, if they were careful to say proper prayers, and to use the proper lamentations, the reproach of barrenness was removed; and those, whose arms had never enfolded a babe of their own, whose ears had never listened to the innocent prattle of children born of their own bodies, might enjoy that greatest of human happinesses; might feel the exquisite pleasure which arises, when the little creatures press to their knees, or draw the food of life from their bosoms.
Once upon a time, many years ago, there was among the Minnatarees a woman, whose name was Namata-washta, or the Pretty Tree. It had been her misfortune to be married, when little more than a child, to a very proud and bad man; who soon came to use her with great cruelty and injustice. She was a very strict and devout worshipper of the Great Spirit, and never failed, whether in the field or in the cabin, by night or by day, to offer up prayers and a portion of every acquisition to the Being who bestowed it upon her. The Great Spirit saw her goodness, and loved her. He made her corn to grow much larger than that of any other woman in the village; and the produce of her garden was always much earlier and better. But she was a barren woman, and thence resulted her misery. For seven weary seasons had she lived in the lodge of her husband; and while his seven other wives had each children at her knee, crying, "My mother!" there was none to address her by that tender name, and to lisp in childish tones its delight, when she returned from the labours of the field of maize—and to bestow its innocent caresses upon her after the separations which unavoidably take place in forest life. Thence arose the extreme harshness of her husband, and the continued sneers and gibes of the wives who had been blest with offspring. The good Namata-washta bore their ill usage for a long time without repining; but, at length, the oft-repeated cruelties of her husband and the incessant insults of her companions became so painful, that she was wont to fly from them to the solitude of the forest.
One evening, she wandered out from the cabin of her husband until she came to the nearest of the two small hills, of which I have been telling my brother. Upon this hill she seated herself, and was occupied in bewailing her fatal misfortune of barrenness, and in praying the Great Spirit to avert it, when some one whispered at her shoulder, "Namata-washta!"
Looking up, she beheld a tall woman clothed in a long and flowing robe of white goat-skin; her mocassins were of a blood-red colour; her eyes were black as the shell of the butter-nut; her hair, which was also black, was dressed with gay flowers. After surveying the weeping Namata-washta for some time in silence, and with an appearance of much compassion, she said to her in a gentle voice, "Woman, why art thou weeping?"
"I am weeping," replied the poor Indian woman, "because I have borne my husband no children!"
"And therefore thou weepest, deluded and infatuated woman! Rather shouldst thou rejoice that thou hast not contributed to swell the amount of human suffering. Happier far is she who has added nothing, in respect of children, to the sum of human misery, than she who has become a mother, to see her offspring perish in the strife of warriors, or of hunger, or wretchedness, or wasting disease. That thou hast given birth to no heirs of misery should afford thee joy, rather than sorrow, Namata-washta!"
"But therefore I am held of little account, and of no value in the house of my husband. My place is usurped by those who have children; the other wives of my husband demand and exercise the right to impose hard and disgraceful burdens upon me, because I am barren. My husband beats me with blows, his wives assail me with taunts and reproaches—even the children of the village, as I pass them at their sports, cry out, 'A barren woman!' And thus do they incessantly worry me, till I am compelled to fly to the wilderness for rest and peace!"
"Wouldst thou become the mother of children, Namata-washta?"
"I would."
"Thou shalt have thy wish. Listen to my words. The hill upon which thou art sitting was once a beautiful woman, as its neighbour, the other and larger hill, was a man and a warrior. The woman, who is the hill upon which we now stand, was the first woman that ever lived, and the first that ever became a mother. I will tell thee, Namata-washta, who she was. When the Great Spirit determined to people the Island with human beings, he bade them spring out of the earth, as maize and vegetables do at this day; and bade each take the quality and nature of the soil in which he germinated. The red man forced his head out of a rich and hardy prairie surrounded by lofty trees; the white man took root in a stony and crabbed hill: and both have retained their first natures.
"The woman who became this hill sprung up in a deep and very fat soil, and thence became very fruitful—the most fruitful woman ever known. She came out of the earth on the first day of the Moon of Buffaloes, and, ere it hung in the skies like a bended bow, she had a child at her breast. Every moon, she bestowed upon her husband a son or a daughter, and these sons and daughters were all equally fertile with their mother. The Great Spirit, seeing that if mankind continued thus prolific, the Island would soon be overstocked with inhabitants, determined to take away from the pair the breath he had given them, and with it the power of unlimited procreation and fecundity imparted to their descendants. He changed them into these two hills. But, that the faculty they possessed in so remarkable a degree might not be lost to the world, but might continue to be dispensed to those who wanted it, and should seek it in a proper manner, he said to the hill, which was the fruitful woman: 'Whenever a barren woman approaches thee, lamenting in sincerity her hard fate, and duly supplicating mercy, thou shalt listen to her with pity and compassion. I endow thee with power to grant her prayers. Thou shalt bid her return to her village and repair to the couch of her husband. When twelve suns shall have passed, she shall return to thee soon after the dawning of day. Upon a near approach to thee, she shall see a child, perhaps two children, very light of foot, and whose height shall scarce exceed that of a squirrel. She must approach them, but they will run from her, nor will her utmost speed enable her to overtake them. They will fly to thy protection, nor must thou deny it—they must be received into thy bosom. The chill of their cold hiding place will destroy them, and their souls will enter into the womb of the suppliant woman, and she will become a fruitful and honoured mother.'
"These were the words of the Great Spirit; and often has the power he imparted to that hill been felt to the taking away the reproach from the barren women. Namata-washta, go thou, and do likewise. Follow the directions I have given thee, and, if the having children will render thee happy, thou shalt be happy—if to be the mother of a more numerous offspring than any wife in thy nation may make thee an honoured woman, thou shalt be honoured."
With these words, the Spirit departed from before the eyes of Namata-washta, who never beheld her again. She returned to the cabin of her husband, obeyed the words of the stranger, and saw the results take place which had been foretold. She became the mother of a more numerous progeny than any woman of her nation, took the lead in the lodge of her husband, and was more beloved by him than any other of his wives. She became as much honoured by the people as she had been before despised by them, and died with the reputation of having been the greatest benefactress of the nation that had lived since the days of the two wise boys who discovered the upper world[45].
The faculty which this hill possessed of imparting fruitfulness was retained till the wickedness of the Minnatarees became so crying, that the Great Spirit, deeming that there would be full enough of these bad people, if left to their natural means of increase, withdrew it, and has never restored it.
TALES OF A WHITE MAN'S GHOST.
I. GARANGA.
If the feet of my brother from the distant land have ever carried him to the spot where the Oswegatchie joins with the river called by the people of his nation the St. Lawrence, he must have seen a broken wall of stone, which that same people built very soon after they had taken possession of the High Rock, and made it the great village of the pale faces. At that time the red men of the wilderness were not very well disposed towards the strangers who had come among them, viewing them as they do wolves, and panthers, and catamounts, which are very much in the way of Indians, and therefore they put them out of it as soon as possible. At length, the great chief or governor at the City of the High Rock, finding that the men whom he left within the big walls he had built on the Oswegatchie were every moment in danger of being massacred by their fierce and warlike neighbours, the Iroquois, recalled his soldiers to his wing from their perilous flight, and bade them soar no more in that dangerous direction. So the high walls he had thrown up to serve as a barrier against the forest warrior fell to the earth, and were never rebuilt. The grass grew up over them, the winds whistled among them, and many spirits, white and red, came and took up their residence in the corners and recesses of the deserted habitation.
Among the white spirits that sojourned in the ruined fort there was one who was very kind to the Indians, and often held long talks with them, though they never saw him. Often, when the sun had retired to his place of rest beyond the western mountains—for he would only hold conversation when darkness covered the earth—the Indians would repair to the outside of the ruins, and, calling upon the "Good Little Fellow," he would come and entertain them, until the purple and grey tints of morning shone in the eastern sky, with tales of his own pale race, and of that other, the red, as connected with them. The eager listeners would be told of cabins in which the Great Spirit was worshipped, that were twice the flight of an arrow broad, and three times its flight in length, and so high as to be beyond the daring of the bird of morning. And he taught them to wonder much, and laugh a little, by telling them that when men went to worship the Being in whose honour and for whose worship the cabin was built, they dressed themselves in their most gorgeous apparel, and put on long robes, painted to look like the gay birds of the forest, and emulating in the brightness of their dyes the bow in the clouds after a shower of rain. When the Indians laughed at this, he told them that the Great Spirit, the white people thought, never listened to those who were not well dressed, and "looked smart." He said the white people were not like the Indians; they only worshipped the Master of Life on the seventh day of the week and a few other days, whereas the Indians worshipped him every day—which was much the best way, he thought. And he told the Indians many other things, respecting the white people living over the Great Salt Lake, some of which made them think they were very wise, and valiant, and prudent, but the most of what he said went to prove them great fools. And when he told them that the men weeded the corn, while the women sat doing nothing, or "galloping from cabin to cabin," the Indians, who had become so well acquainted with him that they could speak with freedom, bade him return and tell his people how much better the Indians managed these things.
Once upon a time, as he sat repeating his tales to the wondering Indian visiters, he said to them: Did you ever hear about Garanga, the beautiful bird that was taken from her perch in the cabin of the White Crane, the great warrior of the Iroquois, by a man of my nation?
The Indians all answered, No; and so they would have answered had they heard it twenty times, for he varied his stories every time he repeated them, as the pale faces always do; so they were sure to have a new story though it had an old name. Then I will tell it you, said he, and he began as follows.
There came to this fort, while it was yet standing in all its pride, a young chief of my nation to be its governor. He was a mere youth to be entrusted with so high and responsible an office, but, though young in years, he was old in understanding. He was also very beautiful to look upon, and his stature was of the tallest of the sons of the earth. The Indian maidens that visited the fort with their fathers and brothers bestowed much praise upon his fine and manly form, and their friends of the other sex did the same upon his courageous spirit, and his superiority in those exercises in which one must excel if he would command the esteem, and excite the awe, of the red men of the forest. The men likened him for swiftness to the deer, and for agility to the mountain-cat, and for strength to the bear, and for courage to all that is courageous; the women compared his skin to the water-lily, and his eyes to the blue sky when it is bluest, and his hair to the silken tassels of ripened corn, and his step to the stag's, and his voice to the song-sparrow's. Whatever is beautiful among the works of nature was brought in by comparison, to express their admiration of the graceful and gallant stranger.
Among the bright-eyed maidens who visited the fort, as they said, to buy beads and gay toys, but in reality to gaze upon the noble chief, was the beautiful Garanga, the daughter of one of the principal warriors of the Iroquois. The first time she saw him her little bosom was filled with the flames of love, but she never spoke of it to any one. While the other maidens sat repeating the soft words he had whispered in their ears, for he had the forked tongue which the white man always possesses, the mild and lovely daughter of the White Crane said nothing, but sighed. Her heart had been taken captive at first sight, by the handsome stranger—her little bosom was filled with love for the noble warrior. Nor were the charms of the maiden unmarked by him she loved. He had singled her out among all the dusky maidens, in some degree for her beauty, but more for her softness and her modesty, and had asked himself what one among the women of his own clime was superior to her in all that would give delight to him who should make her his own. His heart answered, None. So, learning from the tell-tale eyes of the beautiful maiden, that she was entirely willing to become the bird of his bower, his companion, his wife, he asked her of her father. The chief, proud to be connected with so distinguished a warrior, gave her to him, without hesitation, and she became his wife.
They were married in the Harvest-Moon, and a great feast was given, which made glad the hearts of both white and red. There was a great firing of cannon, and the fire-eater was given to the Indians, who became very drunk, and made the woods ring again with their boisterous mirth. Before the month in which the Indians harvest their maize had come round again, there was a young bird of the sex of its father, in the house of the governor. Ere the child had lived a moon, the father said to the mother, thoughtfully but kindly,
"Dost thou love thy husband?"
"The Great Spirit only knows how much, and how deeply," answered the fond wife.
"Hast thou joy in the bright eyes, and smiling cheeks, and lovely laugh, of our little son?"
"I have exceeding joy in our son," answered the mother, pressing her infant with a warm embrace to her bosom. "When I look upon his young face, and his little laugh rings in mine ear, and when I mark the bright light of his eyes shining like stars upon me, my heart leaps like a deer stricken to death by the shaft of the hunter. And often while thou art slumbering by my side, do I lie sleepless, my eyes filled with tears, to think that he may die. And yet I have exceeding joy in our child."
"Does it not grieve thee to think that thou, and he, and I, may not meet together in the land of souls?"
"May not meet together in the land of souls? Why? Thou hast sent an arrow to my heart, my husband. Why are the gates of death to separate those who loved each other in life?"
"Our gods are not the same, and the abodes of the souls of the white man and the red man are far apart."
"Why wilt thou not come to the land which holds the spirits of the departed of my race? Thou art a lover of the chace, and often preferrest the pastime of hunting the deer, and the bear, and the panther, through the wild forest, to reposing in the arms of thy Garanga. In the land—my land of souls—thou wilt enjoy thy favourite pursuit. There thou canst course the stag through flowery meads, and over grassy hills, and know nothing of the bitter obstacles which impede the path of an earth-borne hunter. There will be a pleasant cabin built for us beside the placid river of that land—and upon the green banks, beneath the wide-spreading shade of the evergreen larch and cypress, shall our rest be appointed. Come to my heaven, my beloved husband!"
"Garanga! my beautiful Garanga! mother of my son! it may not be!" replied the husband. "The Christian's heaven is unlike the heaven of the infidel, nor does he picture to himself such delights as thou and thy nation fancy are to be the portion of the brave warrior and skilful hunter—of all who do their duty faithfully, and according to the best of their power."
"Then I will go with thee to thy heaven, for I will not be separated from thee!" replied the fond wife. "Teach me how I shall worship thy Master, for alas, I know not his ways."
So the beautiful Garanga forsook the religion of her own nation; and hung round her neck the silver cross and rosary, which marked the belief of her beloved husband. In vain did her father and his people solicit her to quit her husband, and return to them, and to the belief in which she had been bred. Her favourite brother, Mecumeh, came, and besought her, by all the motives of national pride and family vanity, to return to her people in this world, that she might not be severed from them in the land of souls. But the young Garanga, whom her husband called Marguerite, after a woman of his own nation, was bound by a threefold cord—her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Finding that he could not succeed by persuasion, the cunning Mecumeh had recourse to stratagem. The husband was in the habit of going down the river often, on fishing excursions, and, when he returned, he would fire his signal gun—and his wife would hasten, with her little son, to meet him on the shore, and to place the fond kiss of welcome on his cheek.
On one occasion he had been gone longer than usual, by the space of near a moon. Garanga was filled with apprehensions, natural enough to one fondly loving, and at a time when imminent dangers and hair-breadth escapes were of every-day occurrence—when it was known that the people of her nation, displeased with her husband for drawing her away from the faith of her fathers, were studying deep plans of revenge. She had sat in the lofty tower which overlooked the greater part of the surrounding country, and watched for the returning canoe till the last beam of day had faded away from the waters, and that its great star had ever been, could only be gathered from a bright beam that lingered about the folds of the western clouds. The deepening shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination, and she frequently saw things, which, to her, appeared the object her heart sought, but which were mere creations of a fancy moving at the suggestions of hope. Once she was startled by a water-fowl, which, as it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light canoe impelled by her husband's vigorous arm. Again she heard the leap of the heavy Muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and tears followed. The little boy was beside her; he bore the same name as his father, and inherited the warlike disposition and love of daring which distinguished him among his companions. Born and bred among men of war, he understood the use of the bow and the musket; courage and hardihood seemed to be his instinct, and danger his element, and battles, wounds, and the deeds of the valiant, were household words with him. He laughed at his mother's fears, but, in spite of the boy's ridicule, they strengthened till apprehension seemed reality, and she shed tears of sorrow for the fancied death of her beloved husband.
Suddenly the sound of the signal gun broke on the stillness of night. Both mother and son sprang on their feet with a cry of joy, and were pressing, hand in hand, towards the outer gate, when a sentinel or soldier, appointed to keep it, stopped them to remind them that it was her husband's order, that no one should venture without the walls after sunset. She, however, insisted on passing, and telling the soldier that she would answer to her husband for his breach of orders, she passed the outer barrier. Young Louis held up his bow and arrow before the sentinel, saying gaily, "I am my mother's body guard, you know." The sentinel saw the tears of the affectionate wife, gave way, and permitted her to pass.
The distance from the fort to the place where the commander of the white men usually moored his canoe was trifling and quickly passed. Garanga and her little son flew along the narrow path, and soon reached the shore. But, alas! instead of the face she loved, and the form she fondly expected to press to her throbbing bosom, she beheld the fierce Mecumeh. At a little distance from him were his companions. Entreaties and remonstrance were alike in vain. On the part of Garanga resistance was not attempted, but it was made with all the spirit of a warrior by young Louis, who snatched a knife from the girdle of one of the Indians, and attempted to plunge it into the bosom of Mecumeh, as he was roughly attempting to bind his wampum-belt over Garanga's mouth to deaden her screams. The uncle wrested the knife from him, and smiled proudly on him, as if he recognized in the brave boy a scion from his own noble and warlike stock. "You will be the eagle of your tribe," said he, "which none will deem strange since she that gave you birth was a daughter of the most valiant chief that roams the wilds. The child of the panther will have the spirit of the panther, nor need the young bear be taught to climb trees, nor the eaglet to fly."
The Indians had two canoes: Garanga was conveyed to one, Louis to the other; and both canoes were rowed into the Oswegatchie, and up the stream as fast as it was possible to impel them against the current of the river.
Not a word nor a cry escaped the boy: he seemed intent on some purpose; and, when the canoe approached near the shore, he drew from his head his fox-skin cap, and threw it so skilfully that it lodged where he meant it should—on the branch of a tree which projected over the water. There was a long white feather in the cap. The Indians had observed the boy's movements; they held up their oars for a moment, and seemed to consult whether they should return and remove the cap, but, after a moment, they again dashed their oars in the water, and proceeded forward. They continued rowing for a few miles, and then landed, hid their canoes behind some trees on the river bank, and plunged into the woods with their prisoners. It was the intention of the Indians to return to their canoes in the morning; and they had not proceeded far from the shore, when they kindled a fire, and prepared some food, and offered a share of it to Garanga and Louis. The poor Garanga had no mind to eat, but Louis ate as heartily as if he had been within the walls of the fort. When the Indians had fed, they stretched themselves before the fire, but not till they had taken the precaution to bind Garanga to a tree, and to compel Louis to lie down in the arms of the brother of his mother. Neither of the prisoners closed their eyes that night. Louis kept his fixed on his mother. She sat upright beside an oak tree; the cord was fastened around her waist, and bound around the tree, which had been blasted by lightning. The bright moon poured its beams through the naked branches upon her face, convulsed with the agony of despair and fear. With one hand she held to her lips the now loved symbol of the faith of her husband—the crucifix; the other grasped another symbol—the rosary. The sight of his beloved mother in such a situation stirred up daring thoughts in the bosom of the heroic boy, but he lay powerless in the naked and brawny arms of the brother of his mother. He tried to disengage himself, but, at the slightest movement, Mecumeh, though still sleeping, seemed conscious, and strained him closer to him. At last the strong sleep that, in the depth of the night, steeps the senses in utter forgetfulness, overpowered him—his arms relaxed their hold, and dropped lifeless beside him, and left Louis free.
The boy rose cautiously—looked for a moment on the Indians, and assured himself that they all slept profoundly. He then possessed himself of Mecumeh's knife, which lay at his feet, and severed the cord which bound his mother to the tree. Neither of them spoke a word—but with the least possible sound they resumed the way by which they had come from the shore—Louis with the confidence, and Garanga with the faint hope, of reaching it before they were overtaken.
It may easily be imagined by those who hear it how often the poor mother, timid as a fawn, was startled by the evening breeze stirring the leaves, or the flight of a bird from among the boughs of the trees, but the boy bounded forward with all the courage of his race(1), as if there were neither fear nor danger in the world.
Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks, A. R. H. A.
The Boy rose cautiously from the Warrior's grasp. page 204.
London, Published by Colburn & Bentley, April 1830.
They had nearly attained the margin of the river where Louis meant to launch one of the canoes, and drop down the current, when the Indian yell, resounding through the woods, struck on their ears. They were missed, pursued, and escape was impossible. Garanga, her bosom filled with overmastering fear, sunk to the ground. Nothing could check the career of Louis. "On!—on, mother!" he cried, "to the shore!" She rose, and instinctively followed her boy. The sound of pursuit came nearer and nearer. They reached the shore, and there beheld three canoes coming swiftly up the river. Animated with hope, Louis screamed the watchword of the garrison, and was answered by his father's voice.
The possibility of escape, and the certain approach of her husband, infused new life into Garanga. "Your father cannot see us," she said, "as we stand here in the shade of the trees; hide yourself in that thicket, I will plunge into the water." Louis crouched under the bushes, and was completely hidden by an overhanging grape-vine, while his mother advanced a few steps into the water where she could be distinctly seen. A shout from the canoes apprised her that she was recognised, and, at the same moment, the Indians, who had now reached the shore, rent the air with their cries of rage and defiance. They stood for a moment as if deliberating what next to do; Mecumeh maintained an undaunted and resolved air, but, with his followers, who did not possess the courage of their race, the aspect of armed men, and a force of thrice their number, had the effect to paralyze their souls. They fled. He looked after them, cried "Shame!" and then with a desperate yell leaped into the water, and stood beside Garanga. The canoes were now within a few yards—he put his knife to her bosom—"The daughter of the White Crane," he said, "should have died by the judgment of our warriors, but now by her brother's hand she must perish:" and he drew back his arm to give vigour to the fatal stroke, when an arrow from the bow of the brave boy pierced his breast, and he fell insensible at his sister's side. A moment after Garanga was in the arms of her husband, and Louis, with his bow unstrung, bounded from the shore, and was received in his father's canoe; and the wild shores rung with the acclamations of the soldiers, while his father's tears were poured like rain upon his cheek.
Nor did the fierce Mecumeh die. He was conveyed to the fort, his wound was healed, and he lived to be reckoned among the aged men of his nation. The affectionate Garanga prevailed upon him to embrace the religion which had become her own, so that they who lived happily together in this life were not separated by the hand of death, but repaired to the heaven of white men together.