As to the third worthy in our list, I cannot continue the parallel with due regard to facts, the imagination of the historian having thrown as yet no light on the latter days of the great Mumbo Jumbo. But that the parallel should he found to hold good to the last degree of coincidence, may safely be inferred from what the lights of our age have been telling us for the last forty years of the latent saint inherent in the nature of ebony, from Ham, the favorite son of Noah, down to Uncle Tom, the best man that ever lived.

But to return and make a third start toward the end of our story. When he heard that his young master had received a captaincy in the Johnson regiment of mounted riflemen—the finest regiment, by the way, that figured in the Second War—Big Black Burl felt his heart beginning to glow with the martial ardor of his younger days. But when he saw the young captain, where, in the broad green meadow in front of the house, he was drilling his company, all mounted on fine horses and arrayed in their gallant backwoods uniforms, then did Burlman Reynolds feel the Fighting Nigger rising rampant within him, insomuch that he could not endure the thought of being left behind. So he made an earnest petition to his master to be allowed to go along, just to groom the "Cap'n's horse," to clean the "Cap'n's gun," and to see that the "Cap'n always got plenty to eat—mo' dan his dry rations—a squirrel, or a partridge, or eben a fat buck, which he an' Betsy Grumbo would take a delight in providin' fur him." And to humor the good old fellow, Captain Reynolds bid him go and don his bear-skin rigging, shoulder Betsy Grumbo, mount young Cornwallis, and take his place in the ranks of war. But here we are at the end of our chapter, and not a word of the figure the Big Bear made in the great North-west. This, though, amounts to but little—the omission amounting to nothing.



Chapter XIX.

HOW BIG BLACK BURL FIGURED AT THE DEATH-STAKE.

Burl had made it his habit, whenever the army halted and pitched tent for the night, to shoulder his rifle and take a solitary turn through the neighboring woods, if haply he might not bring down a squirrel, or a partridge, or it might be a fat buck, that the "Cap'n" might have something juicy and savory wherewith to season and reenforce his sometimes scanty and never very palatable rations. But toward the close of this hazy October day, already thrice alluded to, when the army had encamped for the night, the humor, as luck would have it, seized Captain Reynolds to accompany his trusty forager in the accustomed evening hunt. So they set out together, and had not penetrated a mile into the forest to the northward, when on coming to a bushy dell they had the good fortune to start a fine buck, which Captain Reynolds brought down and had Burl to shoulder, proposing to take it whole to camp, that he might share it with his men. Hardly had they turned to retrace their steps, when suddenly, before Reynolds could reload his gun, or Burl disencumber himself of the buck, they found themselves completely surrounded by at least a dozen savages, who, hovering about the enemy's van, had spied the stragglers and laid in ambuscade to capture them, though all but within rifle-range of the American pickets. Taken by surprise, and outnumbered two to one, any attempt at resistance or escape would have been instant death. So they surrendered at once, and quietly suffered themselves to be stripped of their arms and accouterments, which being done in a twinkling, they were swiftly borne off through the woods.

The audacious savages, having made two or three circuits to avoid the American outpost, set their faces due north-east, then pursued their course without swerving to right or left. The sun went down, the moon came up, on those Canadian wilds. Ever and anon, as swiftly held they onward, other Indians, singly or in squads, would fall into the file, gliding from out the mingled gloom of forest shade and night, as suddenly and silently as the shapes which flit through troubled dreams. Among these, by and by, appeared a warrior of gigantic stature, who putting himself at the head of the file, stalked on a little in advance, and seemed to be their leader.

Captain Reynolds now felt convinced that they had fallen into the hands of some of Tecumseh's scouts, through whom that vigilant leader kept himself continually informed of the enemy's movements, if, peradventure, at some moment he might find them off their guard, either to be drawn into an ambuscade by day or surprised in camp by night. Unswervingly due north-east the night-marchers held their course for several miles, the warrior gliding on before them, like a gigantic specter there to lead them over the shadowy borders of another world. So it seemed to Burl, who felt his spirit strangely troubled within him whenever an opening through the forest, letting in the hazy glimmer of the moon, brought that huge bulk less vaguely before his eyes; and once in particular, as they neared the summit of a big bald hill, when the warrior for an instant towered in lofty, dim relief against the starry sky. Toward midnight, the party descended from the upland forest into the valley of the Thames, and shortly afterward reached the Indian camp. Here the prisoners were placed in the custody of fresh keepers, and all lay down to rest, stretched out on the ground near one of the numerous camp-fires which, by this time burning low, shone like great glow-worms along the side of the valley.

The dim light of another hazy October day was creeping chillily over those forest wilds, when a heavy hand shaking him roughly by the shoulder roused Big Black Burl from his slumbers. Scrambling to his feet, and drowsily looking around him through that foggy confusion of thought and perception through which sons of ebony after a sound sleep needs must pass in getting back to their waking senses, the black hunter caught a broad, vague view of something which made him fancy that he was still flat of his back on the ground and dreaming of the giant warrior who had led in the night-march. The moment after, more at himself, yet lingering still on the misty borders of nod-land, he fancied that what he saw just there before him must surely be a ghost; and at this horrible thought the negro gave a big start, which brought him by a shorter cut than usual out of his sleepy fog into the clear light of his wide-awake senses. All but within reach of his hand, there stood before him in bodily form that terrible Wyandot giant Black Thunder—that redoubtable warrior whom the Fighting Nigger had so long and fondly fancied he had slain in valiant fight, and his victory over whom he had ever since held up and trumpeted abroad as the crowning glory of all his martial exploits. The recognition was mutual, for never had either seen the other's like but once before, and that, too, under circumstances which neither was ever likely to forget. If the recognition was mutual, so was the surprise.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the Indian, as he bent his wild, panther-like eye on the black giant with a look of undisguised astonishment, which gradually darkened into a smile of ferocious joy and triumph.

"U-gooh!" exclaimed the negro, as he fixed his wild, ox-like eye unflinchingly on the red giant, but with a look of unspeakable amazement, which gradually vanished, leaving his face with a cast as impenetrable as black marble.

Having surveyed his captive from top to toe in exulting silence for some moments, Black Thunder turned abruptly on his heel and strode away, to be seen no more that morning. Burl was still staring after his old acquaintance when his young master, who had with some surprise witnessed the dumb-show of mutual recognition, came up and inquired what it meant. Burl explained, and having noticed the ugly smile with which he had been regarded, could not help foreboding the terrible fate that must await them if their lives lay at the mercy of that revengeful savage whom he had once made bite the dust.

By this time the allied English and Indian armies were all astir, and the disorderly retreat began afresh, Tecumseh keeping his Indian brigade half a mile in the rear of the regulars. Toward the middle of the afternoon the party that had the white prisoners in keeping, having gradually fallen behind the line of march, abruptly turned into the mouth of a dingle which, deep and shadowy, opened gloomily into the valley of the Thames. Here, for the first time since morning, our luckless hunters spied Black Thunder, where a little farther within the dingle, as if there in waiting for them, he was vehemently, though not loudly, haranguing some fifteen or twenty of his warriors who, clustered in a close red knot before him, were taking in with ravenous ears his every word. Evidently the evil, foreboded by Burl in the morning, was in some shape near at hand, for a fierce gesture flung toward them from time to time by the speaker, with the vengeful glances of his listeners in the same direction, told but too plainly the drift of the harangue. At length, as if to make the surer of their savage sympathies and give the climax to his barbarous appeal, Black Thunder suddenly threw back his robe and disclosed to view two scars—a deep and ugly one in the arm, a long and ghastly one athwart the breast. Whereat uprose a chorus of yells expressive not so much of savage sympathy as of savage delight. The moment after, seized foot, with brush-wood to feed the devouring flames heaped up against him to his shoulders, there stood Big Black Burl, a victim doomed to the fiery tortures of the death-stake.

Helpless himself, Captain Reynolds could not choose but stand where he was and become a witness of the harrowing spectacle—too harrowing for any Christian eye to behold, even were the victim but the poor dumb brute, who has only his howlings to tell of his agony; but that his affectionate, faithful, brave old Burl should ever have come to a fate so terrible, wrung his heart with unshakable anguish—anguish the keener, when he reflected that this had never been but for that very heroism which, on a beautiful summer morning in the days long gone, had wrought deliverance to him, a forlorn little captive, and restored him to the love of a lone and widowed mother. O that ever this should be! And the strong man wept, as wept had he never till that sad day.

"O Mars'er Bushie!" cried Burl, in a firm, even comforting voice, "don't you cry for yo' pore ol' nigger. 'T won't be long 'fore he'll be turnin' up all right in de kingdom. Soon or late, we mus' all come to de end uf our journey; an' dis arter all's but a short cut to glory. Ef you eber slips de clutches uf dese wretches, Mars'er Bushie, an' libes to git back home, tell eb'rybody good-by fur me. Tell Miss Jemimy her ol' nigger never forgot, de longes' day he eber libed, how much she wanted to give him his freedom. An' tell Sinar, my wife, how her ol' man tried to die like a Chrischun gwine to glory. An' tell her, too, when de time will come fur her to cross de Jordan water she'll fin' her ol' man waitin' to meet her on de odder side, wid a cabin snug an' ready, all happy an' safe in de promis' lan'."

Here, as if the closing words had suggested it to his mind, the poor old fellow lifted up his powerful and melodious voice and began singing a simple negro hymn, which, with a plaintive melody, had for its burden the following words:

An' I hope to gain de promis' lan', Halle—halleluyah! An' I hope to gain de promis' lan', Yes, I do! Glory, glory, halle—halleluyah! Glory, glory! Yes, I do!

The death-pile kindled, the smoke of its burning in dense black volumes enveloped the victim. Linked in a horrible circle around it, whooping and yelling and singing their war-songs, leaping and whirling and dancing their war-dance, clashing together their hatchets and war-clubs, waving above them the scalps of their foemen, went the barbarians merry as demons. And strong and clear, with never a quaver, still was heard above the confusion the hymning voice of the smoke-hid victim. But louder and higher than all, it is coming, ringing from far like the blast of a trumpet—a voice so stern, abrupt, and imperious that forthwith ceases the fiendish fandango. Up dashes a warrior mounted on horseback, leaps to the ground, and now at the death-pile seizes the fagots and scatters them broadcast, stamping upon them with moccasined feet to smother the flames till all is extinguished.

The savages—erst so active and lively—taken aback at his sudden appearance, now stood sullenly huddled together, somewhat apart in the gloom of the dingle. The fire extinguished, the chieftain—for such his dress and bearing bespoke him—wrathfully, scornfully, sternly rebuked them for their unmanly and barbarous treatment of a defenseless man and a captive.

In the course of his experience as trader and agent among the Indians, Captain Reynolds had picked up quite a smattering of several Indian tongues, which now enabled him to understand perfectly what the chief was saying. Even had he not been possessed of this knowledge, he could have readily followed the drift of the speaker's words by noting his gestures, looks, and the tones of his voice, so distinct and forcible were they, and so pointed with meaning.

The appearance of this man was prepossessing in the highest degree, displaying as it did every requisite of mind and body that can ennoble and dignify manly beauty. He stood at the summit of his prime, his form erect and symmetrical, though somewhat stouter than is usually to be found in men of his race. His bearing was graceful, lofty, and commanding; his eye eagle-like in its unflinching brightness; his face, in its European regularity of feature and clearness of outline, eminently handsome, showing in its lines the energy and intelligence of a great mind, true to itself and to the best impulses of human nature. He was dressed in the peculiar and picturesque costume of his people, made magnificent by fineness of material and the richness of decoration. Besides the usual Indian weapons, all of polished steel and silver-mounted, he wore a handsomely hilted English broad-sword, though less as an ornament than as a badge of rank, or mark of distinction.

Word having reached him that Black Thunder and his party had fallen behind the line of march, and to what bloody-minded intent their whoops and yells, heard in that direction, plainly enough attested, the chief, prompt to the call of humanity, had galloped back, as just described, to arrest and rebuke a proceeding so inhuman and so unwarrior-like. His rebuke ended, he turned to take a look at the prisoner whom he had rescued from the flames, but of whom he had as yet seen nothing, the smoke at the moment of his coming up still hovering heavily over the death-pile.

The Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head still stood bound to the tree, yet without the mark or even the smell of fire upon his person, excepting a slight singeing of his fleecy locks and bear-skin cap, not to mention a smart watering at the eyes, the effect of the smoke. Ah—smoke! I find that I have unwittingly made an important omission, for which I owe you an apology, kind and sympathetic reader. I should have told you that a heavy shower of rain had fallen but a few hours before the kindling of the death-pile, which, as needs must, had left the brush-wood in better condition for heavy smoking than for lively combustion. Had I mentioned this circumstance in its proper place, I should have spared your tender sensibilities somewhat by giving you something contingent to catch at as suggestive of possible intervention. But to return.

The instant the chief, with a sweep of his eagle-like eye, had scanned those huge, grotesque proportions, he threw up his hand with a gesture of surprise, and a look of recognition lighted up his handsome face. Whereupon, as if needing nothing more to tell him who had been the prime mover in the day's outrage, and the base motive that had led to its perpetration, he turned abruptly upon Black Thunder, where sullen and lowering, his giantship stood with folded arms apart from the rest, and flung at him a rebuke so withering in its scorn, so burning in its generous indignation, that the big barbarian quailed from before it, daunted and abashed. Then, without further ado, the chief went, and cutting the thongs of buffalo-hide which bound the captive to the tree, set him at liberty, and with a wave of his hand in the direction whence the American army was approaching, said in English, "Go."

To be thus jerked back by the skirts, so to speak, from the open jaws of death by a single savage had proved more confounding to the steadfast mind of Big Black Burl than when but a few minutes before he was dragged thither by twenty, insomuch that ever since the unexpected surcease of the fiendish frolic he had continued to stare about him in a state of bewilderment not unlike that twilight fog of thought and sense through which he was wont to pass from sound asleep to wide awake. But no sooner did he feel that he was foot-loose and hand-loose again than he was all his own collected self once more, and to the welcome gesture and friendly word thus answered: "I yi, my larky! Much obleeged to you fur puttin' out de fire, but smoke me ag'in ef you ketch me gwine 'way from dis holler widout Mars'er Bushie," giving a side-long roll of his big black thumb toward his young master.

How much of this speech the chief really understood were hard to say; but having heard it, he turned, and for a few moments earnestly regarded the young Kentuckian where, in delighted surprise at the unlooked-for turn their ugly adventure had taken, he had stood the while, and now, with the liveliest interest, was awaiting the upshot. Then, as if comprehending fully the circumstances of the case, the chief ordered Black Thunder to restore both prisoners their arms and accouterments, and whatever else had been taken from them—a command sullenly but promptly obeyed. All being ready, their deliverer, speaking again in English, but this time addressing himself to the white man, said, "Follow me!" and, setting his face westward, led the captives from the spot. To avoid the risk he must run of falling in with the American scouts or pickets, their guide ascended at once into the upland forest, through whose shadows lay not only their most secret but shortest route. As they gained the summit of the steep overlooking the dingle where his death-pile had been kindled, the Fighting Nigger—the Preaching Nigger fast asleep within him—made a momentary pause. Waving his bear-skin war-cap loftily over his head, he sent down to Black Thunder, triumphantly and defiantly, his old war-cry, so often heard in the stormy days of long-ago in the land of the Dark and Bloody Ground, now filling those Canadian wilds with gigantic echoes which, flying affrightedly hither and thither, for full three minutes thereafter kept hill-top saying to hill-top, dingle to dingle, "I yi, you dogs!"



Chapter XX.

HOW KUMSHAKAH FIGURED IN THE LIGHT OF THE SETTING SUN.

The red man foremost, the black man hindmost, and the white man between, silently, swiftly they wended their way through the mazes, green and brown, of the autumn-painted forest. "What manner of man is this," the young Kentuckian could not but say to himself, "at whose voice the fierce, unruly warriors of the wilderness stay their barbarous hands, from before the glance of whose eye their doughtiest champions quail, and under whose hand the captive goes forth again into life and freedom?"

Having with his war-cry eased his heart in a measure of the surplus joy and triumph he felt at their deliverance, Big Black Burl could now content himself to go for a mile or more without speaking a word. He failed not, however, to steal from time to time a prying glance at their deliverer from over his master's shoulder. At the first glance nothing in particular struck his mind, excepting that he thought the red stranger was a wondrously handsome and gallant-looking man for an Indian. At the second glance a fancy began to steal into his thoughts that at some time of his life he had had a dream in which he had seen such a form and face as that he now had before his eyes. At the third glance it began to dawn upon him that he had not only dreamed of seeing but really had seen that man before. At last, having fairly succeeded in cornering a dodging, skipping sprite of a recollection which he had been chasing about in his memory for the last ten minutes, Mish-mugwa, in open-eyed amazement, brought himself along-side Shekee-thepatee, to whose ear bending down he exclaimed in a big whisper, "Kumshy!"

Reynolds started. A vague something of the sort had been flitting before his mind ever since the stranger's sudden appearance at the dismal scene in the dingle. During the many years that had come and gone since that eventful first of June, he and Burl had often talked of the good and brave young Indian warrior who had shown himself so gentle and true a friend to the forlorn little captive in his hour of peril and need. In brightest remembrance had they held him ever since, coupling every mention of his name with some expression of gratitude or admiration, or with the mutual remembrance of some pleasant incident of his sojourn among them. Yes, though changed from the bright-eyed, graceful youth they had known him, they felt in their hearts that their deliverer could be none other than their old friend Kumshakah. But who was Kumshakah?

Without opening his lips to speak a word, or turning his head to glance behind him, silently, swiftly glided the Indian on before them, straight against the setting sun. At length, late in the day, after traversing the forest for some miles, they came to the head of a quiet little dell which, scooped out smoothly from among the hills, descended without a curve to the valley of the Thames. Here the chieftain halted, and pointing before him, his bright eyes turned now full and clear upon them, said in English, "Your friends."

Looking in the direction pointed out, and running their eyes down a long vista made through the trees of the dell by a brook on its way to the main stream, our hunters spied the American army where, at the distance of a mile, it had halted to encamp for the night. The tents, already pitched and all agleam in the low light of the sun, were scattered picturesquely about among the trees at the bottom of the dell, which then expanding like the flaring mouth of a bugle opened into the wider valley of the Thames. Setting the butt of his rifle on the ground and resting his hand upon the muzzle, the young Kentuckian now addressed the chieftain, not only speaking to him in his own language, but adopting the poetical and figurative style of expression peculiar to his people:

"This day many hands strong and cruel opened the doors of death to push us burning through; but one hand stronger than them all shut the doors and drew us back into the paths of the living. He has led us forth in safety from the midst of our deadly foes, and now bids us return in peace to our own people. We are glad; we are thankful. Who our deliverer is we know; our eyes, our ears, our hearts have told us already. Who should it be but Kumshakah, the savior of the boy Shekee-thepatee, the friend of the Big Black Brave, Mish-mugwa?"

"Your eyes and your ears and your hearts have told you untruly," replied the chief. "Nor yet have they wholly deceived you. I am not Kumshakah, but Kumshakah's twin brother. More than twenty times has spring made green the forest since Kumshakah started out on his first war-path. But they who went with him returned without him, saying, 'Kumshakah has fallen in the land of the Dark and Bloody Ground under the hand of the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head.' Then went I out into the forest, wandering in lonely places, and mourning my much-loved brother. But before another moon had turned her face full and broad upon the earth, Kumshakah returned, and there was a light in his eye brighter than that of the warrior's triumph. The story he told us you know; what we felt in our hearts you can guess. Who Mish-mugwa was I knew full well. I had seen him in battle; had heard his war-cry. Afterward I saw him from where I lay in ambush, his life at my mercy, but I lifted not my hand against him, for he was the friend of my brother, and they had smoked the peace-pipe together."

"Then, where is Kumshakah," inquired Reynolds, "since our deliverer be not he whom we loved as a brother?"

"Twenty times has autumn made yellow the forest," replied the chieftain, "since the Great Spirit called and Kumshakah answered and went his way. And before the going down of another sun the Great Spirit shall call again, when Kumshakah's brother shall answer and go his way likewise." Then, with a look of grateful interest, the chief inquired: "But tell me, is the mother of Shekee-thepatee still alive? or have the swift years borne her to the dwelling of Wahcoudah?"

"She is still alive," was the reply; "and with pleasant days has Wahcoudah blessed her since that morning when she bid him depart in peace whose goodness had restored to her the only child of her love, the chief joy of her heart. When we return and tell her that we have seen the brother of Kumshakah, and that, like Kumshakah, he is the protector of the helpless, the deliverer of the captive, the tidings will fill her with thankfulness and gladness. Then shall she say, 'But who is Kumshakah's brother, that mighty man whom the bold red warriors of the wilderness hold in such respect and awe, and at whose bidding they speed them to obey?' What shall our answer be—will the brother of Kumshakah tell us?"

"Since you loved my brother," rejoined the chief, "and it had pleased you had I been he, then call me Kumshakah, for what I have done I have done in his name and with his heart, and the time is close at hand when it will matter but little by what name I am known." The Indian said this with a melancholy smile. Then, with the light of the setting sun now thrown about him broad and strong, he thus proceeded with his answer: "Then may you tell your people that Kumshakah is dust, and truly. For though we part as friends to-day, to-morrow we meet as foes; and my heart is telling me that the might of the Shemanols shall prevail, that the blood-red banner of the English Manakee shall be laid in the dust, and that the ambushed army of the red man shall be broken and scattered. Then farewell to Kumshakah! When the battle is ended, search for him on the bloody war-plain, and you shall find him where he lies among the slain. If, then, you would know more of the fallen warrior, ask the sun that shines who Kumshakah is, and he shall answer: 'A shadow on the ground;' ask the winds that blow, and they shall answer: 'An echo in the woods;' ask the rains that fall, and they shall answer: 'The dust that feeds the oak and the willow.' If you would know who Kumshakah was, ask his people, who weep that he is fallen, and they shall answer: 'One who loved us, and for our sake laid down his life;' ask his foes, who rejoice that he is fallen, and they shall answer: 'One who hated us, and warred against us to the death.' And should the children of the days hereafter rise and ask their sires who Kumshakah was, then shall the tongue of tradition make answer: 'One who lived and died, endeavored and failed.' If such, then, be his story, why should more than this be known of Kumshakah? Let him sleep. Wahcoudah's will be done.

"White man, let us look another way."

Then, with the weird light of prophecy in his eye, imparting to its wonted brightness a mystical dimness, the Indian chief thus ended:

"White man, listen! Up from the opening east, where the birds of morning are singing, the rising sun is leading your people over the earth to riches, to power, and to glory Down into the closing west, where the birds of evening are silent, the setting sun is leading my people—whither, who shall say? But to become extinct, and be numbered with the things forgotten. But who shall say that the same Great Spirit who dwells in the rising sun, bidding his white children go forth and toil upon the earth, dwells not also in the setting sun, bidding his red children come and rest in the happy hunting-grounds? It is even so, and it is well. Let Wahcoudah rule. Rule, great Wahcoudah!"

Here paused the Indian for a moment, his eagle-eye unflinchingly bent on the setting sun. "Yes, it is even so, and it is well," he repeated. "Let great Wahcoudah's will be done. White brother, farewell! and you, my black brother, both farewell!"

In silence each took, in his turn, the proffered hand, Reynolds too profoundly moved at the Indian's words to speak, and Burl, overawed at his manner and appearance, which, while he was speaking, had risen into the solemn and sublime. Without another word, he was gone. They followed him with their eyes as swiftly, duskily he went gliding away through the glimmering shades of evening. As he reached the brink of the hill on which they stood, a parting beam from the setting sun—sent streaming, broad and bright and red, through a vista in the forest—poured round him for an instant a flood of melancholy glory. A moment more, and the Indian chief had vanished—plunged in the twilight depths of the valley beyond.

That night, as the young Kentuckian lay sleeping in his tent, still through his dreams he saw that face—a face it was to leave an image on the eye. And still through his dreams he heard that voice—a voice it was to leave an echo in the ear. The face reflecting ever the light of the setting sun; the voice repeating ever, "Rule, great Wahcoudah!"



Chapter XXI.

HOW THE GLORY OF HIS RACE FIGURED IN HIS SETTING.

The following day was the fifth of October, 1813, whose sun beheld the memorable Battle of the Thames, when, for the last time in the regions of the North, the Lion and the Eagle met in fight.

The final retreat had begun at Fort Malden, a strongly fortified post on the shores of Lake St. Clair, at the mouth of the Thames, where an effectual stand might have been made against the farther advance of the now victorious Americans. Such was the opinion of Tecumseh, and on learning that his white ally had resolved to destroy and abandon the fort to the intent of withdrawing still farther, even to the central regions of Canada, he had boldly opposed the movement as unnecessary, and being unheeded, had scornfully denounced it to his ally's very face as unwarrior-like, dishonorable, contemptible. Had the civilized general hearkened to the savage leader, the result of the war in that quarter, if not more successful to the British cause, would certainly have been far less dishonorable to the British name. During the retreat, the heroic sachem had earnestly and repeatedly recommended a sudden and determined face-about on their pursuers, and only the night before the decisive battle he had urged a backward movement, that, under screen of the darkness, they might surprise the sleeping enemy in his camp, and overpower him before any combined resistance could be made. But all in vain. His white ally was but a fat poltroon—"a big, fat, cowardly dog," to use Tecumseh's own comparison, "that carries his tail curled fiercely over his back till danger threatens, then drops it between his legs and slinks away."

Throughout the war, this Proctor had displayed far more enterprise and address as a plunderer than as a fighter, and now his sole end and aim was the conveying of his precious booty and his precious body as speedily as possible to some place of security before he should be overtaken. But by means of this very booty with which in his greediness he had overloaded himself, and the keeping of which he had far more at heart than the maintaining of his own or his country's honor, he was fated in the end to overwhelm himself with ruin and disgrace, since, by the unwieldy clog thus laid upon his movements, he had doubled his risk of being overtaken; and, with such a general, to be overtaken is to be defeated; and to be defeated, ruined.

At last, after having pursued his heavy, blundering flight far up the Thames to a place called Willow Marsh, near Moravian Town, and finding that the American van was pressing close upon his rear, the British general was prevailed upon by Tecumseh and his own officers to face about and give the enemy battle. His ground was well chosen. Parallel with the river and separated from it by a narrow strip of firm land, over which ran the beaten route, there lay a swamp of considerable extent which, besides being densely covered with other wet land growth, was thickly sprinkled over with willows, whence its name, "Willow Marsh." Across this isthmus Proctor hastily threw his regiment of about nine hundred regulars, while Tecumseh, with his brigade of about two thousand warriors, ambushed himself in the fastness of the swamp. On this occasion, as had he, indeed, on every other occasion of the kind, the Indian leader displayed a degree of generalship which stands without parallel in the annals of savage warfare. Pivoting his brigade on the right of the English regiment, he stretched it out in a long line, inclined curvingly forward, with the intent of suddenly unmasking and swinging it round upon the enemy's flank, should he in a body attempt to force the passage of the isthmus.

About the middle of the afternoon the Americans came marching up in full force and in orderly array. Inferring at once, from the features of the ground and from the little that was visible of the enemy, what the English and Indian line of battle must be, General Harrison promptly determined upon his plan of attack. The Kentucky regiment of mounted riflemen, one thousand strong, commanded by Colonel Johnson, he ordered to open the engagement by falling upon the Indian brigade where he knew it must be lying concealed in the swamp. His two companies of United States regulars, with a regiment of volunteer infantry, he sent forward to make a charge on the British regulars where, with their muskets and bayonets gleaming in the yellow autumn sunlight, they were seen extended in a long scarlet line from river to swamp. The general himself would hold a reserve of fifteen hundred men with which to cooperate as occasion should direct.

The Americans advanced to the attack with great spirit, and were received with equal spirit by the Indian wing of the enemy, and with a steady concert of action unprecedented in Indian warfare. But hardly had the Kentuckians sent forth their first volley when Proctor, too tender of his precious body even to strike a single blow for his precious booty, to say nothing of his precious honor, turned his back square on the foe and, followed by a small escort of horse, galloped ingloriously from the field, never drawing bridle till he had gained the shelter of Fort Chatham, many miles farther up the Thames. Thus hastily deserted by their general, the regulars, who otherwise had doubtless behaved with the wonted gallantry of brave Englishmen, threw down their arms with scarcely a show of resistance and begged for quarter. The white wing of the enemy thus lopped off at the first blow, the two regiments—the only part of the American army actually engaged in the contest—now concentrated upon the red wing, where it still lay concealed within its swampy covert. Up to this moment the Kentucky regiment of mounted riflemen had made several ineffectual attempts to dislodge and drive the Indians from their stronghold, of whom nothing as yet had been seen but a long, curved line of rifle-smoke which, curling upward from among the willows and hovering in small blue clouds above the heads of the ambushed savages, served to trace their order of array.

Meanwhile, the clarion voice of the Indian leader had been heard, in tones of encouragement, exhortation, and command to his unseen warriors, rising high and clear above the din of battle. Now, on a sudden, it rang out stern, abrupt, imperious, like the voice of a trumpet sounding a desperate charge.

When he found himself deserted by his white ally—the strong hand under which he and his people had trusted to return to the land of their fathers—then did the heroic sachem feel that he was fighting the last battle of a hopeless cause. But too proud to survive a failure so vast—the blasted hopes of his life, the ruined schemes of his ambition—he determined to die then and there, and die, too, such a death as should shed over the very failure an undying glory. To this intent he would order a general charge, disdaining the further shelter of his stronghold and meeting the enemy in the open field. True, such a movement would be utterly at variance with the usages of Indian warfare. True, also, the enemy to be charged was flushed with present success, not to mention his being the stronger and made audacious from having been the pursuer in the chase just ended. But such a movement, from the fact of its being without example and without hope, would make his skill as a leader the more apparent, his death as a warrior the more certain and glorious. Yes, he would order a general charge.

Then, to the amazement of the Americans, the heretofore invisible foe burst suddenly forth from his ambush, and now, in a long, well-ordered line, was coming impetuously on to meet them un-Indian-like in the open field. Headed by their intrepid leader, on they came amain, brandishing their tomahawks and war-clubs and filling the woods with their appalling yells and war-whoops. But now, well out of the bushy skirts of the swamp and able to look about them, they discovered what before their chief had designedly concealed from them—that the English regulars had all been captured, and that they were no longer supported by their white allies. The lengthened array of dusky warriors was observed to pause, to falter, then, at the next discharge of bullets sent point-blank at them, to break in pieces, dissolving at once into a mere disorderly rabble. All order lost, lost was all mutual confidence and all courage. Back, with a howl of disappointment and dismay, they quailed from before the advancing foe, and as suddenly as they had appeared, vanished again in the somber shadows of the marsh.

Hastily rallying about three hundred of his bravest followers, conspicuous among whom towered the gigantic bulk of Black Thunder, and inspiring them to heroism by his own example, again was Tecumseh pressing impetuously forward, his tomahawk brandished aloft and his trumpetlike voice still ringing high and clear above the rude uproar; nor paused he till with terrible energy he had hewn his way into the thick of the enemy's ranks. Now, with tomahawk uplifted, he had planted himself directly confronting Colonel Johnson, who, mounted on a white horse, was pressing forward, though desperately wounded, to encounter the Indian chief, his pistol already leveled. The next instant, and all in that self-same instant, the white horse dropped dead under his wounded rider, the pistol went off, a terrible cry was heard, a wild leap into the air was seen, and hushed was the clarion voice of command. The red warriors paused, gazed wildly about them, as were they listening to catch their leader's voice; then, hearing it no more, with a howl of dismay and despair, which found an echo in a howl as drear from their fellows crouched in the swamp, they turned and fled. The Battle of the Thames was over. The might of the Shemanols had prevailed, the blood-red banner of the English Manakee had been laid in the dust, and the ambushed army of the red man broken and scattered. The heroic, the high-minded, the hapless Tecumseh was fallen.

Throughout the action, though he had gallantly headed his company in every charge, Captain Reynolds had not fired a single shot, lest, by some unhappy chance, Kumshakah, the preserver of his life, might fall by his hand. When the battle was over and he had assisted in bearing his wounded colonel to camp, he hunted up Burl and, bidding him follow, returned in the course of an hour to the battle-ground, to look once more on his face who at sunset had said, "Let him sleep; Wahcoudah's will be done." He had repeated to his old servant what their deliverer had told them of himself. But having taken in the evidence of his own senses and already drawn therefrom his own unalterable conclusions, Big Black Burl could not be made to understand how a man who looked like Kumshakah, talked like Kumshakah, acted like Kumshakah, called himself Kumshakah, could be any other than the Kumshakah whom he had met as a foe, entertained as a guest, parted with as a friend, and ever afterward loved as a brother. Such was his conviction then, and such it remained through life.

On reaching the spot where he had seen the hero fall, Reynolds found a number of his brother soldiers already gathered there, and still others coming up, all eager either for the first time to behold or to get a nearer view of the renowned Indian chieftain. With the dead of both friend and foe strewn thick around him, there he lay, his handsome face still lighted up with a glorious and triumphant smile, as if the magnanimous soul that so long had animated those noble features had, in rising, stamped it there to tell his enemies that, though fallen, he had fallen and conquered. Beside him, and in striking contrast with his symmetrical and stately figure, his pleasing and majestic aspect, lay extended the huge bulk and scowled the terrible visage of Black Thunder.

"Pore, pore Kumshy!" exclaimed Burl, in a pitying voice.

"Yes, poor Kumshakah, and poor Tecumseh, too!" rejoined his master, with solemn and profound emotion.

"What's dat you say, Mars'er Bushie?" inquired Burl quickly and with a puzzled look.

Slowly young Reynolds repeated what he had said, and then added: "What we now see before us, Burl, is all that is left of the great Tecumseh!"

Had this specter of the slain chief risen suddenly from his body and stood confronting him, the effect on the mind of Big Black Burl could hardly have been more startling than that caused by this revelation. Three huge backward strides he made, then motionless stood for many moments, one foot a step behind the other, his hands uplifted and outspread, his eyes wide open, staring fixedly with mingled amazement, incredulity, and awe, at the lifeless body before him.

In his younger days, when the passion for martial glory burned strong within him, the Fighting Nigger, as we have seen, had been in the habit, when blowing his own trumpet, of running his warlike exploits into the fabulous and impossible—not from any direct design of deceiving his hearers, but merely that he might make his theme as interesting and wonderful to them as it was to himself; but that the honor of meeting and overcoming in battle so renowned a warrior as Tecumseh, of whom the world in which he lived, the great wild West, was so full, should ever have been his, seemed to Mish-mugwa more fabulous than even his own fables, and to which all his other achievements, granting them to have been as prodigious as he was wont to boast them, dwarf into unmentionable insignificance in comparison. The reader must not fail to bear in mind that, just here, we are viewing Tecumseh through the eyes of Burlman Reynolds.

At length, having taken in the evidence of his sight, but as if still needing that of his touch to set his doubts at rest and convince him that what he saw there was in verity a bodily form, Burl stole cautiously up again and softly laid his hand on the breast of the fallen hero. No sooner had he done so than with a warm, tender rush came thronging back into his memory all those recollections which, stretching their bright train from that glorious first of June to that beautiful Sabbath in the wilderness, he had ever viewed as being the happiest of his life. But when, linked with these, came back to his mind the thrilling events of yesterday, suddenly and to the surprise of all present, excepting his young master, the huge creature, with that liveliness of feeling peculiar to his race, burst into a blubbering explosion of tender, pitying, grateful feeling, and cried like a child.

"Pore, pore Kumshy! De good Lord hab pity on yo' soul an' gib you a mansion, ef it's only a wigwam, somewhar in his kingdom. You's a pore heathen, we know, but shorely somewhar in his kingdom he'll make room fur de like uf you." And with this simple oration over Tecumseh's body, Big Black Burl turned weeping away and followed his sorrowing master from the field, the stoniness and blindness of Calvinism gone from his creed forever.

That night, long after the somber autumn sun had set, and the somber autumn moon had risen, and the victorious foe had laid him down to sleep in his distant tent, silent as the shadows through which they glided, they returned to the battle-ground, the red warriors of the wilderness, to pay the last tribute of respect to their fallen chieftain. Beside a fallen oak that lay along the verge of the marsh—there, on the spot where he had made his last stand for the wild people, the wild land, the wild independence he had loved more than his life—they dug a grave, and in it laid the mortal remains of the immortal Tecumseh. Then they went their way, their wild hearts breaking with grief and despair, and he was left to that solitude of silence and shadow which, like a hallowing spell inspiring reverence and awe in the minds of the living, ever lingers round the resting-places of the illustrious dead. But for many a year thereafter they made it their wont to return thither, as on pilgrimage to a holy shrine, once more to look with reverent eyes on the green mound where he lay, and with reverent hands keep back the willows and wild roses growing too thick around it, that, unshadowed, it might be ever open to the loving, pitying light of the setting sun.

Thus he died, this Indian Hannibal; thus he set, this Glory of his Race. Let him sleep! Wahcoudah's will be done! Rule, great Wahcoudah!

THE END.