Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3

by James Athearn Jones

"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.