Chapter 12 - The Boy Hunters by Mayne Reid
The White-Headed Eagle
Basil returned, bringing with him the great bird. It was a female—as Lucien knew—and one of the largest, being over twelve pounds in weight, and measuring seven feet between the tips of the wings when expanded. The bird of this species rarely exceeds eight pounds in weight, and is proportionately small in other respects.
The white-headed eagle (Falco leucocephalus), or “bald eagle,” as he is generally called because his white head gives him somewhat of a bald appearance—has been adopted by the United States as the emblem of their Republic. If his disposition be considered, he would be a more fit emblem for a band of robbers—for a more absolute robber and tyrant does not exist among the feathered races. He robs the osprey of his fish, and the vulture of his carrion; in short, lords it over every creature weaker than himself. Now this is not the character of the nation he represents—far from it. It is true they have shown a desire to extend their territory, and have made conquests to this end. But what is the motive of these conquests? Is it to enslave and render tribute? No. They conquer not to enslave, but to make free! There are two motives for Anglo-American—I may say Anglo-Saxon, conquest, for true Englishmen feel these motives as much as Americans do. They wish to bring the whole world under a liberal form of government—one that will bear the scrutiny of reason—one that in time may extinguish crime, and render poverty a thing of the past—one that is not a patent usurpation and a robbery—a robbery perhaps more criminal in the eyes of God than waylaying on the highroad, or piracy on the high seas—more criminal, because more extensive in its fatal effects. Anglo-Saxons wish to destroy despotism, lest they or their descendants might again become what their ancestors once were—its victims. This, then, is one motive of their conquests, and it is nothing more than the naked instinct of self-preservation. But there is another motive—a nobler and more generous one. They have drunk from the cup of Liberty—the draught has pleased them, has given them happiness and joy; and, urged by that better part of our nature, they wish to share that sweet cup—ample for all—with all men. This is the true motive of the conquest of civilisation; and under the banner of such a cause, it is a question whether war and anarchy and confusion be not preferable to the deceptive peace and apparent prosperity of despotism, that, like the death-dealing vampire, soothes while it destroys.
I do not say that all Americans nor all Englishmen are entitled to the glory of such a holy motive for conquest. No. Too large a proportion, alas! are actuated only by the ignoble idea of selfish or national aggrandisement. The robber is often found in the same camp, and fighting under the same banner, with the soldier of Freedom. It is not strange, therefore, that the true sons of Liberty should sometimes be associated with its bastard children of the shackle and the whip.
But, I shall not weary you with any more political science. Not that I consider it of small importance to you. On the contrary, I deem that science the most important of all others that have ever occupied the attention of men. Its influence extends to almost every object around you. It shapes the carriage in which you ride, and the ship in which you sail. Its knowledge modifies the nature of your soul, and decides whether you shall be a slave or a freeman. It even extends to the form of your body, giving it the abject attitude and gloomy aspect of slavery and guilt, or the bold, upright carriage and joyous look of virtue, which God gave to the first man when He made him after His own image.
But come, boy reader! I have promised not to weary you with these things. Such teachings I must reserve for a future opportunity; when, God willing, I shall present them to intellects older than yours. Perhaps you yourselves may then be old enough to take an interest in them; and if so, you may learn some truths that for long years have been the study of your friend—the author.
Now let us return to the eagle. I am thinking what a pity it is that the Americans should have chosen this tyrant-bird as the emblem of their liberty; for, although he is most appropriate for one portion of their people, he is far from being a fit emblem of the principles of the great republic. So thought the wise Franklin. There are many other animals, peculiar to the territory of the United States, far more deserving of the distinction. There is the bold but harmless buffalo, the stately elk, and the industrious beaver; or if a bird must needs be upon the banner, where could one be found better suited to that end than the wild-turkey, possessing as he does a combination of good qualities—grace, beauty, courage, and usefulness? Thus reasoned Franklin; and it might be yet worth the while of the American people to give consideration to his reasoning, and discard the eagle; or, at all events, change the species—for peculiar to the United States territory there is another bird of the kind, far nobler, as well as larger and more beautiful.
It is curious to observe how many countries have adopted this rapacious bird for their emblem; and it forms a sad index to the motives that have hitherto actuated nations. In ancient times it was seen upon the banners of Persia and Rome. In modern days Napoleon spread its wings like black shadows over France. It is the emblem of Russian despotism and American freedom. Austria, Prussia, Poland, Sicily, Spain, Sardinia, and many of the small governments of Germany, look up to the eagle on their standards; while, upon the other side of the Atlantic, it waves over the great nations of the United States and Mexico, as well as several of the smaller republics. Why, a general war among the nations of the world would be almost exclusively a war among the eagles! It is not improbable that the lion would insist upon having a claw in the quarrel; although his honesty and nobility of disposition are very much doubted, particularly by the jackal and some other animals. He is, therefore, no better qualified to act as the representative of a pacific people than the very worst of the eagles; but he fortunately has a wise keeper, called Public Opinion, who of late has held him under some restraint.
“What a chain of destruction!” exclaimed Lucien. “One creature preying upon another.”
“Ay,” added François; “and how curious it should begin with a bird and end with a bird. Look at the two together. Ha! ha!”
As François made this remark, he pointed to the little humming-bird and the great eagle—which had been laid side by side upon the grass, and, sure enough, presented in size and appearance a most singular contrast to each other.
“You forget, François,” said Lucien, “there were two other links to the chain, and perhaps many more.”
“What other links?” demanded François.
“The humming-bird, you remember, when attacked, was himself a destroyer. He was killing the little blue-winged fly.”
“That is certainly another link, but—”
“Who killed the eagle?”
“Ah, true! Basil, then, was the last link in the chain of destruction.”
“Perhaps the most criminal, too,” said Lucien, “because the least necessary. The other creatures were but following out their instincts to procure food, whereas Basil’s only motive was one of wanton destruction.”
“I beg to differ with you, Luce,” said Basil, interrupting his brother, sharply, “it was no such thing. I shot that eagle because he killed the kite, and robbed him of his prey, instead of using his industry and getting food for himself. That’s why I added a link to your chain.”
“In that sense,” replied Lucien, smiling at his brother—who seemed a little ruffled at being thus charged with unnecessary cruelty,—“in that sense you were, perhaps, justifiable; though it is difficult to understand why the eagle was more guilty than the kite himself. He took only one life, and so did the kite.”
“But,” rejoined Basil, “in addition to taking away the life of his victim, he robbed him. Robbery and murder both. Now the kite was guilty only of the latter.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Lucien and François together. “There is a distinction with a difference!”
“But, brother Luce,” inquired François, “what did you mean when you said there might be many more links to this chain?”
“Why, who knows but the blue-winged fly was preying upon some other creatures smaller than himself? And these again, upon others still less; who, though invisible to our eyes, possess life and organisation as well as we. Who knows to the contrary? And who knows the reason why a mysterious Providence has created those beings to be the food of each other? That is a question about which we can arrive at no satisfactory conclusion.”
“Who knows, brother,” said François, “since you are speculating—who knows but there may be an extra link at the other end of the chain? Ho, Basil! what say you? Suppose we fall in with grizzly bears.” And François laughed as he put the question.
“And supposing we do,” replied Basil, “you are as likely to form that link as anybody else.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Lucien. “I hope that in all our travels we shall see neither a grizzly bear nor an Indian.”
“And I hope for nothing of the sort,” rejoined Basil. “I long to have a crack at a grizzly; and as for Indians, I haven’t the least fear of them, so long as I carry this.”
As Basil made this remark, he drew out the little beaded case from his bosom, held it up a moment, and then returned it to its place again.
“Now, brother,” cried François, “tell as about that pouch, and how it is to save us from Indians. I am really curious to know.”
“Not now, my boy,” replied Basil, with a patronising air. “Not now. We must prepare our supper, and get to sleep. We have lost half a day drying our rags, so we must make up for it by an early start in the morning. Then for the prairies!”
“Then for the prairies!” echoed François,—“the prairies—the wild horses—the big-horns—and the buffalo!”