How Big Black Burl and Grumbo Figured After the Fight.

Now, it had always been the Fighting Nigger's belief—creed, so to speak—that Indians, though possessed (by some strange chance or mischance) of the power of speech, with a few other faculties in common with colored people and the rest of mankind, had, nevertheless, neither souls nor human feelings. According to his view, they were a sort of featherless biped-beast—an almost hairless orang-outang, with short arms and long legs, having an unquenchable thirst for human blood; whom, therefore, it was the duty of every Christian body—black, yellow, and white—to shoot down and scalp wherever they were to be found on top of the earth. But the creed he had so long adhered to, fought for, and gloried in had now on a sudden been knocked, picked, and crumpled up into a cocked hat by this young barbarian, whose conduct in the nobleness of soul it had displayed was utterly unlike any thing he had ever witnessed, heard of, or dreamed of, in this race. Big Black Burl took off his bear-skin war-cap, for the first time since quitting home, and with the back of his sweaty hand wiped his sweaty brow, put the cap on again, and from under its shaggy shadow took another look at the fog.

"U-gooh!" exclaimed the Fighting Nigger, at last so far recovering the power of speech as to be able to force an unspellable interjection through the nose; at the same time scratching his back with the knuckle of his thumb. "Neber seed de like in all my bo'n days. 'Pon my honor, ef dis young varmint don't carry on like a white man: couldn't a done dat thing mo'e ginteel'y myse'f. Burlman Rennuls"—jumping at solutions—"dar's black or white blood in dis young Injun; shore's you bo'n, dar's black or white blood in dis young Injun. Ef dar' wusn't he wouldn't be gwine on dis way like a white man—min', I tell you!" And Burlman Rennuls walked out of the fog; the Fighting Nigger walked out of the fog—out of the fog, into the clear, unmisted light of reason, walked, by a short cut, the entire man of Big Black Burl.

Thus satisfied in his own mind that, let the matter be viewed on either side—the black side or the white side—there existed a kindred tie between himself and the young Indian, not to mention the debt of gratitude each owed the other, the Fighting Nigger felt that for once in his life he might, without soiling the skirts of his honor, or lowering the plumes of his dignity, play the familiar and brotherly with the red varmint. So, going up to the young brave, who the while had stood with his bright eyes fixed on some invisible quarter of the morning, our colored hero, with a bland condescension of manner that would have done a white man infinite good to see, shook his captive heartily by the hand. Then, with awkward carefulness, he took the wounded arm of the Indian between his fingers, to ascertain the extent of the injury done by his bullet. No bones were broken, but the flesh-wound inflicted by the ball—flattened and jagged as it was by its passage through the grim savage—was found to be ugly and painful enough. "Betsy Grumbo bites pow'ful hard when she gits a chance," remarked Burl, after inspecting the wound with critical narrowness for a few moments. "Well, jes' wait a bit, an' I'll see what I kin do for you." So saying, he went and divested the dead savage of his ruffled shirt, which he tore up into narrow strips, wherewith to bandage the crippled arm. For Burlman Rennuls, you must know, was quite a dab at surgery; his skill in that line having been called into frequent requisition by the mishaps of old Cornwallis, who seldom got through the unlucky quarters of the moon without snagging his legs; and also by the wounds which the heroic Grumbo had received in hunting and in war.

While thus humanely engaged, his fluent tongue went on, and on, and on. Sometimes he would address his remarks to Burlman Rennuls, enlarging upon the valorous deeds and distinguished abilities of the Fighting Nigger—such signal proofs whereof he, Burlman Rennuls, had that day enjoyed the rare pleasure of witnessing. Then he would throw out some side hints, meant only for the private ear of the dead savage, relative to the incompatibleness of blue coats and ruffled shirts with the pure Indian costume—that unlucky individual being admonished that thereafter, if he did not wish to be thought a dirty, sneaking, low-lived thief, he would do well "to stick to his raggedy rawhide tags and feathers." Oftener, though, the black surgeon would be making some comment touching the matter more immediately in hand—seeming to take more interest therein than the patient himself, who, Indian-like, could hardly have manifested less concern in what was doing for his relief than had the wounded limb been hanging to some other man's shoulder, and he but an accidental spectator of what was passing.

When the wound was bandaged, or rather bundled up, the young Indian, improvising a sling of his ammunition-pouch, slipped his arm in between the straps—this being the first notice he had apparently taken of his own mishap.

"Now, as you's fixed up an' feelin' easy an' good, me an' Grumbo will take a bite o' somethin' to eat: hain't had our breakfas' yit, an' hungry as dogs. So, you an' Bushie jes' set heer on de log, while we look about us fur some grub. Den we'll all go a-p'radin' home togedder, arm-in-arm."

The smoldering camp-fire was rekindled, and a dozen long slices being cut from the fat young buck upon whose flesh the savages had broken their fast, it was not long before the appetizing smell of savory meat broiling on glowing embers began to fill the air, provoking the hungry mouth to water. But Big Black Burl, though colored and dressed in buckskin, was quite too much of the natural gentleman to suffer a morsel of food to enter his own mouth—water as it might—until he had discharged his duty as host toward their captive, who, being such, must needs in some sort be their guest. So, he took a choice slice of venison on the point of his hunting-knife, and going up to the young Indian where he sat on the log, offered it to him with magnificent hospitality, at the same time showing the whites of his eyes in his blandest manner. The captive guest, however, with a courteous wave of the hand, declined the proffered food, inasmuch as he had broken his fast already. The steak was then offered to Bushie, who, though he had breakfasted too, did not with a courteous wave of the hand decline it, but took and ate it, every bit—not that he was hungry at all, but so delightful did he find it to be eating again with his precious old black chum. Unwilling, in the joy and thankfulness of his heart, that his red friend should remain a mere spectator to their pleasant repast, the generous little fellow, getting the loan of Burl's knife, took another choice steak, and with his own hand offered it to their captive guest. This time—glad to do any thing in the world to please his little preserver—the young Indian accepted the proffered hospitality, and taking the venison, ate it with much appearance of relish.

Now, you must know that after a battle fought and victory won, it was Grumbo's wont to indulge himself in a little brief repose, which he would take stretched out on the ground, with his shaggy head laid, lion-like, on his extended paws—betraying, in both attitude and look, a sober self-satisfaction so entire as made it seem that for him the world had nothing more to offer. But this morning, notwithstanding the successful, even brilliant, winding up of their great adventure, our war-dog, instead of unbending as usual, held grimly aloof from the rest of the party, still seated on his tail, to which he had retired, snubbed, in the very flush of victory, by his ungrateful leader. Evidently our canine hero had got his nose knocked out of joint. Nevertheless, he failed not to maintain a wary though distant watch over the movements of the young Indian, whom, being the sort of game they had always up to this moment hunted to the bloody end, he could not but regard with a jealous and distrustful eye. From time to time, by way of giving him a piece of his mind, he would cast side-long at his master a look of severe reproach, unqualified disapprobation. Plain was it that to his dogship's way of thinking it was a very bungling fashion of doing business, thus to suffer this red barbarian to pass from under their hands, untouched by tomahawk or tooth—betraying, as it did, a weakness of feeling altogether unbeseeming warriors of the first blood like themselves. Therefore did his excellency doggedly keep his tail, nor would he unbend, so far as even to sniff at—though hungry as a nigger—the raw meat which, without measure, his master had laid before him.

Observing the offended and distant demeanor of his comrade-in-arms, and knowing that he sometimes showed a civilized preference for cooked meat over raw, Burl roasted one whole side of the buck and threw it before him, hot and smoking from the embers, hoping that this might win him over and tempt him into a more sociable and gracious humor. But his dogship had been too deeply offended to be so easily appeased; and let the savory fumes of the smoking dainty curl round and round his watering chops as temptingly as they might, he would not deign to stoop and taste. Seeing that he still stood upon the reserve—sat on his tail—Burl at length began to have some misgivings as to whether he had dealt altogether fairly by his right-hand man, to snub him as he had in the very moment of victory, which but for the injured one had never been achieved. So, he went and stripped the head of the slain savage of its scalp, which, with its long braided lock and tuft of feathers, he tied securely to the back of the war-dog's neck just behind the ears. This he did with the assurance that although they had won the trophy conjointly, yet in consideration of the gallant services which he—Grumbo—had that day rendered their almost hopeless cause, would he, the Fighting Nigger, resign all claim thereunto in his comrade's favor, and allow him to enjoy the undivided honor thereof, as he so richly deserved. Then the "captain explained to his lieutenant"—for with these titles the white hunters often coupled them—how matters stood between them and their Indian prisoner, but for whose humanity they had never found their little master alive. Having enlarged upon this point, the captain wound up his apology—for such the explanation was, in fact—with the promise, backed by the Fighting Nigger's inviolable word of honor, that as soon as they had squared the debt of gratitude under which this young barbarian had laid them, then would they go on doing up business in the good old orthodox fashion as before. More than this, that hereafter, whenever any of the red "varmints" should fall into their hands, he—Grumbo—should be allowed to throttle and tumble, tousle and tug them to his heart's content. All this, so gratifying to a warrior's pride, seemed to have the desired effect in appeasing the wounded dignity of his dogship, as was apparent, first by his bending his nose to smell, then stooping his head to taste, and at last by his coming bodily to the ground and falling tooth and nail upon the juicy roast before him, which now he could venture to do without great risk of burning his mouth.

By this time the dewy half of the morning was well-nigh spent, and if they would reach the shelter of the distant station by the going down of that day's sun, it was high time they were up and away on their homeward tramp. But Big Black Burl could not think of quitting the spot without taking with him every thing—weapons, accouterments of war, scalps, prisoners of war, not to mention the rescued captive—that might bespeak a battle fought and victory won, and that could set off and give edge to the triumphal entry he anticipated making that evening into Fort Reynolds. The whole settlement—nay, the whole Paradise from end to end—should ring with the noise of his grand achievement. To be sure, with respect to the prisoner of war, his little master, with that fellow-feeling which makes us wondrous kind, had said but the hour before, "Let him go home to his mother." But our hero, colored though he was, had far too genuine a love of glory ever to allow an opportunity for the indulgence of his passion to escape him, no matter at what expense it might be to others, in life, liberty, and dearest affections. And here again, and for the third time, may we liken the Fighting Nigger to Alexander the Great, to Napoleon the Great, or, more fitly still, to his great-grandfather, Mumbo Jumbo the Great, the far-famed giant-king of Congo. By the way, I am just here reminded that I have forgotten to state, and much to my surprise, that Big Black Burl was believed throughout the Paradise to be the great-grandson of the great Mumbo Jumbo, and as such was in verity the case, the remarkable character of our hero admits of plausible explanation. Who Mumbo Jumbo really was I must confess that, with due respect to authentic history, I am not exactly prepared to affirm; though that he must have been a man of immense consequence in his day was fairly to be inferred from the fact of his having made in Africa a noise so loud as to have been heard, a full half century afterward, beyond the Alleghany Mountains—that, too, by a people so far behind the times as to know nothing whatever of even so redoubtable a man as Baron Munchausen.

But to return to our war-path, and be just. The Fighting Nigger had no thought of using the life, liberty, and dearest affections thrown by the chances of war upon his mercy, excepting so far as to take his prisoner home with him as a trophy of victory; which done, then should he be allowed to return to his own people, bird-free, without the loss of a feather. As he had not killed the Indian, how could he without gross violation of the rules of civilized warfare take his scalp? And without scalps to show for proof, let him but dare blow his own trumpet, and he should be blazed throughout the land as a windy, lying braggart. Therefore, as neither party in question could quit that place without the scalp—the one having a natural right, the other a belligerent right to the same—expedient was it that the party who enjoyed but the natural right should be taken bodily to the settlements, there to appear as a living witness to that prowess in arms which had brought him under the conquering hand of the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head. Now you can understand what the Fighting Nigger meant, when, in answer to his little master's "Let him go home to his mother," he had, with a snap of his finger and thumb, exclaimed in Anglo-Congo lingo, "I yi, my larky!"

Accordingly, Burl gathered up all the weapons and accouterments of the vanquished foe, where they lay scattered about the top of the battle-hill, sticking the hatchets and knives about his middle and hanging the powder-horns and ammunition-pouches from his shoulders. The three Indians' rifles he tied together and gave to his prisoner to carry, a burden he would hardly have laid undivided on the wounded youth had he not foreseen that his little master, when weary of walking, must needs be getting upon his back from time to time to ride till rested. Then Betsy Grumbo being put again in biting order and shouldered, the little party started forward on their homeward tramp—the young Indian, at a sign from his captor, going on a little in advance, Grumbo coming on a little in the rear, while Burl and Bushie walked hand in hand between. The war-dog had regained his wonted grim self-satisfaction, as could be seen by the iron twist of his tail over the right leg, and by the peculiar hang of the lower lip at the corners as if he carried a big quid of tobacco in each side of his mouth. Nevertheless, he still maintained a wary watch over their red captive, whom he continued to regard with undiminished jealousy and distrust, and to whose living presence in their midst he seemed determined never to be reconciled.

Gaining the foot of the hill by an easier route, though less direct than that by which the two giants had reached it, they found there the traces of blood, which, reddening the grass at short intervals, marked the turns made by Black Thunder's body after receiving the bullet sent after him from his own rifle.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the Indian; and that was all.

"U-gooh!" exclaimed the negro, and a great deal more to the like purpose.

Burl would have given his war-cap, the trophy of victory over the bears, and gone home bare-headed—nay, bare-headed the livelong summer—could he by that sacrifice have secured the scalp of the Wyandot giant, so greatly did he covet this additional trophy of his victory over a warrior so renowned. But the body was nowhere to be found, all traces of it vanishing at the brink of the river-bank. The party crossed the stream at the shallows, then ascended the opposite shore to where our two adventurers had made the passage an hour before the battle. Here Burl called a halt of a few moments, that he might resume his martial rigging left there, and give himself an appearance more becoming a great warrior returning home to receive the honors which his valor had won for him on the field of scalps and glory. And such was the morning of that ever-to-be-remembered first of June, 1789.