When Wilderness was King: A Tale of the Illinois CountryParrish, Randall
General
When Wilderness was King: A Tale of the Illinois Country
Parrish, Randall
Illinois -- Fiction
A dead white man,--the poor lad whose early torture we had
witnessed,--his half-burnt body still hanging suspended at the stake,
was in the midst of them, a red glare of embers beneath him, the
curling smoke creeping upward into the black sky from about his head
like devil's incense. In front of this hideous spectacle, regardless of
the mutilated body, sat the ferocious old demon I had seen the evening
previous, his head crowned with a bison's horns, his naked breast
daubed with red and yellow figures to resemble crawling snakes, his
face the hideous representation of a grinning skull. Above all other
sounds rang out his yells, inciting his fellows to further atrocities,
and accompanied by the dull booming of his wooden drum.
It was into this pack of ravening beasts that poor De Croix staggered
from the surrounding shadows; and they surged about him, clamoring for
place, greeting their new-found victim with jeers and blows and hoots
of bitter hatred, viciously slashing at him with their knives, so that
the very sight of it turned me sick, and made me sink my head upon my
arms in helplessness and horror. A sudden cessation in the infernal
uproar led me to peer forth once more. They had dragged the charred and
blackened trunk of the dead soldier down from the post where it had
hung suspended, and were fastening De Croix in its place, binding his
hands behind the support, and kicking aside the still glowing embers of
the former fire to give him space to stand. It was brutally, fiendishly
done, with thongs wound about his body so tightly as to lift the flesh
in great welts, and those who labored at it striking cruel blows at
his naked, quivering form, spitting viciously into his face, with
taunting words, seeking through every form of ferocious ingenuity to
wring from their helpless victim some sign of suffering, some shrieking
plea for mercy. Once I marked a red devil stick a sharpened sliver of
wood into the Frenchman's bare shoulder, touched it with fire, and then
stand back laughing as the bound victim sought vainly to dislodge the
torturing brand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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