CHAPTER XVIII.
PRIDE AND GREATNESS OF MIND.

The Indians are proud but not vain; they consider vanity as degrading and unworthy the character of a man. The hunter never boasts of his skill or strength, nor the warrior of his prowess. It is not right, they say, that one should value himself too much for an action which another may perform as well as himself, and when a man extols his own deeds, it seems as if he doubted his own capability to do the like again when he pleased. Therefore, they prefer in all cases to let their actions speak for themselves. The skins and peltry which the hunter brings home, the deer’s horns on the roof of his cabin, the horses, furniture and other property that he possesses, his apparel and that of his family, the visits with which he is honored by the first and best men among his nation; all these things show what he is and what he has done, and with this he rests satisfied.

So with the warrior; it is enough for him that he is known to be a man of spirit and courage by the scalps and prisoners that he brings home; he never is seen going about boasting of his warlike exploits, and when questioned on the subject, he makes his answer as short as possible. Even when he is entering a town with his prisoners and scalps, he does not stare about to see whether the people are looking at him, but walks his usual steady pace and marches straight forward without appearing to see any body. When at some of their particular festivals, every warrior is called upon to relate his feats of arms, they make it a point to be as brief as possible, leaving it to those who have done but little, to swell their actions into importance, and give themselves credit for what they have done. I cannot illustrate this subject better than by a few anecdotes.

In the year 1779, two war chiefs, the one a young man of the Shawano tribe, and the other an old warrior of the Wyandots, living near Detroit, much celebrated for his great actions, but who during the whole of the Revolutionary war, could not be persuaded to take the field against the Americans, met accidentally at my house on Muskingum, where they had separately come to pay me a friendly visit. The Shawano (whose nation, by the bye, are noted for much talk,) entered upon the subject of war, and with much earnestness in words and gestures, related the actions he had been engaged in, showing at the same time on his arm the mark of a bullet wound. During all this time, the Wyandot, smoking his pipe, listened with great attention and apparent surprise; and having afterwards to answer, according to custom, by relating what he had done, he laid down his pipe, and deliberately drawing off his clothes, except the breech-cloth, rose up and said: “I have been in upwards of twenty engagements with the enemy and fought with the French against the English; I have warred against the southern nations, and my body shows that I have been struck and wounded by nine balls. These two wounds I received at the same moment, from two Cherokees, who, seeing me fall, rested their guns against a tree, and ran up with their tomahawks to dispatch me, and take off my scalp. With the aid of the Great Spirit I jumped up, just at the moment when they were about to give me the stroke. I struck them and they both fell at my feet. I took their scalps and returned home.” Thus this grave and respectable veteran gave a lesson to the young Shawano, which, if he well understood, he, no doubt, ever after remembered; for in a few words, and in less than five minutes, he showed him at once the contrast between great actions briefly and modestly told, and every day occurrences related and dwelt on with pompous minuteness. This contrast, indeed, was particularly striking, the more so as the modest warrior did not seem to enjoy his triumph, nor to be even conscious of the accession to his fame which must result from the publicity of the account which he had given. As both parties spoke the Shawano language, I well understood every thing they said, and I paid the most particular attention to their discourse, which was of itself sufficiently interesting.

This passion of the Indians, which I have called pride, but which might, perhaps, be better denominated high-mindedness, is generally combined with a great sense of honour, and not seldom produces actions of the most heroic kind. I am now going to relate an instance of this honourable pride, which I have also witnessed. An Indian of the Lenape nation, who was considered as a very dangerous person, and was much dreaded on that account, had publicly declared that as soon as another Indian, who was then gone to Sandusky, should return from thence, he would certainly kill him. This dangerous Indian called in one day at my house on the Muskingum to ask me for some tobacco. While this unwelcome guest was smoking his pipe by my fire, behold! the other Indian whom he had threatened to kill, and who at that moment had just arrived, also entered the house. I was much frightened, as I feared the bad Indian would take that opportunity to carry his threat into execution, and that my house would be made the scene of a horrid murder. I walked to the door, in order not to witness a crime that I could not prevent, when to my great astonishment I heard the Indian whom I thought in danger, address the other in these words: “Uncle, you have threatened to kill me—you have declared that you would do it the first time we should meet. Now I am here, and we are together. Am I to take it for granted that you are in earnest, and that you are really determined to take my life as you have declared? Am I now to consider you as my avowed enemy, and in order to secure my own life against your murderous designs, to be the first to strike you and embrue my hands in your blood?—I will not, I cannot do it. Your heart is bad, it is true, but still you appear to be a generous foe, for you gave me notice of what you intended to do; you have put me on my guard, and did not attempt to assassinate me by surprise; I, therefore, will spare you until you lift up your arm to strike, and then, uncle, it will be seen which of us shall fall!” The murderer was thunderstruck, and without replying a word, slunk off and left the house.

The anecdote with which I am going to conclude this chapter, will display an act of heroism produced by this elevation of mind which I have called pride, which, perhaps, may have been equalled, but, I dare say, was hardly ever surpassed. In the spring of the year 1782, the war chief of the Wyandots of Lower Sandusky sent a white prisoner (a young man whom he had taken at Fort M’Intosh) as a present to another chief, who was called the Half-king of Upper Sandusky,[174] for the purpose of being adopted into his family, in the place of one of his sons, who had been killed the preceding year, while at war with the people on the Ohio. The prisoner arrived, and was presented to the Half-king’s wife, but she refused to receive him, which, according to the Indian rule, was, in fact, a sentence of death. The young man was, therefore, taken away, for the purpose of being tortured and burnt on the pile. While the dreadful preparations were making near the village, the unhappy victim being already tied to the stake, and the Indians arriving from all quarters to join in the cruel act or to witness it, two English traders, Messrs. Arundel and Robbins (I delight in making this honourable mention of their names), shocked at the idea of the cruelties which were about to be perpetrated, and moved by feelings of pity and humanity, resolved to unite their exertions to endeavour to save the prisoner’s life by offering a ransom to the war chief, which he, however refused, because, said he, it was an established rule among them, that when a prisoner who had been given as a present, was refused adoption, he was irrevocably doomed to the stake, and it was not in the power of any one to save his life. Besides, added he, the numerous war captains who were on the spot, had it in charge to see the sentence carried into execution. The two generous Englishmen, however, were not discouraged, and determined to try a last effort. They well knew what effects the high-minded pride of an Indian was capable of producing, and to this strong and noble passion they directed their attacks: “But,” said they, in reply to the answer which the chief had made them, “among all those chiefs whom you have mentioned, there is none who equals you in greatness; you are considered not only as the greatest and bravest, but as the best man in the nation.” “Do you really believe what you say?” said at once the Indian, looking them full in the face. “Indeed, we do.” Then, without saying another word, he blackened himself, and taking his knife and tomahawk in his hand, made his way through the crowd to the unhappy victim, crying out with a loud voice: “What have you to do with my prisoner?” and at once cutting the cords with which he was tied, took him to his house which was near Mr. Arundel’s, whence he was forthwith secured and carried off by safe hands to Detroit, where[175] the commandant, being informed of the transaction, sent him by water to Niagara, where he was soon afterwards liberated. The Indians who witnessed this act, said that it was truly heroic; they were so confounded by the unexpected conduct of this chief, and by his manly and resolute appearance, that they had not time to reflect upon what they should do, and before their astonishment was well over, the prisoner was out of their reach.