Chapter Fifty Eight
A Rampart on Wheels
For a time, our hearts throbbed more lightly; the pressure of apprehension was removed. We fancied the savages had either not yet become fully aware of the advantage of storming our position, or that the certainty of losing some of their number had intimidated them from making the attempt. They had abandoned their design, whatever it was; and intended waiting for night – the favourite fighting-time of the Indian. This was just what we desired; and we were congratulating ourselves that the prospect had changed in our favour. Our joy was short-lived: the enemy showed no signs of repose. Clustered upon the plain, they still kept to their horses. By this, we knew that some other movement was intended. The chiefs were again in the centre of the crowd, the Red-Hand conspicuous. He was heard haranguing his warriors, though we could not guess the purport of his speech. His gestures told of fierce rage – his glances, now and then directed towards us, betokened a spirit of implacable vengeance. At the conclusion of his speech, he waved his hand in the direction of the waggon. The gesture appeared to be the accompaniment of a command. It was promptly and instantly obeyed. A dozen horsemen dashed out from the group, and galloped off. Their course was straight up the valley – towards the scene of their late strife. Those who had remained upon the ground dismounted, and were seen giving their horses to the grass. This might have led us to anticipate a suspension of hostilities; but it did not. The attitude of our enemies was not that of purposed repose. On the contrary, they came together afoot; and engaged in what appeared to be an eager consultation. The chiefs spoke in turn. Some new scheme was being discussed. We watched the party who had ridden off. As anticipated, the waggon proved to be the butt of their excursion. Having reached it, they halt; and, dismounting, become grouped around it. It is impossible for some time to tell what they are doing. Even the glass does not reveal the nature of their movements. There are others besides those who rode up; and the white tilt appears in the midst of is dark cluster of men and horses. Their errand at length becomes obvious. The crowd is seen to scatter. Horses appear harnessed to the tongue – the wheels are in motion – the vehicle is turning round upon the plain. We see that some half-dozen horses are hitched on, with men seated upon their backs as teamsters! They make a wheel, and head down the valley in the direction of the butte. They are seen urging the animals into a rapid pace. The waggon, no longer loaded, leaps lightly over the smooth sward. The horses are spurred into a gallop; and amidst the shouts of the savage drivers, drag the huge vehicle after them with the rough rapidity of a mountain howitzer. In a few minutes, it advances to the ground occupied by the dismounted band, who surround it upon its arrival.
We upon the summit have a full view of all. We recognise the well-known Troy waggon – with its red wheels, blue body, and ample canvas roof. The lettering, “Troy, New York,” is legible on the tilt – a strange sight in the midst of its present possessors! What can be their object with the waggon? Their actions leave us not long in doubt. The horses are unharnessed and led aside. Half-a-dozen savages are seen crouching under the axles, and laying hold of the spokes. As many more stand behind – screened from our sight by the tilt-cloth, the body, and boxing. The pole projects in the direction of the mound!
Their object is now too painfully apparent. Without thinking of the analogy of the Trojan horse, we see that this monster of a modern Troy is about to be employed for a similar purpose. Yes – shielded by the thick planking of its bed – by its head and hind boards – by its canvas covering, and other cloths which they have cunningly spread along its sides, the savages may approach the mound in perfect safety. Such is their design. With dismay, we perceive it. We can do nought either to retard or hinder its execution. Those under the vehicle can “spoke” the wheels forward, without in the least exposing their bodies to our aim. Even their hands and arms are not visible: buffalo-robes and blankets hang over, draping the wheels from our view. Those behind are equally well screened; and can propel the huge machine, without risk of danger. We note all these circumstances with feelings of keen apprehension. We adopt no means to hinder the movement: we can think of none, since none is possible. We are paralysed by a sense of our utter helplessness.
We are allowed but little time to reflect upon it. Amidst the shouts of the savages, we hear the creaking of the wheels; we behold the mass in motion! Onward it comes toward the mound – advancing with apparently spontaneous motion, as if it were some living monster – some horrid mammoth – approaching to destroy and devour us!
Had it been such a monster, its proximity could scarce have inspired us with a greater dread. We felt that our destruction was equally certain. The savages would now surround us – advance up the rocks – spring upon us from all sides at once; and, although we might fight to the death – which we had determined to do – still must we die. The knowledge that we should die fighting, and with arms in our hands – that we should fall upon the corpses of our enemies, avenging death before parting with life – this knowledge was but a feeble ray to support and cheer us. Though no cowards – not one of us – we could not look forward to our fate, without a feeling of dread. The certainty of that fate we could no longer question. Even the time seemed to be fixed. In a few minutes, the assailants would be upon us; and we should be engaged in the last struggle of our lives – without the slightest probability of being able to save them!
Chapter Fifty Nine
The Assault
With the prospect of such fatal issue – so proximate as to seem already present – no wonder that our hearts were dismayed at sight of the waggon moving towards us. As the inhabitants of a leaguered city behold with fear the advance of the screened catapult or mighty “ram,” so regarded we the approach of that familiar vehicle – now a very monster in our eyes. We were not permitted to view the spectacle in perfect security. As the waggon moved forward, those who carried the muskets drew still nearer under cover of their horses, and once more played upon us their uncertain but dangerous shower. With the bullets hissing above and around us, we were forced to lie low – only at intervals raising our heads to note the progress of the party proceeding to storm.
Slowly but surely the machine moved on – its wheels turning under the impulse of brawny arms – and impelled forward by pressure from behind. To fire upon it would have been of no avail: our bullets would have been thrown away. As easily might they have pierced through a stockade of tree-trunks. Oh! for a howitzer! but one discharge of iron grape to have crashed through those planks of oak and ash – to have scattered in death, that human machinery that was giving them motion! Slowly and steadily it moved on – stopping only as some large pebble opposed itself to the wheel – then on again as the obstacle was surmounted – on till the intervening space was passed over, and the triumphant cheer of our savage foemen announced the attainment of their object.
Risking the straggling shots, we looked over. The waggon had reached the base of the butte; its tongue was forced up among the trees – its body stood side by side with the granite prisms. The storming party no longer required it as a shield: they would be sufficiently sheltered by the great boulders; and to these they now betook themselves – passing from one to the other, until they had completely surrounded the butte. We observed this movement, but could not prevent it. We saw the Indians flitting from rock to rock, like red spectres, and with the rapidity of lightning flashes! In vain we attempted to take aim; before a barrel could be brought to bear upon them, they were gone out of sight. We ourselves, galled by the leaden hail, were forced to withdraw behind our ramparts.
A moment of suspense followed. We knew not how to act: we were puzzled by their movements, as well as by the silence in which they were making them. Did they intend to climb up the butte, and openly attack us? What else should be their design? What other object could they have in surrounding it? Only about a dozen had approached under cover of the waggon. Was it likely that so few of them would assail us boldly and openly? No. Beyond a doubt, they had some other design! Ha! what means that blue column slowly curling upward? It is smoke! See! Another and another – a dozen of them! From all sides they shoot upward, encircling the mound! Hark to those sounds! the “swish” of burning grass – the crackle of kindling sticks? They are making fires around us! The columns are at first filmy, but soon grow thicker and more dense. They spread out and join each other – they become attracted towards the rocky mass – they fall against its sides, and wreathing upward, wrap its summit in their ramifications. The platform is enveloped in the cloud! We see the savages upon the plain – dimly, as if through a crape. Those with the guns in their hands still continue to fire; the others are dismounting. The latter abandon their horses, and appear to be advancing on foot. Their forms through the magnifying mist loom spectral and gigantic! They are visible only for a moment. The smoke rolls its thick volume around the summit, and shrouds them from our sight. We no longer see our enemy or the earth. The sky is obscured – even the rock on which we stand is no longer visible, nor one of us to the other!
Throughout all continues the firing from the plain; the bullets hurtle around our heads, and the clamour of our foemen reaches our ears with fierce thrilling import. We hear the crackling of faggots, and the spurting hissing noise of many fires; but perceive no blaze – only the thick smoke rising in continuous waves, and every moment growing denser around us. We can bear it no longer; we are half-suffocated. Any form of death before this! Is it too late to reach our horses? Doubtless, they are already snatched away? No matter: we cannot remain where we are. In five minutes, we must yield to the fearful asphyxia.
“No! never! let us die as we had determined, with arms in our hands!” Voices husky and hoarse make answer in the affirmative.
We spring to our feet, and come together – so that we can touch each other. We grasp our guns, and get ready our knives and pistols. We make to the edge of the rock, and, sliding down, assure ourselves of the path. We grope our way downward, guided by the granite walls on each side. We go not with caution, but in the very recklessness of a desperate need. We are met by the masses of smoke still rolling upwards. Further down, we feel the hot caloric as we come nearer to the crackling fires. We heed them not, but rush madly forward – till we have cleared both the cloud and the flames, and stand upon the level plain!
It is but escaping from the fires of hell to rush into the midst of its demons. On all sides they surround us with poised spears and brandished clubs. Amidst their wild yells, we scarcely hear the cracking of our guns and pistols; and those who fall to our shots are soon lost to our sight, behind the bodies of others who crowd forward to encompass us. For a short while we keep together, and fight, back to back, facing our foes. But we are soon separated; and each struggles with a dozen assailants around him!
The struggle was not protracted. So far as I was concerned, it ended, almost on the instant of my being separated from my comrades. A blow from behind, as of a club striking me upon the skull, deprived me of consciousness: leaving me only the one last thought —that it was death!
Chapter Sixty
A Captive on a Crucifix
Am I dead? Surely it was death, or an oblivion that equalled it? But no – I live! I am conscious that I live. Light is falling upon my eyes – thought is returning to my soul! Am I upon earth? or is it another world in which I awake? It is a bright world – with a sky of blue, and a sun of gold; but are they the sky and sun of the earth? Both may belong to a future world? I can see no earth – neither fields, nor trees, nor rocks, nor water – nought but the blue canopy and the golden orb. Where is the earth? It should be under and around me, but I cannot see it. Neither around nor beneath can I look – only upward and forward – only upon the sun and the sky! What hinders me from turning? Is it that I sleep, and dream? Is the incubus of a horrid nightmare upon me? Am I, like Prometheus, chained to a rock face upward? No – not thus; I feel that I am standing – erect as if nailed against a wall! If I am not dreaming, I am certainly in an upright attitude. I feel my limbs beneath me; while my arms appear to be stretched out to their full extent, and held as in the grasp of some invisible hand! My head, too, is fixed: I can neither turn nor move it. A cord traverses across my cheeks. There is something between my teeth. A piece of wood it appears to be? It gags me, and half stifles my breathing! Am I in human hands? or are they fiends who are thus clutching me?
Anon my senses grow stronger, but wild fancies still mock me: I am yet uncertain if it be life! What are those dark objects passing before my eyes? They are birds upon the wing – large birds of sable plumage. I know them. They are vultures. They are of the earth. Such could not exist in a region of spirits? Ah! those sounds! they are weird enough to be deemed unearthly – wild enough to be mistaken for the voices of demons. From far beneath, they appear to rise – as if from the bowels of the earth, sinking and swelling in prolonged chorus. I know and recognise the voices: they are human. I know the chaunted measure: it is the death-song of the Indian! The sounds are suggestive. I am not dreaming – I am not dead. I am awake, and on the earth.
Memory comes to my aid. By little and little, I begin to realise my situation. I remember the siege – the smoke – the confused conflict – all that preceded it, but nothing after. I thought I had been killed. But no – I live – I am a captive. My comrades – are they alive? Not likely. Better for them, if they be not. The consciousness of life need be no comfort to me. In that wild chaunt there is breathing a keen spirit of vengeance. Oh! that I had not survived to hear it! Too surely do I know what will follow that dirge of death. It might as well be my own!
I am in pain. My position pains me – and the hot sun glaring upon my cheek. My arms and limbs smart under thongs that bind too tightly. One crosses my throat that almost chokes me, and the stick between my teeth renders breathing difficult. There is a pain upon the crown of my head, and my skull feels as if scalded. Oh Heavens! have they scalped me? With the thought, I endeavour to raise my hand. In vain: I cannot budge either hand or arm. Not a finger can I move; and I am forced to remain in horrid doubt as to whether the hair be still upon my head – with more than a probability that it is gone! But how am I confined? and where? I am fast bound to something: every joint in my body is fixed and immobile, as if turned to stone! I can feel thongs cutting sharply into my skin; and my back and shoulders press against some supporting substance, that seems as hard as rock. I cannot tell what it is. I cannot even see my own person – neither breast nor body – neither arms nor legs – not an inch of myself. The fastening over my face holds it upturned to the sky; and my head feels firmly set – as if the vertebral column of my neck had become ossified into a solid mass!
And where am I in this stringent attitude? I am conscious that I am a captive and bound – a captive to Indians – to Arapahoes. Memory helps me to this knowledge; and furthermore, that I should be, if I have not been carried elsewhere, in the valley of the Huerfano – by the Orphan Butte. Ha! why should I not be upon the butte – on its summit? I remember going down to the plain; and there being struck senseless to the earth. For all that, I may have been brought up again. The savages may have borne me back to satisfy some whim? They often act in such strange fashion with, their vanquished victims. I must be on some eminence: since I cannot see the earth before me? In all likelihood, I am on the top of the mound. This will account for my not having a view of the ground. It will also explain the direction in which the voices are reaching me. Those who utter them are below upon the plain?
The death-song ceases: and sounds of other import are borne upward to my ears. I hear shouts that appear to be signals – words of command in the fierce guttural of the Arapaho. Other sounds seem nearer. I distinguish the voices of two men in conversation. They are Indian voices. As I listen they grow more distinct. The speakers are approaching me – the voices reach me, as if rising out of the ground beneath my feet! They draw nigher and nigher. They are close to where I stand – so close that I can feel them breathing upon my body – but still I see them not. Their heads are below the line of my vision. I feel a hand – knuckles pressing against my throat; the cold blade of a knife is laid along my cheek; its steel point glistens under my eyes. I shudder with a horrid thought. I mistake the purpose. I hear the “wheek” that announces the cutting of a tight-drawn cord. The thong slackens, and drops off from my cheeks. My head is free: but the piece of wood between my teeth – it remains still gagging me firmly. I cannot get rid of that.
I can now look below, and around me. I perceive the correctness of my conjecture. I am on the butte – upon its summit. I am close to the edge of the platform, and command a full view of the valley below. A painted Arapaho is standing on each side of me. One is a common warrior, with nought to distinguish him from his fellows. The other is a chief. Even without the insignia of his rank, the tall gaunt form and lupine visage are easily identified. They are those of Red-Hand the truculent chieftain of the Arapahoes.
Now for the first time do I perceive that I am naked. From the waist upward, there is not a rag upon me – arms, breast, and body all bare! This does not surprise me. It is natural that the robbers should have stripped me – that they should at least have taken my coat, whose yellow buttons are bright gold in the eyes of the Indian. But I am now to learn that for another, and very different, purpose have they thus bereft me of my garments. Now also do I perceive the fashion in which I am confined. I am erect upon my feet, with arms stretched out to their full fathom. My limbs are lashed to an upright post; and, with the same thong, are my arms tied to a transverse beam. I am bound upon a cross!
Chapter Sixty One
The Mysterious Circle
In an exulting tone, the savage chief broke silence. “Bueno!” cried he, as soon as he saw that my eyes were upon him – “bueno, bueno! The pale-face still lives! the heart of the Red-Hand is glad of it – ha, ha, ha! Give him to drink of the fire-water of Taos! Let him be strong! Fill him with life, that death may be all the more bitter to him!”
These orders were delivered to his follower, who, in obedience to them, removed the gag; and, holding to my lips a calabash filled with Taos whiskey, poured a quantity of the liquor down my throat. The beverage produced the effect which the savage chief appeared to desire. Scarcely had I swallowed the fiery spirit when my strength and senses were restored to their full vigour – but only to make me feel more keenly the situation in which I stood – to comprehend more acutely the appalling prospect that was before me. This was the design in resuscitating me. No other purpose had the cruel savage. Had I entertained any doubt as to the motive, his preliminary speech would have enlightened me; but it was made still clearer by that which followed.
“Dog of a pale-face!” cried he, brandishing a long Spanish knife before my eyes; “you shall see how the Red-Hand can revenge himself upon the enemies of his race. The slayer of Panthers, and the White Eagle, shall die a hundred deaths. They have mocked the forest maiden, who has followed them from afar. Her vengeance shall be satisfied; and the Red-Hand will have his joy – ha, ha, ha!”
Uttering a peal of demoniac laughter, the Indian held the point of the knife close to my forehead – as if about to drive the blade into my eyes! It was but a feint to produce terror – a spectacle which this monster was said to enjoy.
Wingrove was still alive: the wretch Su-wa-nee must be near?
“Carajo!” again yelled the savage. “What promised you the Red-Hand? To cut the living flesh from your bones? But no– that would be merciful. The Arapahoes have contrived a sweeter vengeance – one that will appease the spirits of our slain warriors. We shall combine sport with the sacrifice of the pale-faced dogs – ha, ha, ha!”
After another fiendish cachinnation, far more horrible to hear than his words of menace, the monster continued:
“Dog! you refused to instruct the Arapaho in the skill of the fire-weapon; but you shall furnish them with at least one lesson before you die – ha, ha! You shall soon experience the pleasant death we have prepared for you! Ugh!”
“Haste!” he continued, addressing himself to his follower; “prepare him for the sacrifice! Our warriors are impatient for the sport. The blood of our brothers is calling for vengeance. This in white, with a red spot in the centre – the rest of his body in black.”
These mysterious directions were accompanied by a corresponding gesture. With the point of his knife, the savage traced a circle upon my breast – just as if he had been scribing it on the bark of a tree. The scratch was light, though here and there it drew blood. At the words “red spot in the centre,” as if to make the direction more emphatic, he punctured the spot with his knife till the blood flowed freely. Had he driven the blade to its hilt, I could not have flinched: I was fixed firmly as the post to which they had bound me. I could not speak a word – either to question his intent, or reply to his menace. The gag was still between my teeth, and I was necessarily silent. It mattered little about my remaining silent. Had my tongue been free, it would have been idle to use it. In the wolf’s visage, there was no one trait of clemency: every feature bespoke the obduracy of unrelenting cruelty. I knew that he would only have mocked any appeal I might have made. It was just as well that I had no opportunity of making it. After giving some further directions to his follower – and once more repeating his savage menace, in the same exulting tone – he passed behind me; and I lost sight of him. But I could tell by the noise that reached me at intervals, that he had gone down from the rock, and was returning to his warriors upon the plain.
It was the first time since my face-fastenings had been cut loose, that I had a thought of looking in that direction. During all the while that the Red-Hand stood by me, I had been in constant dread of instant death – or of some equally fearful issue. The gleaming blade had never been out of my eyes for two seconds at a time; for in the gesticulations that accompanied his speeches, the steel had played an important part, and I knew not the moment, it might please the ferocious savage to put an end to my life. Now that he was gone, and I found a respite from his torturing menace, my eyes turned mechanically to the plain. I there beheld a spectacle, that under other circumstances might have filled me with horror. Not so then. The agony of my thoughts was already too keen to be further quickened. Even the gory skull of one of my comrades, who lay scalped upon the sward, scarcely added an emotion. It was a sight I had anticipated. They could not all be alive.