Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 6, December 1852

“Charles,” she sighed, as she looked up at him eagerly and endearingly, “I fear I do wrong to meet you here against my parents’ wishes.”

“Your conscience is too tender, sweet innocence,” was his reply. “God is more lenient in his judgment than thou deemest him. He hath implanted in thy bosom the very love for me and inclination to meet me here which thou art now afraid he will condemn; and thine own immaculate virtue and purity are thy sure safeguards from greater harm than he who now speaks could ever bring upon thee. Dearest, I would not hurt a hair of your beloved head, still less bring upon thee the judgments of Heaven. Dost thou not believe it, Grace?”

“Nay, but your religion?” she urged timidly —

“Is easily changed,” replied the lover. “Why, Grace, I will turn Puritan in garb, habits, worship, every thing, to win thee. At present I am on an embassy of diplomacy; but, in a few weeks, when I return, I shall have nothing to do but to court you in the guise that shall most please your scrupulous parents. You know how from the first moment I saw you” – and he lowered his voice to the soft, musical key of impassioned devotion – “you became dearer to me than aught in this world besides. I love you, Grace, better than all words can tell, and shall live until we meet but in the hope of coming to reclaim you, with arguments fitted to disarm all the objections of your father and mother. You will not forget me, will you?” he asked.

She laid her hand trustingly in his, and in a look of unalterable love gave him her reply.

The stolen interview did not last much longer, and in another half hour Grace Bartlett slept sweetly on her pillow, and the stranger was at his quarters in the village.

—

CHAPTER VI

They linger yet.
Avengers of their native land.

    Gray.
A month passed away, the stranger had departed, and whatever had been the original object of his visit, it never was made known to the villagers. Grace had as yet received no letter or token from her lover. The suspense had paled her cheek, and dimmed the soft light of her eyes. It gave also a sad plaintiveness to her voice, and a languor and debility to her movements, which awoke the anxiety of her parents to a painful degree.

They also, in common with the rest of the villagers, were, however, suffering during this time apprehensions from another cause.

At this period in the progress of the American colonies, Britain had one or two powerful emissaries on the borders, whom she had sent to crush the settlements. To disguise their purpose, or perhaps to embrace another equally important, these emissaries were officers of the army, sent with a military force to establish forts on the borders, for defense against the encroachments of the Indian tribes. As the reader has received some intimation in the course of our tale, it became the policy of these men to direct their chief efforts against the settlers, and for this end, when it was practicable, they won by bribery the co-exertion of the savages.

Very recently, the little settlement in which a portion of our tale is laid, had received intimations of an intended attack from the Indians. Considerable alarm had been felt, and the fire-arms long in disuse, were burnished and prepared for operation in every family.

Things were in this state when, one calm and cloudless night, when the moon shone with her brightest effulgence, quenching the stars in their radiance, and bringing out into clear and softened perspective the scenery below. Within the peaceful village of our story reigned the most profound repose. Its inhabitants, unconscious of impending danger, had long since offered up the nightly incense of their pious hearts, and resigned themselves to sleep – sleep in the old, deep, undisturbed and dreamless; in the young, light, peaceful and visionary – in all, the unfeverish, refreshing rest which was the natural reward of their simple habits, and the rectitude of their lives.

The silence was suddenly broken by sounds that curdled the blood of those who heard them, and made them spring to their feet as if a lightning flash had stricken them. Before any one could find words, the appalling war-cry of the savages burst from every quarter, startling the very air through which it passed, and falling like a blight upon the spirit. The devoted villagers beheld throughout the settlement lines of streaming torches moved by dusky forms. These torch-lights carried high above their heads showed not only the grim faces of those who bore them, but also those of others who were partly concealed by the foliage of the forest in which they stood. With that forethought and cunning so remarkable in their race, they had conveyed firebrands and straw to the doors of each dwelling in the early part of the evening. The yell already noticed was the signal for firing their previous preparations, and, ere many moments had elapsed, a number of the cottages were in flames. Glancing instinctively toward their pastor’s home, the terrified settlers found that it shared in the general fate. To hold a short conclave, and then dispatch a few of the more fearless and active of their number to the assistance of its helpless inmates was the work of a moment.

Hurrying along the little path, the heroic men reached the spot as the high and agonizing scream of a woman arose far above the discordant yell even of the savages. It came from Grace Bartlett. Scarcely conscious of what she did, the unhappy girl, leaving her chamber, gained the top of the stair-case, and loudly as she could, called upon the name of her parents.

Her piteous accents were responded to only by a shout from the crowd. Bounding footsteps mingled with shouts reached her, approaching momently nearer, and ascending the stair-case.

With all the instinct of self-preservation, the affrighted Grace rushed back again into her own apartment. There, sinking on her knees, she reposed her forehead against the side of the windowsill, and nearly suffocated with smoke, and in a state of indescribable agony, awaited the consummation of her fate.

The ascending feet had now reached the passage without, and in another instant a man rushed fearlessly into the room. The blood of the young girl curdled in her veins. She mechanically caught the ledge of the casement on which her aching head rested, and closing her eyes awaited in trembling the blow which should put an end at once to her misery and her life. But in another moment she felt herself firmly secured in the grasp of an encircling arm, and speedily carried through the chamber. Instinctively, a sense of something more dreadful even than death now flashed across her mind, as the unhappy girl opened her eyes wildly upon her captor.

A heart-rending shriek escaped her as she did so. She was in the arms of a gigantic savage. His long, raven hair was matted with blood, and hung loosely and disfiguringly over his eyes, while his face and brow were marked with crimson spots – doubtless spatterings from the wounds of others – and a slight stream that trickled from his cheek gave evidence that he himself had been hurt in the affray.

“Oh, my God, save me!” exclaimed the shuddering girl, raising her eyes imploringly to heaven. From that moment she was insensible to all that was passing.

—

CHAPTER VII

And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreams
Of home, and happiness, and quiet years?

    Miss Landon.
Darkness was about to throw her veil over the earth, when a lofty tent might have been seen pitched on the extreme summit of a ridge beyond which lay the horizon in golden beauty. Buffalo skins formed a floor to the inclosure, and upon these reposed the forms of three human beings. One was an Indian, evidently of the rank of a chief. He lay on one of the skins at his lazy length, his feet reaching beyond the opening of the tent, and his head reposing on a rude pillow, formed of the furry hides of other wild animals. He smoked a pipe, while his roving eye often rested upon the farthest of his companions.

At a little distance from the savage we have described sat a female, whose hair, complexion, and whole looks bespoke her Indian birth. Her dress, likewise, was that of her tribe, and was of the quality and texture to mark her as the probable wife of the chief whose company she bore. A wooden bowl was at her side, and from this she was now in the act of feeding herself with a spoon of the same material, but with a slovenly negligence indicative of her origin.

The farthest extremity of the tent revealed another woman, whose appearance denoted her to be of European extraction. She was blue-eyed, and of surpassing fairness of skin. Her attitude indicated a mind too powerfully absorbed in grief to be heedful of appearances, for she sat with her limbs contracted, and rocking her body to and fro with a motion that seemed to have its origin in no efforts of her own. Her long, golden hair hung negligently over a neck of dazzling whiteness; and a blanket drawn over the top of her head like a veil, and extending partly around her person, disclosed here and there portions of an apparel which was strictly American, though much torn. A bowl similar to that of the Indian female, and filled with the same food, was at her side, but this was untasted.

“Why does the pale-face refuse to eat?” asked the warrior of her next to him, as he rolled a volume of smoke from his lips. “Make her eat, for I would speak to her afterward.”

“Why does she refuse to eat?” echoed the woman, dropping her spoon as she spoke, and turning to the object of remark, “It is good,” she continued, as she touched the arm of the heedless sufferer. “Daughter of the pale-faces, eat.”

A cry of distress burst from the lips of the unhappy girl, as apparently roused from her abstraction, she suffered the blanket to fall from her head, and stared wildly at her questioner.

“Is the air of the tent not pleasant to the blossom of the clearings?” asked the warrior, evidently touched by her seeming misery.

Seeing that she made no answer, he continued, “What is written is written. The Red-man cannot lie. We must bear thee to the great white father at a distance. But perchance the door may one day be left open, and the bird can escape from its nest.”

“Ah! whither can I fly?” exclaimed Grace Bartlett, at length bursting into tears. “My native village is destroyed, my home is burned, and my parents and neighbors have fallen victims to the general ruin.” She wept for some moments bitter tears, which seemed to relieve her overcharged heart – the chief and his squaw looking on her with more of pity than is usual in their race.

The next morning their march commenced again through the interminable forest. The Indian traveled on foot, while the two females were mounted on mules. The wretchedness of the unfortunate prisoner seemed to increase throughout the whole route, her companions wearing the stolid indifference of the North American tribes, except when momently touched by her situation: For the most part, during the slow ride, Grace Bartlett was left to her own miserable reflections, receiving only at rare intervals some rude attentions from the female, who accompanied her.

The slow pace of the travelers, with various other causes of delay which it is needless to mention, detained them three nights upon their road. As soon as darkness approached the tent was again spread, and a halt was made until the morning. On the fourth evening, instead of encamping as before, they continued their journey until a late hour, when the eyes of the captive maiden, wearied with a succession of wild wood scenery, gazed with something like pleasure upon the scene that now opened before her.

The object that thus met the gaze of Grace Bartlett as they emerged from the forest, was one of those stern fortresses of which so many, in our early history, seemed to accuse England of designs against the Indians. It had external pretensions to the name by which we call it, for it looked strong enough to bid defiance to any attempts against it by siege or storm. A deep moat surrounded the lofty stone turrets on all sides, and a drawbridge was the only means of crossing to the entrance of the fort. To Grace, the sight of the fortification, though she gazed on it at first with pleasure, immediately after brought feelings of pain and apprehension; and however confident she might be in the good providence and protection of God, it cannot be denied that she felt deeply and with an anxious and sickening heart her entrance in a place which might prove to her a final prison.

After assisting his companions to dismount, the Indian blew a loud, shrill whistle. He was answered by a sentinel, who carried on a brief conversation with him, and withdrew to an inner lodge for the key of the great gate. He soon returned, it creaked upon its hinges, and the heavy drawbridge swung slowly up with a jarring sound of chains and huge iron-work – sadly harmonious with the uses of the building which they shut out. The bell, communicating with the mansion connected with the fortress, rung, and the chief, with his prisoner, passed slowly in to an inner court, leaving the squaw standing without.

The glare of light, the sound of music, mingled with the tones of the human voice in merry laughter and light conversation reached her ear, and startled the wretched girl with wonder. The Indian, with the utmost tranquillity and with slow and important steps, led the way toward this portion of the large and heavy mass of gloomy masonry, which, with its tall chimneys, loomed up before them. An immense doorway opened upon a broad staircase that seemed formed to make the head dizzy with its many windings. Up this the savage proceeded with his prisoner, whom he held by the arm, half-supporting her weight as she moved passively and like a piece of mechanism in his fingers. On the first landing they passed a drawing-room, splendidly illuminated and filled with revelers, from whence the noise that had reached the court-yard proceeded. Continuing up the various turnings until they had accomplished another flight, the savage paused, and opened a door communicating with a single chamber handsomely furnished.

Its solitary occupant was a man past the prime of life. He seemed immersed in business, examining documents and reading letters which were strewn on a table before him. He arose as our party entered, held out his hand to the Indian, and asked, “Any prisoners?”

“We have taken a daughter of the pale-faces, a blossom of the clearings,” was the reply of the savage as he pointed to his captive. “But the air of the woods is not pleasant to her: she pines after the wigwam of her fathers.”

Grace Bartlett had no sooner entered the apartment than her whole frame trembled violently, and the color leaving her cheeks, she sank down on the floor, resting her elbows on her knees and pressing her hands to her forehead.

The appearance and attitude, indicative at once of extreme fatigue and the abandonment of despair, did not fail to move the compassionate feelings of General Lincoln, who raised her gently and seated her in a large arm-chair.

“Alas!” said he to the warrior, when he had performed this act, “why did you bring so frail a creature? It were a pity to have made her a sacrifice to my courtly intrigues and ambitious plans: she is only fit to be the darling of her parents.”

“My parents!” exclaimed the unhappy girl at this mention of them, “would to God that I knew their fate!”

“You shall be treated kindly,” said the general to her with much considerateness of manner, and in a gentle tone. “Every thing shall be done to make your residence here pleasant. You are fatigued,” he continued, “sweet maiden,” as he turned to a bell that was suspended near.

A servant in livery appeared, and after a few brief words from his master again vanished. He returned presently, followed by a neat maid-servant.

“Go now,” said Lincoln to Grace, in tones of encouragement, as he gently assisted her from the chair whereon he had placed her, “to the chamber provided for you. Susette will perform the offices of your toilet for you, and furnish you with nourishment suited to your weak condition.”

When left alone with the Indian he paced the room with a disturbed air and gigantic strides. Suddenly he paused short, and glanced his eye toward his dusky companion. He beheld the savage regarding him with the calm but sullen attention which marks the expression of this subtle people. Instantly recollecting himself, he asked in a friendly tone —