Gustave Aimard
The Prairie Flower: A Tale of the Indian Border
CHAPTER VIII
THE EXILE
We are compelled, for the proper comprehension of the facts that will follow, to break off our story for a moment, in order to describe a strange adventure which happened on the Western Prairies some thirty odd years before our story opens.
The Indians, whom people insist so wrongly, in our opinion, in regarding as savages, have certain customs which display a thorough knowledge of the human heart. The Comanches, who appear to remember that in old times they enjoyed a far advanced civilization, have retained the largest amount of those customs which are, certainly, stamped with originality.
One day in the month of February, which they call the Moon of the Arriving Eagles, and in the year 1795 or 1796, a village of the Red Cow tribe was in a state of extraordinary agitation. The hachesto, or public speaker, mounted on the roof of a lodge, summoned the warriors for the seventh hour of the day to the village square, near the ark of the first man, where a grand council would be held. The warriors asked each other in vain the purport of this unforeseen meeting, but no one could tell them: the hachesto himself was ignorant, and they were obliged to await the hour of assembling, although the comments and suppositions still went on to a great extent.
The Redskins, whom badly-informed authors represent to us as cold, silent men, are, on the contrary, very gay, and remarkable gossips when together. What has caused the contrary supposition is, that in their relations with white men the Indians are, in the first place, checked by the difficulties of the language – equally insurmountable, by the way, for both parties – and next by the distrust which every American native feels towards Europeans, whoever they may be, owing to the inveterate hatred that separates the two races.
During our lengthened residence among Indian tribes we often had opportunities for noticing what mistakes are made with respect to the Redskins. During their long evening gossips in the villages, or the hunting expeditions, there was a rolling fire of jokes and witticisms, often lasting whole hours, to the great delight of the audience, who laughed that hearty Indian laugh, without care or afterthought, which cleaves the mouth to the ears, and draws tears of delight, – a laugh which, for metallic resonance, can only be compared with that of negroes, though the former is far more spiritual than the latter, whose notes have ever something bestial about them.
Toward the decline of day, the hour selected for the meeting, the village square presented a most animated appearance. The warriors, women, children, and dogs, those inseparable guests of the Redskins, pressed round a large circle left empty in the centre for the council fire, near which the principal chiefs of the nation crouched ceremoniously. At a sign from an old sachem whose hair, white as silver, fell in a cloud on his shoulders, the pipe bearer brought in the great calumet, the stem of which he presented to each chief in turn, while holding the bowl in the palm of his hand. When all the chiefs had smoked, the pipe bearer turned the calumet to the four cardinal points, while murmuring mysterious words which no one heard; then he emptied the ash into the fire, saying aloud, —
"Chiefs, warriors, women, and children of the Red Cow, your sachems are assembled to judge a very grave question; pray to the Master of Life to inspire them with wise words."
Then the pipe bearer, after bowing respectfully to the chiefs, withdrew, taking the calumet with him. The council began, and, at a sign from the aged sachem, a chief rose, and bowing, took the word: —
"Venerated sachems, chiefs, and warriors of my nation," he said, in a loud voice, "the mission with which I am entrusted is painful to my heart: listen to me indulgently, be not governed by passion; but let justice alone preside over the severe decree which you will, perhaps, be compelled to pronounce. The mission which I am entrusted with is painful, I repeat; it fills my heart with sadness: I am compelled to accuse before you two renowned chiefs belonging to two illustrious families, who have, with equal claims, deserved well of the nation on many occasions by rendering it signal services; these chiefs, as I must name them before you, are the Bounding Panther, and the Sparrow Hawk."
On hearing these names, so well known and justly esteemed, pronounced, a shudder of astonishment and pain ran though the crowd. But, at a sign from the oldest chief, silence was almost immediately re-established, and the chief continued —
"How is it that a cloud has suddenly passed over the mind of these two warriors, and tarnished their intellect to such an extent, that these two men, who so long loved one another as brothers, whose friendship was cited among the nation, have suddenly become implacable enemies, so that, when they see each other, their eyes flash lightning, and their hands seek their weapons to commit murder? No one can say; no one knows it; these chiefs, when interrogated by the sachems, maintained an obstinate silence, instead of revealing the causes of their cruel enmity, which brings trouble and desolation on the tribe. Such a scandal must not last longer; tolerating it would be giving a pernicious example to our children! Sachems, chiefs, and warriors, in the name of justice, I demand that these irreconcilable enemies should be eternally banished from the tribe this very evening at sunset. I have spoken. Have I said well, powerful men?"
The chief sat down amid a mournful silence in this assembly of nearly two thousand people; the beating of their sorrow-laden hearts might almost be heard, such sustained attention did each one give to the words pronounced in the council.
"Has any chief any observation to offer on the accusation which has just been brought?" the old sachem said, in a weak voice, which was, however, perfectly heard in every part of the square. A member of the council rose.
"I take the word," he said, "not to refute Tiger Cat's accusation, for unfortunately all he has said is most scrupulously correct; far from exaggerating facts, he has, with that goodness and wisdom which reside in him, weakened the odiousness of that hatred; I only wish to offer a remark to my brothers. The chiefs are guilty, that is only too fully proved; a longer discussion on that point would be tedious; but, as Tiger Cat himself told us, with that loyalty which distinguishes him, these two men are renowned chiefs, chosen warriors, and they have rendered the nation signal services; we all love and cherish them for different reasons; let us be severe, but not cruel; let us not drive them from among us as unclean creatures; before striking, let us make one more attempt to reconcile them; this last step, taken in the presence of the whole nation, will, doubtlessly, touch their hearts, and we shall have the happiness of keeping two illustrious chiefs. If they remain deaf to our prayers, if our observations do not obtain the success we desire, then, as the case will be without a remedy, let us be implacable; put an end to this scandal which has lasted too long, and, as Tiger Cat asked, drive them for ever from our nation, which they dishonour. I have spoken. Have I said well, powerful men?"
After bowing to the sachems, the chief resumed his seat in the midst of a murmur of satisfaction, produced by his hearty language. Although these two speeches were contained in the programme of the ceremony, and everyone knew what the result of the meeting would be, the unreconciled chiefs had so much sympathy among the nation, that many persons still hoped they would be reconciled at the last moment, when they saw themselves on the point of being banished. The strangest thing connected with the hatred between the two men was, that the reason of it was completely unknown, and no one knew how to account for it. When silence was restored, the oldest sachem, after a consultation with his colleagues in a low voice, took the word.
"Let the Bounding Panther and the Sparrowhawk be introduced to our presence."
At the two opposite corners of the square, the crowd parted like overripe fruit, and left a passage for a small band of warriors, in the centre of which the two accused men walked. When they met, they remained perfectly calm, a slight arching of the eyebrows being the only sign of emotion they displayed. They were each about twenty-five years of age, well built, and active, and of martial aspect. They wore their grand costume and war paint, but their weapons were carried by their respective friends. They presented themselves before the council with great respect and modesty, which the assembly approved of heartily. After looking at them with a glance at once sorrowful and benevolent, the eldest sachem rose with an effort, and, supported by two of his colleagues, who held him under the arms, he at length spoke in a weak voice.
"Warriors, my beloved children," he said, "from the spot where you stood you heard the accusation brought against you; what have you to say in your defence? – are those words true? do you really entertain this irreconcilable hatred to each other? Speak."
The two chiefs bowed their heads silently. The sachem continued —
"My cherished children, I was already very old, when your mother, a child, whose birth I also saw, brought you into the world. I was the first to teach you the use of those weapons, which later became so terrible in your vigorous hands. Now that I am about to sleep the eternal sleep, only to wake again in the happy hunting grounds, give me a supreme consolation which will make me the happiest of men, and repay me for all the sorrow you have caused me. Come, children, you are young and adventurous, love alone ought to find a place in your hearts; hatred is a passion belonging to a ripe age, it does not become youth; offer one another those honest hands, embrace, like the two brothers you are, and let all be eternally forgotten between you. I implore you, my children; you cannot resist the prayers of an old man so near the tomb as I am."
There was a moment of supreme anxiety in the crowd; all waited with panting hearts for what was about to happen. The two chiefs directed a tender glance at the old sachem, who regarded them with tears in his eyes, then turned towards each other; their lips trembled, as if they wished to speak; a nervous tremor agitated their bodies, but no sound passed their lips; their arms remained inert by their sides.
"Answer," the old man continued, "yes or no. You must; I command it."
"No," they replied together, in a hoarse though firm voice.
The sachem drew himself up.
"It is well," he said. "As no generous feeling remains in your hearts, as hatred has eaten them up entirely, and you are no longer men but monsters, listen to the irrevocable sentence which your sachems, your equals, your relations, and friends pronounce upon you. The nation rejects you from its bosom; you are no longer children of our tribe. Fire and water are refused you on the hunting ground of your nation, we no longer know you. Chiefs who answer for you with their heads will lead you twenty-five leagues from the village; you, Bounding Panther, in a southern, and you, Sparrowhawk, in a northern direction; you are forbidden, under penalty of death, ever to set your foot again on the territory of your nation; each of you will take one of these arrows, painted of diverse colours, which will serve as a passport with the tribes through which you pass. Seek a nation to adopt you, for henceforth you have neither country nor family. Go, accursed ones! these arrows are the last presents you will receive from your brothers. Go, and may the Master of Life soften your tiger hearts! As for us, we know you no more. I have spoken. Have I said well, powerful men?"
The old man sat down again in the midst of general emotion; he veiled his face with the skirt of his buffalo robe, and wept. The two chiefs tottered away like drunken men, led to opposite corners of the square by their friends. They passed through the ranks of their countrymen, bowed down by the maledictions showered on them as they passed.
At the extremity of the village, horses were awaiting them. They galloped off, still followed by their escort. When each arrived at the spot where he was to be left, the warriors dismounted, threw their arms on the ground, and went off at full speed. Not a word had been uttered during the long ride, which lasted fourteen hours.
We will follow the Sparrowhawk: as for the Bounding Panther, no one ever knew what became of him; his traces were so completely lost, that it was impossible to find them again. The Sparrowhawk was a man of tried courage and energy; still, finding himself alone, abandoned by all those he had loved, a momentary feeling of discouragement and cold rage almost turned him mad. But his pride soon revolted, he wrestled with his sorrow, and after allowing his horse to take its necessary rest, he set out boldly.
He wandered about at hazard for many a month, following no precise direction, living by the chase, caring very little where he stopped, or the people with whom chance might bring him in contact. One day, after a long and perilous chase after an elk, which by a species of fatality he could not catch up, he suddenly found himself before a dead horse. He looked around him: no great distance off lay a sword, near which was a corpse, easily recognizable as that of a European by the dress.
Sparrowhawk felt his curiosity excited; with that sagacity peculiar to the Indians, he began ferreting about in every direction. His search was almost immediately crowned with success; he saw, at the foot of a tree, an old man with greyish hair and wild beard, dressed in tattered clothes, and lying motionless. The Indian quickly went up to examine the condition of the stranger, and try to restore him, if he were not dead. The first thing Sparrowhawk did was to lay his hand on the heart of the man he wished to succour. The heart beat, but so feebly, it seemed as if it must soon stop. All the Indians are to a certain extent doctors, that is to say, they possess a knowledge of certain plants, by means of which they often effect really wonderful cures.
While trying to restore the stranger, the Indian examined him attentively. Though his hair was beginning to turn grey, the man was still young, not more than forty to forty-five; he was tall and well-built; his forehead was wide and high; his nose aquiline; his mouth large, and his chin square. His clothes, though in rags, were well cut and made of fine cloth, which plainly showed that he must belong to a better class of society – the reader will understand that these delicate distinctions escaped the notice of the Indian – he only saw a man of intelligent appearance, and on the point of death; and though he belonged to the white race, a race which, like all his countrymen, he detested, and for good reasons – at the sight of such distress, he forgot his antipathy, and only thought of helping him.
Near the stranger there lay, in confusion on the grass, a surgeon's pocketbook, a brace of pistols, a gun, a sabre, and an open book. For a long time Sparrowhawk's efforts met with no success, and he was despairing whether he could raise the dying man to life, when a transient glow suffused his face, and his heart began beating more quickly and strongly. Sparrowhawk made a gesture of delight at this unexpected success. It was almost incredible! This warrior, whose whole life had been hitherto spent in waging war of ambushes and surprises with the whites, and committing the most refined cruelties on the unhappy Spaniards who fell into his hands, now rejoiced at recalling to life this individual, who, to him, was a natural enemy.
In a few minutes the stranger slowly opened his eyes, but he closed them again at once, as the light probably dazzled them. Sparrowhawk did not lose heart, and resolved to carry out a good work so well begun. His expectations were not deceived: the stranger presently opened his eyes again; he made an effort to rise, but was too weak, his strength failed him, and he fell back again. The Indian then gently supported him, and seated him against the trunk of the catalpa, at whose foot he had been hitherto lying. The stranger thanked him by a sign, muttering one word, beber (drink).
The Comanches, whose life is passed in periodical excursions into the Spanish territory, know a few words of that language. Sparrowhawk spoke it rather fluently. He seized the gourd hanging to his saddle bow, and which he had filled two hours before, and put it to the stranger's lips; so soon as he had tasted the water, he began swallowing it in heavy gulps. But the Indian, fearing an accident, soon took the gourd from his lips. The stranger wished to drink again.
"No," he said, "my father is too weak, he must eat something first."
The patient smiled, and pressed his hand. The Indian rose joyfully; took from his provision bag some fruit, and handed it to the man. Through these attentions the stranger was sufficiently recovered, within an hour, to get up. He then explained to Sparrowhawk, in bad Spanish, that he and one of his friends were travelling together, that their horses died of fatigue, while themselves could procure nothing to eat or drink in the desert. The result was, that his friend died in his arms only the previous day, after frightful suffering, and he should have probably shared the same fate, had not his lucky star, or rather Providence, sent him help.
"Good," the Indian replied, when the stranger ended his narrative, "my father is now strong, I will lasso a horse, and lead him to the first habitation of the men of his own colour."
At this proposition the stranger frowned; a look of hatred and haughty contempt was legible on his face.
"No," he said; "I will not return to the men of my colour, they have rejected and persecuted me, I hate them; I wish to live henceforward in the desert."
"Wah!" the Indian exclaimed, in surprise, "has my father no nation?"
"No," he answered, "I am alone, without country, relatives, or friends; the sight of a man of my colour excites me to hatred and contempt; all are ungrateful, I will live far from them."
"Good," the Indian said; "I, too, am rejected by my nation; I, too, am alone; I will remain with my father – I will be his son."
"What?" the stranger ejaculated, fancying he had misunderstood him, "Is it possible? Does banishment also exist among your wandering tribes? You, like myself, are abandoned by those of your race and blood, and condemned to remain alone – alone for ever?"
"Yes," Sparrowhawk said, sorrowfully, bowing his head.
"Oh!" the stranger said, directing a glance of strange meaning toward heaven, "oh, men! they are the same everywhere, cruel, unnatural, and heartless!"
He walked about for a few moments, muttering certain words in a language the Indian did not understand; then he returned quickly to him, and pressing his hand, said, with feverish energy: —
"Well, then, I accept your proposition; our fate is the same, and we ought not to separate again. Victims both of the spite of man, we will live together; you have saved my life, Redskin; at the first impulse I was vexed at it, but now I thank Providence, as I can still do good, and force men to blush at their ingratitude."
This speech was far too full of philosophic precepts for Sparrowhawk thoroughly to understand it; still, he caught its sense, that was enough for him, as he was too glad to find in his companion a man afflicted by similar misfortunes to his own.
"Let my father open his ears," he said; "he will remain here while I go and find a horse for him; there are many manadas in the neighbourhood, and I shall soon have what we want; my father will be patient during Sparrowhawk's absence. I will leave him food and drink."
"Go," the stranger said; and two hours later the Indian returned with a magnificent steed.
Several days were then spent in vagabond marches, though each took them deeper into the desert. The stranger seemed afraid of meeting white men; but with the exception of the story he had told of his narrow escape from death, he maintained an obstinate silence as to his past life. The Indian knew not then who he was, nor why he had ventured so far into the desert at the risk of perishing. Each time Sparrowhawk asked him any details about his life he turned the conversation, and that so adroitly, that the Indian could never bring him back to the starting point. One day, as they were rambling along side by side, talking, Sparrowhawk, who was rather vexed at the slight confidence the stranger placed in him, asked categorically —
"My father was a great chief in his nation?"
The stranger smiled sorrowfully.
"Perhaps," he answered; "but now I am nothing."
"My father is mistaken," the Indian said, seriously; "the warriors of his nation may not have valued him, but he still remains the same."
"All that is smoke," the stranger replied. "The love of country is the greatest and noblest passion the Master of Life has placed in the heart of man – my father had a revered name among his people."
The stranger frowned, and his face assumed an expression the Indian had never seen before.
"My name is a curse," he said, "no one will hear it uttered again; it has been like a brand seared on my forehead by the partisans of the man whom I, humble as I am, helped to overthrow."
Sparrowhawk made a gesture of supreme disdain.
"The chief of the nation must return to his warriors: if he betrays them, they are masters of his scalp," he said, in a firm voice.
The stranger, surprised at being so well understood by this primitive man, smiled proudly.
"In demanding his head," he said, "I staked my own; I wished to save my country. Who can blame me?"
"No one," Sparrowhawk replied, quickly; "every warrior must die."
There was a lengthened silence; Sparrowhawk was the first to break it.
"We are destined," he said, "to live long days together, my father wishes his name to remain unknown, and I will not insist on knowing it; still, we cannot wander about at hazard, we must find a tribe to adopt us, men to recognize us as brothers."
"For what purpose?"
"To be strong and everywhere respected: we owe it to our brothers, as they owe it to us; life is only a loan which the Master of Life makes us, on the condition that it is profitable to those who surround us. By what name shall I present my father to the men from whom we may ask asylum and protection?"
"By any you please, my son; as I am no longer to hear my own, any other is a matter of indifference to me."
Sparrowhawk reflected for an instant.
"My father is strong," he said, "his scalp is beginning to resemble the snows of winter, he will henceforth be called the White Buffalo."
"The White Buffalo; be it so," the stranger answered, with a sigh; "that name is as good as another; perhaps I shall thus escape the weapons of those who have sworn my death."
The Indian, charmed at knowing how henceforth to call his friend, then said to him, joyfully —
"In a few days we shall reach a village of Blood Indians or Kenhas, where we shall be received as if we were sons of the nation; my father is wise, I am strong, the Kenhas will be happy to receive us; courage, old father! this country of adoption will be, perhaps, worth your own."
"France, farewell!" the stranger uttered, in a choking voice.
Four days later they reached the village of the Kenhas, where a friendly reception was given them.
"Well," Sparrowhawk said to his companion, after they had been adopted according to all the Indian rites, "what does my father think? Is he happy?"
"I fancy," the other said, with a melancholy air, "that nothing can restore the exile the country he has lost."
