| YOUNG
“WAMPUM” sat listening to the two old hunters
as they talked and chuckled, boasted and bragged, and
smoked their curious stone pipes hour after hour. He
was a splendid boy, this Wampum of the Mohawks, as quick
and lithe as a lynx. His face was strikingly handsome,
for it lacked the usual melancholy of the redman, having
in its place a haughty, daring expression that gave
it the appearance of extreme bravery, and even a dash
of wild majesty. That he was a favorite with the older
men of his tribe was generally acknowledged, for he
was a magnificent hunter, an unerring shot, and, best
of all, he could go without food for untold hours, always
a thing to be very proud of among the Indian people.
So the two old hunters told their stories and laughed
over adventures with the same freedom as if the boy
had not been present.
“Yes,” said old
“Fire-Flower,” beginning his story, “that
was the strangest bear hunt the Grand River ever saw.
These white men think they can come here and kill game,
but a bear knows more than a paleface, at least that
one did.”
“Fish-Carrier,”
the other hunter, nodded his head understandingly, refilled
his stone pipe, and said tauntingly, “I know some
Indians that don’t know as much as a bear.”
Fire-Flower chuckled, passing
the insinuation with a [Page 180] knowing
smile. “No bear knows more than this
Indian,” he boasted. “At least no bear I
ever came across could outwit me.”
“We’ll hear what
you have to tell,” answered Fish-Carrier, with
great condescension.
Young Wampum sat erect then.
He knew the tale was going to be a good one.
Teasingly, old Fire-Flower took
an unnecessarily long time to “light up,”
but his two auditors were Indians, like himself, and
had patience with his whims. Then the great hunter settled
himself, and began his story by shaking his head, boastingly,
and chuckling:
“It was two white men,
and, as usual, they knew nothing, but they had good
guns, and a fine canoe, and they paddled many days to
get to the ‘Indian Bush’ to hunt. I was
up there, across from the island in the river, when
I first saw them, and their faces were paler than any
paleface I ever saw before or since. It seems they had
pulled up on the shore, built a little campfire to make
their tea and to eat, when out of the bush arose a big
black bear, gruffing and grunting and eating berries.
When they saw it they gave a worse war-whoop than the
Cherokees ever did. They reached for their guns, then
started to shake and tremble as though the bush ague
were upon them. ‘He’s chewing!’ yelled
one. ‘He’s chewing at us, he’ll eat
us alive.’ But the other put on a face like a
great brave. ‘We’ll kill him,’ he
said with great boasting. ‘That’s what we
came for, to kill bears.’ But just then the bear
came towards them, still eating his berries. They were
too scared to fire. One just struck him over the head
with his gun, then they both turned and made for the
canoe. The blow made the bear angry as the Thunder god,
and before they could push off shore the bear got his
claws on the edge of the canoe, and away they all went
sailing into midstream, the palefaces paddling for all
their lives, and the black bear clinging on to [Page
181] the canoe. In their fright they had left
their guns ashore, and while one paddled, the other
beat the bear’s head with the paddle blade. It
was then that I first saw them. I stood on the shore
with a very sickness from laughter in all my bones.”
Here he ceased talking, for Fish-Carrier and Wampum
had broken into such bursts of merriment that Fire-Flower
was compelled to join them.
“Oh, that I could have
seen them, that I could have seen it all!” moaned
Fish-Carrier between gasps. “That must have been
a thing to make men laugh for many moons.” But
Wampum said nothing; it was not the etiquette of his
race that he should join in the talk of older men, unasked,
but he, too, gulped down his uproarious laughter while
Fire-Flower proceeded.
“The black bear was getting
the best of them, for the beating on the head maddened
him. He began to climb up the edge of the canoe, and
his great weight was beginning to overbalance it. I
called to them, but as I do not speak the white man’s
language, they did not understand. Fear gripped at their
hearts, and, as the bear climbed into the canoe, they
leaped into the river and swam for shore, while the
canoe drifted slowly down stream, the big black bear
seated proudly within it like some great brave who had
scalped his enemies.”
Another outburst of mirth shook
his listeners.
“I am an old man,”
continued Fire-Flower, “but I have never seen
anything which made me laugh so hard, so long, so loud.
The palefaces swam back to their camp and their guns,
calling out to me over and over to save their canoe
for them. So I put out in my own dugout and gave chase.
I caught their canoe, overturned it, and into the water
rolled the bear. Then as he came at me, catching my
canoe in his big claws, I just drowned him the old Indian
way.Ӡ
[Page 182]
More laughter greeted this.
Then young Wampum made bold to speak. “My uncle,”
he addressed Fire-Flower, “I am but a boy, only
beginning to hunt, though the great braves have been
kind in giving me praise for what I have done already,
but I am full of ignorance when compared to you and
the great hunters; so, to help me in the days to come,
will you not tell me how you drowned the bear, for I
do not know all these things?”
“A fine boy, Wampum is.
He know whom to ask advice and learning from,”
said Fire-Flower pompously, greatly pleased at the boy’s
flattery. “It is an easy thing to do, to drown
a bear,” he said. “The frailest canoe is
safe even in the clutches of the fiercest. Just lay
your paddle lightly across the bear’s neck, back
of his ears. He will at once catch at it each side with
his claws, and he will pull, pull his own head under
water. The more he struggles the deeper he sinks.”
“Yes, that is the Indian
fashion of killing a bear in midstream,” echoed
Fish-Carrier, “and it is a great thing for a hunter
to know.”
“Thank you for telling
me,” said the boy, rising to take his leave. “I
value all this wisdom I can learn from my own people.”
“And where do you go now,
Wampum?” asked Fire-Flower. “Will you not
stay and learn more wise things? You are brave, and
we like you to hear us talk.”
“And your talk is good,”
replied the boy, smiling. “You make me feel like
the laughing loon bird, when you tell your tales and
smile and laugh yourselves. But I must leave you. I
am to drive the missionary to-day. He goes to the Delaware
line once more.”
“Ha! The Delawares!”
sneered old Fire-Flower. “I like not those Delawares.
They worship idols. It is not good to dance around idols.”
“Not good,” again
echoed Fish-Carrier.
“Still the Delawares are
not really bad people,” said [Page 183]
Wampum. “I don’t like their hideous idol,
and some day I hope to see it cut down,” he added
earnestly.
“Then it will be a brave
man who will do it,” asserted Fire-Flower. “The
Delawares are a fierce tribe. Their eyes are too black.
They cannot be trusted. We Mohawks are brave, but I
know of none who would dare cut down that idol.”
“I hope the Black Coat‡
won’t try it himself,” said Fish-Carrier.
“He is a good man. I don’t want to see the
Delawares kill him.”
“He certainly will
try it himself,” said Wampum. “His heart
is set on turning the dark Delaware to his Christianity.”
Fire-Flower sneered. “How
little these white men know, even such great white men
as the Black-Coat!” he remarked loftily. “He
thinks because the Mohawks all turned to his Christianity,
that he can get the dark Delawares. He seems to think
there is small difference in Indians, that they are
all alike. He does not know that we Mohawks despise
the Delawares because they worship idols. Before we
were Christians we worshipped the Great Spirit, the
God of all good, but never idols. What good
can come of people who dance round idols?” and
the old hunter wrinkled his very nose in contempt.
Young Wampum knew his place
too well to argue with the arrogant old hunter, so he
smilingly said good-bye, and leaving them to their pipes
and their memories, he set out for the Mission house,
from whence he was to drive the Reverend James Nelson
over to the “Delaware Line” to have one
of his frequent talks with the stubborn old chief, “Single-Pine,”
who for ten years had held out against Christianity,
clinging with determined loyalty to the religion of
this forefathers, worhipping the repulsive wooden idol
that, even in their old pagan state, the Mohawks so
despised. Wampum was a great friend [Page 184]
of Mr. Nelson’s. He was only a boy of sixteen,
but he helped in all the church work, translated Mr.
Nelson’s speeches from English into Mohawk and
the various other Indian dialects spoken on the Reserve,
drove him about through the rough forest roads, paddled
him down the river, and was the closest companion the
good missionary had in all that wild, remote country.
Even Wampum’s parents were Christian church workers,
but, kindly as their hearts were, they, too, shook their
heads sorrowfully over the hopelessness of trying to
Christianize the dark, idol-worshipping Delawares.
“Ah, Wampum, boy,”
greeted the missionary as the young Indian presented
himself at the mission house, “we have good work
before us to-day. I hear the Delawares are having a
feast day. They have been dancing about that deplorable
idol for two days and two nights. They tell me that
old Chief Single-Pine danced eight hours without ceasing;
that they have decorated the idol with silver brooches,
wampum beads, every precious thing they possess. It
is terrible, and my heart aches, boy, when I think how
hopeless it seems. I fear they will be worshipping that
wooden thing long after you and I have ceased working
for Christ’s kingdom.”
“Mr. Nelson,” said
the boy, half-shyly. “I don’t agree with
you. I heard, not long ago, that old Chief Single-Pine
said he only kept to the idol because his people did—that
he dared not cross them, but that after these ten years
of your talking with him, he himself believed in the
white man’s Christ.”
“Oh, Wampum, if I could
only believe that! If I could, I would die happy. Who
told you this glorious thing?” cried the encouraged
missionary.
“A Delaware boy,”
replied Wampum, “but when he told me he spat,
like a snake does venom. He said he and all the tribe
hated Single-Pine, for listening to you.”
For a moment the missionary
was silent, then he arose, the dawn of a majestic hope
in his face. “They may [Page 185]
hate him,” he said, “but they will follow
him. He is most powerful. They dare not rebel where
he leads. If we have won Single-Pine to Christianity,
we have won the whole tribe, Wampum. You have never
failed me yet; will you stand by me now? Will you help
me in this great work?”
“I will help you, sir,”
replied the boy, his young face glowing with zeal.
“But,” hesitated
the missionary, “remember, it is dangerous. They
are a fierce, savage tribe, these Delawares. Suppose—”
and the good man’s voice ceased. He thought of
his wife and two baby girls. Then he shuddered.
Wampum seemed to catch that
thought, and instantly a strange inspiration lighted
up his wonderful dark face. He set his strong white
teeth together, but kept his determination to himself.
As they prepared to leave the
Mission house, Wampum hung back a little, and when Mr.
Nelson was not looking, he slipped into the woodshed,
got the axe, and adroitly hid it under the wagon-seat.
He told himself that in case of trouble he would at
least have some weapon with which to defend the missionary’s
life, and fight for his own. Had the man of peace known
this, he would have remonstrated, but Wampum, although
a Christian, had good fighting Indian blood in his veins,
and had no such horror of battle. He was like one of
the old Crusaders, ready to fight for his faith, even
if the fighting had to be done with an axe.
Long before they reached the
Delaware Line, they could hear the sounds of feasting
and dancing. It was growing dark, and the great heathen
ceremonies were at their height. Many a time had the
good old missionary attended these dances, always putting
in a word for Christianity whenever he saw a fitting
opening, always hoping that the day would come when
the hideous idol would be laid low, and these darkened
souls brought to the Light [Page 186]
of the World. But to-night he felt strangely fearful,
almost cowardly, for the whole tribe had gathered to
pay tribute to their god, and it is a dangerous thing
to belittle the god or the faith of any nation that
is in earnest in its belief.
Old Chief Single-Pine welcomed
the missionary and Wampum graciously, but his people
scowled and looked menacingly at the sight of “The
Black Coat,” then continued their dancing. The
great Delaware idol was there in all its hideousness,
life size, in the form of a woman, and carved from one
solid block of wood, then painted and stained the Indian
copper color. It stood on a slight elevation in the
center of the big log “church,” grotesque
and repulsive as an image could well be made. Wampum
hated the thing, and found it difficult not to hate
these people who worshipped it. His own ancestors had
been pagans, but never heathen. They had worshipped
a living God, not a wooden one, and the boy turned in
sadness, and some horror, from the spectacle of these
idolatrous Delawares. Then his eyes lighted with pleasure,
for there, near the door, stood Fire-Flower and Fish-Carrier.
True, they were not now telling their boastful but harmless
tales of mighty hunting and prowess, but their friendly
faces still looked laughter-loving and genial, and Wampum
moved quickly towards them. “I did not know you
ever came here,” he said.
“Not often,” said
Fire-Flower. “But you said you were to bring the
missionary, so we came.”
Something in his voice gave
Wampum a hint that perhaps the loyal old hunters expected
trouble, and so had come in case they were needed.
“Thank you,” was
all the boy replied, but they knew he understood.
Meanwhile, Mr. Nelson was talking
with Single-Pine, who, exhausted with dancing, was allowing
himself a brief rest and smoke. “My friend,”
began the missionary, [Page 187] “do
you really believe in the power of that god of wood?”
The old chief glanced about
cautiously, then, lowering his voice, said:
“I am tired, oh, Black
Coat, of this thing! I would come to the Christian’s
God if I could, but my people will not let me.”
Mr. Nelson grasped the dark
fingers resting near his own. “Chief Single-Pine,”
he said excitedly, “will you yourself give me
leave to do away with this idol? Will you promise me
that if I cut it down you will make no outcry—that
you will not defend it; that you will not urge your
people to rise against me; that you will sit silently,
wordlessly; that you will take my part?”
For a moment the old Indian
wavered, hesitated, then said desperately, “I
promise.”
The missionary arose, removed
his hat, and lifting his white face to heaven, prayed
aloud, “God help me, make me strong and fearless
to do this thing.” But at his side was Wampum,
his clinging brown fingers clutching the black-coated
arm. He had overheard all the conversation, and his
young face took on grayish shadows and lines of anxiety
as he said, “No, no, Mr. Nelson, not you!
They may kill you. Your wife, your girl babies—remember
them. Think of them. This is my work, not yours.”
Instantly he dashed outside, returning with the axe
he had hidden in the wagon. Without a glance in any
direction, he strode into the centre of the log lodge,
the dark worshippers fell aside, surprised into silence,
and the slender Mohawk boy braced his shoulders, lifted
his head and—
“Don’t, don’t,
Wampum, boy!” choked the missionary, “It
is wild, it is useless. Stop, oh, stop!”
But he might as well have ordered
a hurricane to stop. With a splendid sweep of strong
young arms, the boy whirled the axe in a circle above
his shoulders and [Page 188] brought
it down crashing with full force on the idol. The figure
split from top to base, the neck was severed, and the
painted wooden head rolled ingloriously to the floor.
Then, amid a stony silence, more menacing than any words,
the boy stood with squared shoulders and uplifted chin,
his fierce beauty more imperial, more majestic, than
ever before.
For an instant the black eyes
of a hundred Delaware warriors glared at him with hate
and bloodshed in their depths. Then with a furious yell
they turned to their chief for his commands, but old
Single-Pine sat with bowed head, his face hidden in
his hands, his lips silent. A sullen murmur ran through
the throng, but they knew their chief had at last taken
the great step into Christianity; and while Wampum yet
stood alone and unafraid, his axe in his hand, and the
head of the ruined idol at his feet, the entire tribe
filed past, and one by one shook hands with the white-haired
old missionary, for, as faithful followers of their
chief, they, too, must embrace the white man’s
faith.
It was Fire-Flower who spoke
first, touching the boy’s hand. Wampum started,
as if from a dream.
“Boy,” said the
old hunter, “I have seen no man so brave.”
Wampum shuddered. “My
uncle,” he said proudly, “I have lived among
brave people, but—” here he shuddered again,
for he was only a boy, after all. “Oh, how black
their eyes were, and how they hated me!”
“They never hated you
as much as we love you,” returned the old hunter.
The word “love” had never passed his lips
before, and Wampum knew then that not only had his courageous
act brought the blessing of the white man’s God,
but it had won for him the priceless friendship of this
stalwart old Indian, whose wisdom and whose laughter
would be shared with him through all his coming life.
[Page 189]
The good missionary said never
a word as they drove home through the dark, but as they
parted for the night he laid his hand silently, gently,
on the proud, dark young head. No word was spoken, but
the boy knew that a blessing was not always expressed
in language, and that there are some kinds of courage
that do not need scalps at one’s belt to show
that one has fought a good fight. [Page 190]
*
This tale is absolutely true. The writer’s father
was the boy who destroyed the Delaware idol, the head
of which is at this time one of the treasures in the
family collection of Indian relics and curios. [back]
† The above incident
really occurred on the Grand River, about the year 1850,
the writer’s father having witnessed it. [back]
‡ The Indians call
missionaries “The Black Coats.” [back]
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