The honest captain found objection to the plan of carrying her away, and sent for “Tyee John” (for so they called the chieftain then), and made him understand how the young people had become betrothed.
The face of Tyee John grew dark at first, and he was impatient to be gone; but kindly words and presents hinted at brought him to consider. He proposed that the sailor-boy should become one of his tribe, and make his home with them, and then he could be his son.
The conference was transferred to the e-li-he of Tyee John. The sailor would not consent to remain on this wild shore, and made vows to come again and bring Oneatta.
At length by rich presents given, and promises of more when he should come, the compact was made, to the joy of the Indian maiden and her sailor lover.
The sea gave a favoring breeze. The sails repaired, the tyee captain made known his will to ride again the bounding waves. Oneatta bade farewell to sorrowing mothers, sisters, brothers, giving each a token to keep until her coming. O foolish Oneatta! you know not what you do! You act now from example of your fairer sisters, who listen to the wooing notes of foreign lips. We pity you as we do them. You
have not thought how strange will be the customs, manners and life of those with whom you are to mingle. A time may come when you will long for the caresses of your rude mother, to hear the merry shouts of brothers, to gaze into the face of your dark-eyed father; perhaps long to hear love in native accents spoken by the young brave who has given you choicest gems of ocean’s strand and mountain cliffs.
We see you yet when your kinsmen tell of you in song, or story, your dark eyes brimming with tears of hope and sorrow mingled.
You reach the side of the “big canoe.” We see the brave and manly sailor-boy, who hastened to catch your trembling hand, and help you up the swinging steps, and when on deck you stand, we see the sailor’s chums, from the ship-yards above, gaze down on you and him, with glances half of envy, and half of pleased surprise.
And now we see you startle at the fierce command of the mate, to heave the anchor up, then their response drawn out in lengthened “Aye-aye, sir,” and singing, while they work, the seamen’s song; and how wide your dark eyes open at sight of whitened sails, outspreading like some monster swan, and the troubled, anxious look you give to the humble e-li-he of childhood, as it passed away, as if moving in itself, and the headlands that seem floating towards you, and the great water that came rushing to meet you.
We see, too, your father, Tyee John, in his “hollow-tree canoe,” leading the way, and pointing to some sunken rock, or shallow bar, or hidden reef, until he rounds to in proof of danger past to the “big canoe.”