Allegheny Episodes / Folk Lore and Legends Collected in Northern and Western Pennsylvania

by Henry W. Shoemaker

The old Pequot was not averse to the union, which would add another strain of Indian blood to the family, but stated that a marriage could only take place on certain conditions. Weguarran, in his conversations with Michaelmas, had told him of his military affiliations with the French, which had filled the old man’s heart with joy for the hopes of a new order of things that it seemed to kindle. When he asked the hand of the fair Wulaha in marriage, Michaelmas “came back” with the following proposition:

“Weguarran, I am getting old and feeble,” he said. “I may pass away any time, and I could not bear the thought of my squaw being left alone, which would be the case if you married Wulaha and took her to the distant shores of Lake Michigan. However, there are greater things than my death and my squaw’s loneliness, the future of the red race, now crushed to earth by the Wunnux, as we call the white men, but some day to be triumphant. You have told me that within this very year the French and Indians are sure to engage the English in a mighty battle which will decide the future history of the Continent. You can marry Wulaha right after that battle, if you are victorious; otherwise you can do as the Missionaries tell us the Romans did–fall on your sword. You can never return here, as I do not want my daughter to marry and continue the race of a beaten people. I would far rather have her die single, and have our seed perish, for if this victory is not won, doomed is every redman on this Continent. The only wish of the English is to encompass our extermination. Wulaha will remain at home until after that battle, when you can come for her and claim her as your own, and we will give her to you with rejoicing.”

“What you say is surely fair enough, Father Michaelmas,” replied Weguarran, “for I would see no future for Wulaha and myself if the English are victorious in this inevitable battle. As soon as it is won–and it will be won, for the high resolve of every Indian warrior is to go in to win–I will hurry back to the banks of the Lehigh, never stopping to rest, sleep or eat, to tell you of the glad tidings, and bear away my beloved Wulaha. I want to ask one special favor of you. I have admired your wonderful cage of trained wild pigeons, which you say will carry messages hundreds of miles. Lend me one of these pigeons, and as soon as the victory is won, I will release the bird, and while I am speeding eastward on foot, our feathered friend will fly on ahead and end the suspense, and bring joy to yourself, your squaw and Wulaha.”

“I will gladly let you have my best trained pigeon, or hawk, or anything I possess, if I can learn of the victory, but in turn I will ask a favor of you. I listened with breathless interest to your tales of the Prostrate Junipers which grow on the shores of the great lakes, which cover two thousand square feet, and are hundreds of years old. You promised to bring me a scion of one of those curious trees, so that I might plant it in my garden of rare trees and shrubs. Now, here will be a chance to associate it with the great victory; pluck a stout but small scion, and if the victory is won, affix it firmly to one of the pigeon’s legs and let it go. If it comes back without the twig of Juniper I will know that our cause has lost, and while you fall on your sword, I and my family will jump into the Lehigh.”

“I will gladly do as you say, Father Michaelmas,” said Weguarran, “and will send a twig that will grow, and some day make a noble tree, and in years to come, our people will call it Weguarran’s Victory Tree. The[The] fact that it is a Prostrate Tree makes it all the more appropriate, as it will represent the English race lying prostrated, crushed by the red race they wronged, and by our kindly and just French allies.”

Weguarran was so inspired by the thought of the pigeon messenger, the sprig of Prostrate Juniper, and the impending victory that it assuaged his grief at the parting from Wulaha, sending him away determined to give a good account of himself in all things.

Old Michaelmas selected a handsome cock pigeon, with a dragon’s blood red breast–his very best and most intelligent, and surest flyer, named Wuskawhan, which he placed in a specially built, bottle shaped basket, which had no lid, yet the top was too small for the bird to escape. In this way it could rise up and peer out, as it was carried along, and not bruise its wing coverts or head, as it would if it flew against the top of a square basket with a lid.

After a touching parting with Wulaha, her mother and father, the young warrior went his way with his precious burden.

The Indians, even old Mozzetuk, were rapid travellers, and in due time they reached the country of the Prostrate Junipers on the shores of Lake Michigan. They arrived in what seemed like an armed camp, for all the braves had been called to arms, which plotted to drive Indians and French to the uttermost ends of the earth.

Weguarran was quickly mobilized, and a musket in one hand and tomahawk in the other, while on his back he bore the sacred pigeon, he marched toward his foes. In the excitement he had not forgotten to slip into his pouch at his belt a sprig of the Prostrate Juniper, which would be the emblem of the English race prostrate under the foot of French and Indian allies.