the bois-brulés and indian marauders, who gathered to our camp, were drunk with the most intoxicating of all stimulants—human blood. this flush of victory excited the redskins' vanity to a boastful frenzy. there was wild talk of wiping the pale-face out of existence; and if a weaker man than grant had been at the head of the forces, not a white in the settlement would have escaped massacre. in spite of the bitterness to which the slaughter at seven oaks gave rise, i think all fair-minded people have acknowledged that the settlers owed their lives to the warden's efforts.
that night pandemonium itself could not have presented a more hideous scene than our encampment. the lust of blood is abhorrent enough in civilized races, but in indian tribes, whose unrestrained, hard life abnormally develops the instincts of the tiger, it is a thing that may not be portrayed. let us not, with the depreciatory hypocrisy, characteristic of our age, befool ourselves into any belief that barbaric practices were more humane than customs which are the flower of civilized centuries. let us be truthful.[pg 342] scientific cruelty may do its worst with intricate armaments; but the blood-thirst of the indian assumed the ghastly earnest of victors drinking the warm life-blood of dying enemies and of torturers laving hands in a stream yet hot from pulsing hearts.
decked out in red-stained trophies with scalps dangling from their waists, the natives darted about like blood-whetted beasts; and the half-breeds were little better, except that they thirsted more for booty than life. there was loud vaunting over the triumph, the ignorant rabble imagining their warriors heroes of a great battle, instead of the murderous plunderers they were. pierre, the rhymester, according to his wont, broke out in jubilant celebration of the half-breeds' feat:[a]
ho-ho! list you now to a tale of truth
which i, pierre, the rhymester, proudly sing,
of the bois-brulés, whose deeds dismay
the hearts of the soldiers serving the king!
swift o'er the plain rode our warriors brave
to meet the gay voyageurs come from the sea.[pg 343]
out came the bold band that had pillaged our land,
and we taught them the plain is the home of the free.
we were passing along to the landing-place,
three hostile whites we bound on the trail.
the enemy came with a shout of acclaim,
we flung back their taunts with the shriek of a gale.
"they have come to attack us," our people cry.
our cohorts spread out in a crescent horn,
their path we bar in a steel scimitar,
and their empty threats we flout with scorn.
they halt in the face of a dauntless foe,
they spit out their venom of baffled rage!
honor, our breath to the very death!
so we proffer them peace, or a battle-gage.
the governor shouts to his soldiers, "draw!"
'tis the enemy strikes the first, fateful blow!
our men break from line, for the battle-wine
of a fighting race has a fiery glow.
the governor thought himself mighty in power.
the shock of his strength—ha-ha!—should be known
from the land of the sea to the prairie free
and all free men should be overthrown![b]
but naked and dead on the plain lies he,
where the carrion hawk, and the sly coyote
greedily feast on the great and the least,
without respect for a lord of note.
the governor thought himself mighty in power.
he thought to enslave the bois-brulés,
"ha-ha," laughed the hawk. ho-ho! let him mock.
"plain rangers ride forth to slay, to slay."[pg 344]
whose cry outpierces the night-bird's note?
whose voice mourns sadly through sighing trees?
what spirits wail to the prairie gale?
who tells his woes to the evening breeze?
ha-ha! we know, though we tell it not.
we fought with them till none remained.
the coyote knew, and his hungry crew
licked clean the grass where the turf was stained.
ho-ho! list you all to my tale of truth.
'tis i, pierre, the rhymester, this glory tell
of freedom saved and brave hands laved
in the blood of tyrants who fought and fell!
the whole scene was repugnant beyond endurance. my ears were so filled with the death cries heard in the afternoon, i had no relish for pierre's crude recital of what seemed to him a glorious conquest. i could not rid my mind of that dying boy's sad face. many half-breeds were preparing to pillage the settlement. intending to protect the sutherland home and seek the dead lad's body, i borrowed a fresh horse and left the tumult of the camp.
i made a detour of the battle-field in order to reach the sutherland homestead before night. i might have saved myself the trouble; for every movable object—to the doors and window sashes—had been taken from the little house, whether by father and daughter before going to the fort, or by the marauders, i did not know.
it was unsafe to return by the wooded river trail after dark and i struck directly to the clearing and followed the path parallel to the bush.[pg 345] when i reached seven oaks, i was first apprised of my whereabouts by my horse pricking forward his ears and sniffing the air uncannily. i tightened rein and touched him with the spur, but he snorted and jumped sideways with a suddenness that almost unseated me, then came to a stand, shaking as if with chill. something skulked across the trail and gained cover in the woods. with a reassuring pat, i urged my horse back towards the road, for the prairie was pitted with badger and gopher holes; but the beast reared, baulked and absolutely refused to be either driven, or coaxed.
"wise when men are fools!" said i, dismounting. bringing the reins over his head, i tried to pull him forward; but he planted all fours and jerked back, almost dragging me off my feet.
"are you possessed?" i exclaimed, for if ever horror were plainly expressed by an animal, it was by that horse. legs rigid, head bent down, eyes starting forward and nostrils blowing in and out, he was a picture of terror.
something wriggled in the thicket. the horse rose on his hind legs, wrenched the rein from my hand and scampered across the plain. i sent a shot into the bush. there was a snarl and a scurrying through the underbrush.
"pretty bold wolf! never saw a broncho act that way over a coyote before!"
i might as well find the body of the english lad before trying to catch my horse, so i walked on. suddenly, in the silver-white of a starry sky, i saw what had terrified the animal. close to the[pg 346] shrubbery lay the stark form of a white man, knees drawn upwards and arms spread out like the bars of a cross. was that the lad i had known? i rushed towards the corpse—but as quickly turned away. from downright lack of courage, i could not look at it; for the body was mutilated beyond semblance to humanity. would that i had strength and skill to paint that dead figure as it was! then would those, who glory in the shedding of blood, glory to their shame; and the pageant of war be stripped of all its false toggery revealing carnage and slaughter in their revolting nakedness.
i could not look back to know if that were the lad, but ran aimlessly towards the scene of the seven oaks fray. as i approached, there was a great flapping of wings. up rose buzzards, scolding in angry discord at my interruption. a pack of wolves skulked a few feet off and eyed me impatiently, boldly waiting to return when i left. the impudence of the brutes enraged me and i let go half a dozen charges, which sent them to a more respectful distance. here were more bodies like the first. i counted eight within a stone's throw, and there were twice as many between seven oaks and the fort. where they lay, i could tell very well; for hawks wheeled with harsh cries overhead and there was a vague movement of wolfish shapes along the ground.
what possessed me to hover about that dreadful scene, i cannot imagine, unless the fear of those creatures returning; but i did not carry a[pg 347] thing with which i could bury the dead. involuntarily, i sought out rogers and governor semple; for i had seen the death of each. it was when seeking these, that i thought i distinguished the faintest motion of one figure still clothed and lying apart from the others.
the sight riveted me to the spot.
surely it was a mistake! the form could not have moved! it must have been some error of vision, or trick of the shadowy starlight; but i could not take my eyes from the prostrate form. again the body moved—distinctly moved—beyond possibility of fancy, the chest heaving up and sinking like a man struggling but unable to rise. with the ghastly dead and the ravening wolves all about, the movement of that wounded man was strangely terrifying and my knees knocked with fear, as i ran to his aid.
the man was an indian, but his face i could not see; for one hand staunched a wound in his head and the other gripped a knife with which he had been defending himself. my first thought was that he must be a nor'-wester, or his body would not have escaped the common fate; but if a nor'-wester, why had he been left on the field? so i concluded he was one of the camp-followers, who had joined our forces for plunder and come to a merited end. still he was a man; and i stooped to examine him with a view to getting him on my horse and taking him back to the camp.
at first he was unconscious of my presence. gently i tried to remove the left hand from his[pg 348] forehead, but at the touch, out struck the right hand in vicious thrusts of the hunting-knife, one blind cut barely missing my arm.
"hold, man!" i cried, "i'm no foe, but a friend!" and i caught the right arm tightly.
at the sound of my voice, the left hand swung out revealing a frightful gash; and the next thing i knew, his left arm had encircled my neck like the coil of a strangler, five fingers were digging into the flesh of my throat and le grand diable was making frantic efforts to free his right hand and plunge that dagger into me. the shock of the discovery threw me off guard, and for a moment there was a struggle, but only for a moment. then the wounded man fell back, writhing in pain, his face contorted with agony and hate. i do not think he could see me. he must have been blind from that wound. i stood back, but his knife still cut the air.
"le grand diable! fool!" i said, "i will not harm you! i give you the white man's word, i will not hurt you!"
the right arm fell limp and still. had i, by some strange irony, been led to this spot that i might witness the death of my foe? was this the end of that long career of evil?
"le grand diable!" i cried, going a pace nearer, which seemed to bring back the ebbing life. "le grand diable! you cannot stay here among the wolves. tell me whereto find miriam and i'll take you back to the camp! tell me and no one shall harm you! i will save you!"[pg 349]
the thin lips moved. he was saying, or trying to say, something.
"speak louder!" and i bent over him. "speak the truth and i take you to the camp!"
the lips were still moving, but i could not hear a sound.
"speak louder!" i shouted. "where is miriam? where is the white woman?" i put my ear to his lips, fearful that life might slip away before i could hear.
there was a snarl through the glistening set teeth. the prostrate body gave an upward lurch. with one swift, treacherous thrust, he drove his knife into my coat-sleeve, grazing my forearm. the effort cost him his life. he sank down with a groan. the sightless, bloodshot eyes opened. le grand diable would never more feign death.
i jerked the knife from my coat, hurled it from me, sprang up and fled from the field as if it had been infected with a pest, or i pursued by gends. never looking back and with superstitious dread of the dead indian's evil spirit, i tore on and on till, breath-spent and exhausted, i threw myself down with the north-west camp-fires in sight.
