The Indian Hater and Other Stories by James Hall
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The Indian Hater and Other Stories by James Hall

Edward Watts

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eBook - ePub

The Indian Hater and Other Stories by James Hall

Edward Watts

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About This Book

The return of popular nineteenth-century short stories of the early American frontier

"James Hall was part of a literary scene in Cincinnati and in Illinois at the same time as Hawthorne and Irving were publishing short stories in New York and Boston. Middle Westerners should be delighted to rediscover one of their earliest masters of short fiction. Hall's style has all the charm of his most talented peers and deftly employs the techniques of sentimentality, irony, and physiognomy that were so popular at the time."
—Gordon Sayre, University of Oregon

"The Indian Hater" and Other Stories, by James Hall returns to print an important and popular writer from an often-overlooked moment in American literary history. In the decades before the Civil War, when readers and writers in both the United States and England thought about writing from the American West they thought about James Hall (1793–1867) and his stories "The Indian Hater" and "Pete Featherton." Between 1828 and 1836, Hall wrote dozens of short stories in a wide variety of genres while working as an editor, politician, and businessman, first in frontier Illinois and after 1833 in Cincinnati. Many of his stories were immediately reprinted on both sides of the Atlantic and achieved success with both the popular audience and the critics, despite their unorthodox treatment of the frontier.

Born a younger son to a prominent Philadelphia literary family, Hall first heard many of the stories that inspired his later fiction as a lawyer and judge riding the circuit in 1820s Illinois. Describing more common subjects than the sweeping narratives of James Fenimore Cooper or Francis Parkman, Hall's stories depict complex cultural collisions and exchanges: French settlers still populate his southern Illinois, and their more humane treatment of their Indian neighbors is contrasted with that of the Anglo-Americans Hall saw flooding the region; his white men are complicated and often corrupted, hardly confirmations of the myths of Daniel Boone or Cooper's Leatherstocking; his Indian characters are complex and humanized, unusual depictions in a moment of race-based Manifest Destiny; and Hall's West is simultaneously tragic, violent, comedic, and deeply conflicted. James Hall was popular and important in his moment, and his stories embody very progressive sentiments. His most famous story, "The Indian Hater, " is Hall's fictionalization of a real-life settler who, to avenge earlier attacks on his family, periodically hunted and murdered Indians at random. He wrote two versions of this tale, both included in the current volume, the second of which ends with a successful interracial marriage, a very controversial theme at the time.

To read these stories is to rediscover an American frontier too often left out of the history books, one rendered by the hands of a master prose stylist. The lack of quality of nineteenth-century texts coupled with the growing interest in early American writers make "The Indian Hater" and Other Stories, by James Hall an important addition to both U.S. history and literature.

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(1835)

The Pioneer

I WAS TRAVELING A few years ago, in the northern part of Illinois, where the settlements, now thinly scattered, were but just commenced. A few hardy men, chiefly hunters, had pushed themselves forward in advance of the main body of emigrants, who were rapidly but quietly taking possession of the fertile plains of that beautiful state; and their cabins were so thinly scattered along the wide frontier, that the traveler rode many miles, and often a whole day together, without seeing the habitation of a human being. I had passed beyond the boundaries of social and civil subordination, and was no longer within the precincts of any organized country. I saw the camp of the Indian, or met the solitary hunter, wandering about with his rifle and his dog, in the full enjoyment of that independence, and freedom from all restraints, so highly prized by this class of our countrymen. Sometimes I came to a single log hut, standing alone in the wilderness, far removed from the habitations of other white men, on a delightful spot, surrounded by so many attractive and resplendent beauties of landscape, that a prince might have selected it as his residence; and again I found a little settlement, where a few families, far from all other civilized communities, enjoyed some of the comforts of society among themselves, and lived in a state approaching that of the social condition.
But whether I met the tawny native of the forest, or the wild pioneer of my own race, I felt equally secure from violence. I found them always inoffensive, and usually hospitable. That state of continual warfare, which marked the first settlements upon the shores of the Ohio, had ceased to exist. The spirit of the red man was broken by repeated defeat. He had become accustomed to encroachment, and had learned to submit to that which he could not prevent. However deeply he might feel the sense of injury, and however fiercely the fires of revenge might burn within his bosom, too many lessons of severe experience had taught him to restrain his passions. Bitter experience had inculcated the lesson, that every blow struck at the white man recoiled with ten-fold energy upon himself.
I found the pioneers a rude but a kind people. The wretched hovels, built of rough logs, so carelessly joined together as to afford but a partial protection from the storm, afforded a welcome shelter, when compared with the alternative of “camping out,” which I had been obliged to adopt more frequently than was agreeable. Their tables displayed little variety, but they were spread with a cheerful cordiality that was delightful to the weary traveler. There were venison, poultry, rich milk, and excellent bread, in abundance. There was honey too, for those that liked it, fresh and fragrant from the cell of the wild bee. But the smile of the hostess was that which pleased me most; her hospitable reception of the tired stranger—the alertness with which she prepared the meal—her attention to his wants—the sympathy she expressed for any misadventure that had befallen him, and the confidence with which she tendered the services of “her man,” when it happened that the more slowly spoken host faltered in the performance of any of the rites of hospitality;—all these, while they afforded the evidence of a noble trait of nationality, which I recognized with pride as a western American, reminded me also of the delicacy and quickness of perception with which a woman recognizes the wants of him who “has no mother to bring him milk, no wife to grind his corn.”1
I halted once upon the “Starved Rock,” a spot rendered memorable by a most tragic legend that has been handed down in tradition. It is a stupendous mass of insulated rock, standing upon the brink of the Illinois River, whose waters wash its base. Viewed from this side, it is seen to rise perpendicularly, like the ramparts of a tall castle, frowning over the still surface of that beautiful stream, and commanding an extensive prospect of low, but richly adorned, and quiet, and lovely shores. Passing round, the bulwark of rock is found to be equally precipitous and inaccessible on either side, until the traveler reaches the rear, where a narrow ledge is found to slope off from the summit towards the plain, affording the only means of access to this natural fortress. Here a small tribe of Indians, who had been defeated by their enemies, are said to have taken refuge with their wives and children. The victorious party surrounded the rock, and cut off the wretched garrison from all possibility of retreat, and from every means of subsistence. The siege was pressed with merciless rigor, and the defense maintained with undaunted obstinacy—exhibiting, on either side, those remarkable traits of savage character: on the one, the insatiable and ever vigilant thirst for vengeance; on the other, unconquerable endurance of suffering. The position is so inaccessible, that any attempt to carry it by assault was wholly impracticable, and the dreadful expedient was adopted of reducing it by starvation—an expedient that was rendered inevitably and rapidly successful, by the circumstance that the summit of the rock afforded no water, and that the besieged party had laid in no supply of provisions.2
It is shocking to reflect on such warfare. There is nothing in it of the pomp, or pride, or circumstance, which often deceive us into an admiration of deeds of violence. In reading of the stern conflict of gallant men who meet in battle, our feelings are enlisted by the generosity that exposes life for life. The “plumed troops, and the big wars,” stir up the soul to a momentary forgetfulness of the vices they engender, and the wretchedness they produce, though we cannot agree with the poet, that they “make ambition virtue.”3 We admire the genius that plans, and the talent that executes, a successful stratagem, and pay the homage of our respect to any bright development of military science. Courage always wins applause; we cannot withhold our approbation from a daring act, even though the motive be wrong. But bravery on a fair field, and in a good cause, becomes heroism, and warms the heart into an enthusiastic admiration. How different from all this, and from all that constitutes the chivalry of warfare, and how like the cold-blooded sordidness of a deliberate murder, was that savage act of starving to death a whole tribe,—the warriors, the aged, the females, and the children! And such, in fact, became the fate of that unhappy remnant of a nation which had once possessed the sovereignty over these beautiful plains, and had hunted, and fought, and sat in council, in all the pride of an independent people. The pangs of hunger and thirst pressed them, but they maintained their post with obstinate courage, determined rather to die of exhaustion, than to afford their enemies the triumph of killing them in battle or exposing them at the stake. Every stratagem that they attempted was discovered and defeated. When they endeavored to procure water in the night, by lowering vessels attached to long cords into the river, the vigilant besiegers detected the design, and placed a guard in canoes to prevent its execution. They all perished—one, and only one, excepted. The last surviving warriors defended the entrance so well, that the enemy could neither enter nor discover the fatal progress of the work of death; and when, at last, all show of resistance having ceased, and all signs of life disappeared, the victors ventured cautiously to approach, they found but one survivor—a squaw, whom they adopted into their own tribe, and who was yet living, at an advanced age, when the first white men penetrated into this region.
One morning, on resuming my journey, I found that my way led across a wide prairie. The road was a narrow footpath, so indistinct as to be scarcely visible among the high grass. As I stood in the edge of a piece of woodland, and looked forward over the extensive plain, not the least appearance of forest could be seen— nothing but the grassy surface of the broad natural meadow, with here and there a lonely tree. It was in the spring of the year, and the verdure was exquisitely fresh and rich. The undulating plain, sloping and swelling into graceful elevations, was as remarkable for the beauty of its outline as for the resplendent brilliancy of its hues. But although the prairie was so attractive in appearance, there was something not pleasant in the idea of crossing it alone. The distance over it, to the nearest point of woodland, was thirty miles. There was, of course, neither a house nor any shelter by the way—nothing but the smooth plain, with its carpet of green richly adorned with an endless variety of flowers. To launch out alone on the wide and blooming desert, seemed like going singly to sea; and it was impossible to avoid feeling a sense of lonesomeness when I looked around, as far as the eye could reach, without seeing a human being or a habitation, and without the slightest probability of beholding either within the whole day. As I rode forth from the little cabin which had given me shelter through the night, I could not avoid looking back repeatedly at the grove which surrounded it, with a wistfulness like that of the mariner as he regards a slowly receding shore. But the sun was rising in majestic luster from the low distant horizon, shedding a flood of light over the placid scene, and causing the dew-drops that gemmed the grass to sparkle like a silver tissue—and I spurred my steed forward with mingled sensations of delight and pensiveness.
I soon became convinced that the journey of this day was likely to prove disagreeably eventful. There had recently been some heavy falls of rain, and the ravines that intersect the prairie, and serve as drains, were full of water. Some of these are broad, and many of them too deep to be crossed when filled, without obliging the horse to swim; and the banks are often so steep, that, before the rider is aware of his danger, the horse plunges forward headlong, throwing the unwary traveler over his neck into the stream. I rode on, however, wading through pools and ravines, but happily escaping accident, and meeting with no place sufficiently deep to try the skill of my steed in the useful art of swimming, though the water often bathed his sides, and sometimes reached nearly to his back. Nor was this all—“misfortunes never come single.”4 The clouds began to pile themselves up in the west,—rolling upward from the horizon portentously black. The signs were ominous of a day of frequent and heavy showers. But how could I help myself? On a prairie there is no refuge from the fury of the storm, any more than there is upon the ocean; and to warn a traveler that the rain is soon to fall, is about as practically useful to him as would be the inculcation of that ancient canon of the church,—“No man may marry his grandmother.”5 I looked back at the clouds, and then looked forward to a wetting. It is vexatious to be caught thus. A shower bath is pleasant enough when taken voluntarily, but not so when it must be received upon compulsion. To be wet is no great misfortune, nor is there any thing dangerous or melancholy in the occurrence. But this only makes it the more provoking. If there was any thing pathetic in the catastrophe of a ducking, or any bravery to be evinced in bearing the pitiless peltings of the storm, it might do. But there is no sympathy for wet clothes, nor does a man earn any tribute of respect for his patient endurance, when sitting like a nincompoop under the outpourings of a thunder-gust. The whole affair is undignified and in bad taste. Few things so humble one’s pride, and make one feel so utterly insignificant, and so like a wet rag, as to be soaked to the skin against our own consent.
It was thus that I felt on this unlucky day. The clouds rolled on until the whole heavens became overcast. That splendid sun which had risen so joyously, and lighted up the landscape, and gladdened the face of nature, was obscured, and heavy shadows pervaded the plain. The clouds settled down, until the low arch of suspended fluid appeared to rest upon the prairie. I drew on my great coat. A blast of wind swept past me—then the rain fell in torrents upon my back, as if poured out from ten thousand water buckets. What a dunce was I to put on my over-coat, which only served as a sponge to suck in the descending cataract, and loaded me down with an accumulated weight. The rain poured in streams from the eaves of my hat—it beat upon my neck, and insinuated itself under my clothes—it ran down into my boots, and filled them until they overflowed. I felt cowed, crest-fallen, hen-pecked—I compared myself to a drowned rat—to a pelted incumbent of the pillory—to any thing but an honest man, a republican, and a gentleman. I got vexed, and kicked my spurs into my horse who instead of mending his pace, only threw up his head indignantly, as if to reproach me for the supplementary torture thus gratuitously bestowed upon my companion in trouble. I relented, drew in my rein, stopped short, and just sat still and took it—and presently the rain stopped also. It cannot rain always.
I drew a long breath, and looked around me, as the war of the elements ceased. My saturated garments hung shapelessly about my person, and I had the cold comfort of knowing that there they must continue to hang, and I to shiver under them, until all the particles of moisture should be carried away by the slow process of evaporation, for the rain had penetrated my saddle-bags and soaked my whole wardrobe. The clouds still looked watery, and were rolling up in heavy masses, portentous of new and repeated showers. If it would not have been unmanly, and unlucky too, I should have turned back, and regained the shelter of my last night’s lodgings—but I was as wet as I could be, and—as General Washington said when he was sitting for his portrait—“in for a penny, in for a pound.”6
As I looked about me I perceived, at a great distance, a horseman approaching in my rear, and traveling in the same direction with myself. I determined to wait for him,—the more readily, as I had just arrived at the brink of a ravine which was broader and apparently deeper than any I had passed, and in which, in consequence of the recent shower, the water was rushing rapidly. Any company at such a time was better than none: I was willing to run the risk of being scalped by a Winnebago, talked out of my senses by a garrulous Kentuckian, or questioned to death by a traveling Yankee, rather than ride any further alone.
As the traveler approached me and halted, with the courtesy usual in the country, I was struck with his appearance. From his countenance one would have pronounced him to be a soldier, but his garb was that of a Methodist preacher. Dressed in the coarse homespun fabric that is made, and almost universally worn, in this region, there was yet a dignity in the air and conduct of this stranger that was independent of apparel. His coarse and sunburned complexion was that of a person who had been exposed to the elements from childhood. It was not scorched and reddened by recent exposure, but regularly tanned and hardened, until its texture would have bid defiance to the attacks of a mosquito, or any other insect or reptile of less muscular powers than the rattlesnake. His features were composed, but the air of perfect calm that rested upon them was that of reason and reflection operating upon a vigorous mind, which had once been violently excited by passion. There could be no mistake in the expression of these thin compressed lips, indicating unalterable resolution and sternness of purpose. The high relief, and strong development of the muscles of the face, evinced the long continued impulse of powerful emotion. But the small gray eye was that which most attracted attention. It was fierce, and bold, yet subdued. Time and the elements had driven the blood from the cheeks, but the eye retained all the fire of youth. There was an intensity in its glance which caused another eye to sink or turn aside, rather than gaze at it directly; and this was not in consequence of any thing sinister or repulsive in the expression, but because the power of vision seemed to be so concentrated and intense as to defy concealment. There was a vigilance, too, about that eye, as I had afterwards occasion to observe, which seemed never to sleep, and suffered nothing to escape its attention. Without at all disturbing the sedate demeanor of the body, and the nearly motionless position of the head—the eye, moving quietly and almost imperceptibly under the lid, watched all that passed around, while the ear caught the slightest sound with an acuteness which was extraordinary to one not accustomed to this perfect exercise of the faculty of attention.
In the wilderness, it is well understood that strangers who meet may address each other with frankness: it was soon discovered that we were traveling in the same direction, and agreed that we should go together. The stranger took the lead; and if I was at first struck with his appearance, I was now even more surprised at his perfect composure, under circumstances which were certainly unpleasant, and perhaps dangerous. He rode into the ravine before us, as carelessly as if it had formed a part of the hard path, neither changed position nor countenance as his horse began to swim, managed the animal with the most perfect ease and expertness, and, on reaching the opposite shore, continued to move quietly forward, without seeming to notice the splashing and puffing which it was costing me to effect the same operation.
As we rode on we found the earth saturated, and the surface of the plain flowing with water. Throughout the day the showers were frequent and heavy, gust after gust passed over us, each as furious as the last. We had to wade continually through pools, or to swim our horses through torrents. My companion minded none of these things, and I became astonished at the imperturbable gravity with which he encountered those difficulties, which had not only fatigued me nearly to death but so worried my patience that I had grown nervous and irritable. On he plunged, through thick and thin, selecting the best paths and crossing places—guiding his horse with consummate skill—favoring the animal by avoiding obstacles, and taking all advantages which experience suggested,—yet pushing steadily on through impediments which, at first sight, seemed to me impassable. On such occasions he took the lead, as he did generally along the narrow path that we could only travel comfortably in single file; but, when the ground permitted, we rode abreast and engaged in conversation.
Towards evening we arrived at the brink of a small river, not wide, but brim-full, and whose stream swept along impetuously, bearing logs and the recently riven branches of trees upon its foaming bosom. The idea of swimming on the backs of our tired horses, over such a torrent, was not to be entertained; and I actually groaned aloud, in despair, at the thought of being obliged to spend the night upon its banks. But my companion, without halting, observed calmly, that a more favorable place for crossing might possibly be found; and, turning his horse’s head along the brink of the river, began to trace its meanders. Presently we came to a spot where a large tree had fallen across, the roots adhering to one bank while the top rested upon the other. My companion dismounted and began to strip his horse, leaving nothing on him but the bridle, the reins of which he fastened carefully over the animal’s head, and then leading him to the water, drove him in. The horse, accustomed to such proceedings, stepped boldly into the flood, and, stemming it with a heart of controversy, swam snorting to the opposite shore, followed by my trusty steed. We then gathered up our saddles, and other “plunder,” and mounting the trunk of the fallen tree, crossed with little difficulty, caught our steeds who were waiting patiently for us, threw on our saddles, and proceeded.
It was night when we reached a cabin, where we were hospitably entertained. Kindly as strangers are always received in this region, I could not but observe that the ecclesiastical character of my companion excited, on this occasion, an unusual assiduity of attention and homage of respect. The people of our frontier are remarkable for the propriety of their conduct in this particular. However rude or careless their demeanor towards others may sometimes be, a minister of the gospel is always received at their houses with a mixture of reverence and cordiality, which shows the welcome given him to be as sincere as it is liberal. They seem to feel unaffectedly grateful for the labors of these devoted men in their behalf, and to consider themselves honored, as well as obliged, by their visits. And none deserve their gratitude and affection in a greater degree than the preachers of that sect to which my companion belonged. They are the pioneers of religion. They go foremost in the great work of spreading the gospel in the desolate places of our country. Wherever the vagrant foot of the hunter roams in pursuit of game—wherever the trader is allured to push his canoe by the spirit of traffic—wherever the settler strikes his axe into the tree, or begins to break the fresh sod of the prairie, the circuit-riders of this denomination are found mingling with the hardy tenants of the wilderness, curbing their licentious spirit, and taming their fierce passions into submission. They carry the Bible to those, who, without their ministry, would only “See God in c...

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