“But though the beast of game
The privilege of chase may claim;
Though space and law the stag we lend
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend;
Whoever recked, where, how, or when
The prowling fox was trapped or slain?”
—Lady of the Lake.
It is unusual to find an encampment of the natives, like those of the more
instructed whites, guarded by the presence of armed men. Well informed of the
approach of every danger, while it is yet at a distance, the Indian generally
rests secure under his knowledge of the signs of the forest, and the long and
difficult paths that separate him from those he has most reason to dread. But
the enemy who, by any lucky concurrence of accidents, has found means to elude
the vigilance of the scouts, will seldom meet with sentinels nearer home to
sound the alarm. In addition to this general usage, the tribes friendly to the
French knew too well the weight of the blow that had just been struck, to
apprehend any immediate danger from the hostile nations that were tributary to
the crown of Britain.
When Duncan and David, therefore, found themselves in the center of the
children, who played the antics already mentioned, it was without the least
previous intimation of their approach. But so soon as they were observed the
whole of the juvenile pack raised, by common consent, a shrill and warning
whoop; and then sank, as it were, by magic, from before the sight of their
visitors. The naked, tawny bodies of the crouching urchins blended so nicely at
that hour, with the withered herbage, that at first it seemed as if the earth
had, in truth, swallowed up their forms; though when surprise permitted Duncan
to bend his look more curiously about the spot, he found it everywhere met by
dark, quick, and rolling eyeballs.
Gathering no encouragement from this startling presage of the nature of the
scrutiny he was likely to undergo from the more mature judgments of the men,
there was an instant when the young soldier would have retreated. It was,
however, too late to appear to hesitate. The cry of the children had drawn a
dozen warriors to the door of the nearest lodge, where they stood clustered in
a dark and savage group, gravely awaiting the nearer approach of those who had
unexpectedly come among them.
David, in some measure familiarized to the scene, led the way with a steadiness
that no slight obstacle was likely to disconcert, into this very building. It
was the principal edifice of the village, though roughly constructed of the
bark and branches of trees; being the lodge in which the tribe held its
councils and public meetings during their temporary residence on the borders of
the English province. Duncan found it difficult to assume the necessary
appearance of unconcern, as he brushed the dark and powerful frames of the
savages who thronged its threshold; but, conscious that his existence depended
on his presence of mind, he trusted to the discretion of his companion, whose
footsteps he closely followed, endeavoring, as he proceeded, to rally his
thoughts for the occasion. His blood curdled when he found himself in absolute
contact with such fierce and implacable enemies; but he so far mastered his
feelings as to pursue his way into the center of the lodge, with an exterior
that did not betray the weakness. Imitating the example of the deliberate
Gamut, he drew a bundle of fragrant brush from beneath a pile that filled the
corner of the hut, and seated himself in silence.
So soon as their visitor had passed, the observant warriors fell back from the
entrance, and arranging themselves about him, they seemed patiently to await
the moment when it might comport with the dignity of the stranger to speak. By
far the greater number stood leaning, in lazy, lounging attitudes, against the
upright posts that supported the crazy building, while three or four of the
oldest and most distinguished of the chiefs placed themselves on the earth a
little more in advance.
[Illustration]
A flaring torch was burning in the place, and set its red glare from face to
face and figure to figure, as it waved in the currents of air. Duncan profited
by its light to read the probable character of his reception, in the
countenances of his hosts. But his ingenuity availed him little, against the
cold artifices of the people he had encountered. The chiefs in front scarce
cast a glance at his person, keeping their eyes on the ground, with an air that
might have been intended for respect, but which it was quite easy to construe
into distrust. The men in the shadow were less reserved. Duncan soon detected
their searching, but stolen, looks which, in truth, scanned his person and
attire inch by inch; leaving no emotion of the countenance, no gesture, no line
of the paint, nor even the fashion of a garment, unheeded, and without comment.
At length one whose hair was beginning to be sprinkled with gray, but whose
sinewy limbs and firm tread announced that he was still equal to the duties of
manhood, advanced out of the gloom of a corner, whither he had probably posted
himself to make his observations unseen, and spoke. He used the language of the
Wyandots, or Hurons; his words were, consequently, unintelligible to Heyward,
though they seemed, by the gestures that accompanied them, to be uttered more
in courtesy than anger. The latter shook his head, and made a gesture
indicative of his inability to reply.
“Do none of my brothers speak the French or the English?” he said,
in the former language, looking about him from countenance to countenance, in
hopes of finding a nod of assent.
Though more than one had turned, as if to catch the meaning of his words, they
remained unanswered.
“I should be grieved to think,” continued Duncan, speaking slowly,
and using the simplest French of which he was the master, “to believe
that none of this wise and brave nation understand the language that the
‘Grand Monarque’ uses when he talks to his children. His heart
would be heavy did he believe his red warriors paid him so little
respect!”
A long and grave pause succeeded, during which no movement of a limb, nor any
expression of an eye, betrayed the expression produced by his remark. Duncan,
who knew that silence was a virtue among his hosts, gladly had recourse to the
custom, in order to arrange his ideas. At length the same warrior who had
before addressed him replied, by dryly demanding, in the language of the
Canadas:
“When our Great Father speaks to his people, is it with the tongue of a
Huron?”
“He knows no difference in his children, whether the color of the skin be
red, or black, or white,” returned Duncan, evasively; “though
chiefly is he satisfied with the brave Hurons.”
“In what manner will he speak,” demanded the wary chief,
“when the runners count to him the scalps which five nights ago grew on
the heads of the Yengeese?”
“They were his enemies,” said Duncan, shuddering involuntarily;
“and doubtless, he will say, it is good; my Hurons are very
gallant.”
“Our Canada father does not think it. Instead of looking forward to
reward his Indians, his eyes are turned backward. He sees the dead Yengeese,
but no Huron. What can this mean?”
“A great chief, like him, has more thoughts than tongues. He looks to see
that no enemies are on his trail.”
“The canoe of a dead warrior will not float on the Horican,”
returned the savage, gloomily. “His ears are open to the Delawares, who
are not our friends, and they fill them with lies.”
“It cannot be. See; he has bid me, who am a man that knows the art of
healing, to go to his children, the red Hurons of the great lakes, and ask if
any are sick!”
Another silence succeeded this annunciation of the character Duncan had
assumed. Every eye was simultaneously bent on his person, as if to inquire into
the truth or falsehood of the declaration, with an intelligence and keenness
that caused the subject of their scrutiny to tremble for the result. He was,
however, relieved again by the former speaker.
“Do the cunning men of the Canadas paint their skins?” the Huron
coldly continued; “we have heard them boast that their faces were
pale.”
“When an Indian chief comes among his white fathers,” returned
Duncan, with great steadiness, “he lays aside his buffalo robe, to carry
the shirt that is offered him. My brothers have given me paint and I wear
it.”
A low murmur of applause announced that the compliment of the tribe was
favorably received. The elderly chief made a gesture of commendation, which was
answered by most of his companions, who each threw forth a hand and uttered a
brief exclamation of pleasure. Duncan began to breathe more freely, believing
that the weight of his examination was past; and, as he had already prepared a
simple and probable tale to support his pretended occupation, his hopes of
ultimate success grew brighter.
After a silence of a few moments, as if adjusting his thoughts, in order to
make a suitable answer to the declaration their guests had just given, another
warrior arose, and placed himself in an attitude to speak. While his lips were
yet in the act of parting, a low but fearful sound arose from the forest, and
was immediately succeeded by a high, shrill yell, that was drawn out, until it
equaled the longest and most plaintive howl of the wolf. The sudden and
terrible interruption caused Duncan to start from his seat, unconscious of
everything but the effect produced by so frightful a cry. At the same moment,
the warriors glided in a body from the lodge, and the outer air was filled with
loud shouts, that nearly drowned those awful sounds, which were still ringing
beneath the arches of the woods. Unable to command himself any longer, the
youth broke from the place, and presently stood in the center of a disorderly
throng, that included nearly everything having life, within the limits of the
encampment. Men, women, and children; the aged, the inform, the active, and the
strong, were alike abroad, some exclaiming aloud, others clapping their hands
with a joy that seemed frantic, and all expressing their savage pleasure in
some unexpected event. Though astounded, at first, by the uproar, Heyward was
soon enabled to find its solution by the scene that followed.
There yet lingered sufficient light in the heavens to exhibit those bright
openings among the tree-tops, where different paths left the clearing to enter
the depths of the wilderness. Beneath one of them, a line of warriors issued
from the woods, and advanced slowly toward the dwellings. One in front bore a
short pole, on which, as it afterwards appeared, were suspended several human
scalps. The startling sounds that Duncan had heard were what the whites have
not inappropriately called the “death-hallo”; and each repetition
of the cry was intended to announce to the tribe the fate of an enemy. Thus far
the knowledge of Heyward assisted him in the explanation; and as he now knew
that the interruption was caused by the unlooked-for return of a successful
war-party, every disagreeable sensation was quieted in inward congratulation,
for the opportune relief and insignificance it conferred on himself.
When at the distance of a few hundred feet from the lodges the newly arrived
warriors halted. Their plaintive and terrific cry, which was intended to
represent equally the wailings of the dead and the triumph to the victors, had
entirely ceased. One of their number now called aloud, in words that were far
from appalling, though not more intelligible to those for whose ears they were
intended, than their expressive yells. It would be difficult to convey a
suitable idea of the savage ecstasy with which the news thus imparted was
received. The whole encampment, in a moment, became a scene of the most violent
bustle and commotion. The warriors drew their knives, and flourishing them,
they arranged themselves in two lines, forming a lane that extended from the
war-party to the lodges. The squaws seized clubs, axes, or whatever weapon of
offense first offered itself to their hands, and rushed eagerly to act their
part in the cruel game that was at hand. Even the children would not be
excluded; but boys, little able to wield the instruments, tore the tomahawks
from the belts of their fathers, and stole into the ranks, apt imitators of the
savage traits exhibited by their parents.
Large piles of brush lay scattered about the clearing, and a wary and aged
squaw was occupied in firing as many as might serve to light the coming
exhibition. As the flame arose, its power exceeded that of the parting day, and
assisted to render objects at the same time more distinct and more hideous. The
whole scene formed a striking picture, whose frame was composed of the dark and
tall border of pines. The warriors just arrived were the most distant figures.
A little in advance stood two men, who were apparently selected from the rest,
as the principal actors in what was to follow. The light was not strong enough
to render their features distinct, though it was quite evident that they were
governed by very different emotions. While one stood erect and firm, prepared
to meet his fate like a hero, the other bowed his head, as if palsied by terror
or stricken with shame. The high-spirited Duncan felt a powerful impulse of
admiration and pity toward the former, though no opportunity could offer to
exhibit his generous emotions. He watched his slightest movement, however, with
eager eyes; and, as he traced the fine outline of his admirably proportioned
and active frame, he endeavored to persuade himself, that, if the powers of
man, seconded by such noble resolution, could bear one harmless through so
severe a trial, the youthful captive before him might hope for success in the
hazardous race he was about to run. Insensibly the young man drew nigher to the
swarthy lines of the Hurons, and scarcely breathed, so intense became his
interest in the spectacle. Just then the signal yell was given, and the
momentary quiet which had preceded it was broken by a burst of cries, that far
exceeded any before heard. The more abject of the two victims continued
motionless; but the other bounded from the place at the cry, with the activity
and swiftness of a deer. Instead of rushing through the hostile lines, as had
been expected, he just entered the dangerous defile, and before time was given
for a single blow, turned short, and leaping the heads of a row of children, he
gained at once the exterior and safer side of the formidable array. The
artifice was answered by a hundred voices raised in imprecations; and the whole
of the excited multitude broke from their order, and spread themselves about
the place in wild confusion.
A dozen blazing piles now shed their lurid brightness on the place, which
resembled some unhallowed and supernatural arena, in which malicious demons had
assembled to act their bloody and lawless rites. The forms in the background
looked like unearthly beings, gliding before the eye, and cleaving the air with
frantic and unmeaning gestures; while the savage passions of such as passed the
flames were rendered fearfully distinct by the gleams that shot athwart their
inflamed visages.
It will easily be understood that, amid such a concourse of vindictive enemies,
no breathing time was allowed the fugitive. There was a single moment when it
seemed as if he would have reached the forest, but the whole body of his
captors threw themselves before him, and drove him back into the center of his
relentless persecutors. Turning like a headed deer, he shot, with the swiftness
of an arrow, through a pillar of forked flame, and passing the whole multitude
harmless, he appeared on the opposite side of the clearing. Here, too, he was
met and turned by a few of the older and more subtle of the Hurons. Once more
he tried the throng, as if seeking safety in its blindness, and then several
moments succeeded, during which Duncan believed the active and courageous young
stranger was lost.
Nothing could be distinguished but a dark mass of human forms tossed and
involved in inexplicable confusion. Arms, gleaming knives, and formidable
clubs, appeared above them, but the blows were evidently given at random. The
awful effect was heightened by the piercing shrieks of the women and the fierce
yells of the warriors. Now and then Duncan caught a glimpse of a light form
cleaving the air in some desperate bound, and he rather hoped than believed
that the captive yet retained the command of his astonishing powers of
activity. Suddenly the multitude rolled backward, and approached the spot where
he himself stood. The heavy body in the rear pressed upon the women and
children in front, and bore them to the earth. The stranger reappeared in the
confusion. Human power could not, however, much longer endure so severe a
trial. Of this the captive seemed conscious. Profiting by the momentary
opening, he darted from among the warriors, and made a desperate, and what
seemed to Duncan a final effort to gain the wood. As if aware that no danger
was to be apprehended from the young soldier, the fugitive nearly brushed his
person in his flight. A tall and powerful Huron, who had husbanded his forces,
pressed close upon his heels, and with an uplifted arm menaced a fatal blow.
Duncan thrust forth a foot, and the shock precipitated the eager savage
headlong, many feet in advance of his intended victim. Thought itself is not
quicker than was the motion with which the latter profited by the advantage; he
turned, gleamed like a meteor again before the eyes of Duncan, and, at the next
moment, when the latter recovered his recollection, and gazed around in quest
of the captive, he saw him quietly leaning against a small painted post, which
stood before the door of the principal lodge.
Apprehensive that the part he had taken in the escape might prove fatal to
himself, Duncan left the place without delay. He followed the crowd, which drew
nigh the lodges, gloomy and sullen, like any other multitude that had been
disappointed in an execution. Curiosity, or perhaps a better feeling, induced
him to approach the stranger. He found him, standing with one arm cast about
the protecting post, and breathing thick and hard, after his exertions, but
disdaining to permit a single sign of suffering to escape. His person was now
protected by immemorial and sacred usage, until the tribe in council had
deliberated and determined on his fate. It was not difficult, however, to
foretell the result, if any presage could be drawn from the feelings of those
who crowded the place.
There was no term of abuse known to the Huron vocabulary that the disappointed
women did not lavishly expend on the successful stranger. They flouted at his
efforts, and told him, with bitter scoffs, that his feet were better than his
hands; and that he merited wings, while he knew not the use of an arrow or a
knife. To all this the captive made no reply; but was content to preserve an
attitude in which dignity was singularly blended with disdain. Exasperated as
much by his composure as by his good-fortune, their words became
unintelligible, and were succeeded by shrill, piercing yells. Just then the
crafty squaw, who had taken the necessary precaution to fire the piles, made
her way through the throng, and cleared a place for herself in front of the
captive. The squalid and withered person of this hag might well have obtained
for her the character of possessing more than human cunning. Throwing back her
light vestment, she stretched forth her long, skinny arm, in derision, and
using the language of the Lenape, as more intelligible to the subject of her
gibes, she commenced aloud:
[Illustration]
“Look you, Delaware,” she said, snapping her fingers in his face;
“your nation is a race of women, and the hoe is better fitted to your
hands than the gun. Your squaws are the mothers of deer; but if a bear, or a
wildcat, or a serpent were born among you, ye would flee. The Huron girls shall
make you petticoats, and we will find you a husband.”
A burst of savage laughter succeeded this attack, during which the soft and
musical merriment of the younger females strangely chimed with the cracked
voice of their older and more malignant companion. But the stranger was
superior to all their efforts. His head was immovable; nor did he betray the
slightest consciousness that any were present, except when his haughty eye
rolled toward the dusky forms of the warriors, who stalked in the background
silent and sullen observers of the scene.
Infuriated at the self-command of the captive, the woman placed her arms
akimbo; and, throwing herself into a posture of defiance, she broke out anew,
in a torrent of words that no art of ours could commit successfully to paper.
Her breath was, however, expended in vain; for, although distinguished in her
nation as a proficient in the art of abuse, she was permitted to work herself
into such a fury as actually to foam at the mouth, without causing a muscle to
vibrate in the motionless figure of the stranger. The effect of his
indifference began to extend itself to the other spectators; and a youngster,
who was just quitting the condition of a boy to enter the state of manhood,
attempted to assist the termagant, by flourishing his tomahawk before their
victim, and adding his empty boasts to the taunts of the women. Then, indeed,
the captive turned his face toward the light, and looked down on the stripling
with an expression that was superior to contempt. At the next moment he resumed
his quiet and reclining attitude against the post. But the change of posture
had permitted Duncan to exchange glances with the firm and piercing eyes of
Uncas.
Breathless with amazement, and heavily oppressed with the critical situation of
his friend, Heyward recoiled before the look, trembling lest its meaning might,
in some unknown manner, hasten the prisoner’s fate. There was not,
however, any instant cause for such an apprehension. Just then a warrior forced
his way into the exasperated crowd. Motioning the women and children aside with
a stern gesture, he took Uncas by the arm, and led him toward the door of the
council-lodge. Thither all the chiefs, and most of the distinguished warriors,
followed; among whom the anxious Heyward found means to enter without
attracting any dangerous attention to himself.
A few minutes were consumed in disposing of those present in a manner suitable
to their rank and influence in the tribe. An order very similar to that adopted
in the preceding interview was observed; the aged and superior chiefs occupying
the area of the spacious apartment, within the powerful light of a glaring
torch, while their juniors and inferiors were arranged in the background,
presenting a dark outline of swarthy and marked visages. In the very center of
the lodge, immediately under an opening that admitted the twinkling light of
one or two stars, stood Uncas, calm, elevated, and collected. His high and
haughty carriage was not lost on his captors, who often bent their looks on his
person, with eyes which, while they lost none of their inflexibility of
purpose, plainly betrayed their admiration of the stranger’s daring.
The case was different with the individual whom Duncan had observed to stand
forth with his friend, previously to the desperate trial of speed; and who,
instead of joining in the chase, had remained, throughout its turbulent uproar,
like a cringing statue, expressive of shame and disgrace. Though not a hand had
been extended to greet him, nor yet an eye had condescended to watch his
movements, he had also entered the lodge, as though impelled by a fate to whose
decrees he submitted, seemingly, without a struggle. Heyward profited by the
first opportunity to gaze in his face, secretly apprehensive he might find the
features of another acquaintance; but they proved to be those of a stranger,
and, what was still more inexplicable, of one who bore all the distinctive
marks of a Huron warrior. Instead of mingling with his tribe, however, he sat
apart, a solitary being in a multitude, his form shrinking into a crouching and
abject attitude, as if anxious to fill as little space as possible. When each
individual had taken his proper station, and silence reigned in the place, the
gray-haired chief already introduced to the reader, spoke aloud, in the
language of the Lenni Lenape.
“Delaware,” he said, “though one of a nation of women, you
have proved yourself a man. I would give you food; but he who eats with a Huron
should become his friend. Rest in peace till the morning sun, when our last
words shall be spoken.”
“Seven nights, and as many summer days, have I fasted on the trail of the
Hurons,” Uncas coldly replied; “the children of the Lenape know how
to travel the path of the just without lingering to eat.”
“Two of my young men are in pursuit of your companion,” resumed the
other, without appearing to regard the boast of his captive; “when they
get back, then will our wise man say to you ‘live’ or
‘die’.”
“Has a Huron no ears?” scornfully exclaimed Uncas; “twice,
since he has been your prisoner, has the Delaware heard a gun that he knows.
Your young men will never come back!”
A short and sullen pause succeeded this bold assertion. Duncan, who understood
the Mohican to allude to the fatal rifle of the scout, bent forward in earnest
observation of the effect it might produce on the conquerors; but the chief was
content with simply retorting:
“If the Lenape are so skillful, why is one of their bravest warriors
here?”
“He followed in the steps of a flying coward, and fell into a snare. The
cunning beaver may be caught.”
As Uncas thus replied, he pointed with his finger toward the solitary Huron,
but without deigning to bestow any other notice on so unworthy an object. The
words of the answer and the air of the speaker produced a strong sensation
among his auditors. Every eye rolled sullenly toward the individual indicated
by the simple gesture, and a low, threatening murmur passed through the crowd.
The ominous sounds reached the outer door, and the women and children pressing
into the throng, no gap had been left, between shoulder and shoulder, that was
not now filled with the dark lineaments of some eager and curious human
countenance.
In the meantime, the more aged chiefs, in the center, communed with each other
in short and broken sentences. Not a word was uttered that did not convey the
meaning of the speaker, in the simplest and most energetic form. Again, a long
and deeply solemn pause took place. It was known, by all present, to be the
brave precursor of a weighty and important judgment. They who composed the
outer circle of faces were on tiptoe to gaze; and even the culprit for an
instant forgot his shame in a deeper emotion, and exposed his abject features,
in order to cast an anxious and troubled glance at the dark assemblage of
chiefs. The silence was finally broken by the aged warrior so often named. He
arose from the earth, and moving past the immovable form of Uncas, placed
himself in a dignified attitude before the offender. At that moment, the
withered squaw already mentioned moved into the circle, in a slow, sidling sort
of a dance, holding the torch, and muttering the indistinct words of what might
have been a species of incantation. Though her presence was altogether an
intrusion, it was unheeded.
Approaching Uncas, she held the blazing brand in such a manner as to cast its
red glare on his person, and to expose the slightest emotion of his
countenance. The Mohican maintained his firm and haughty attitude; and his
eyes, so far from deigning to meet her inquisitive look, dwelt steadily on the
distance, as though it penetrated the obstacles which impeded the view and
looked into futurity. Satisfied with her examination, she left him, with a
slight expression of pleasure, and proceeded to practise the same trying
experiment on her delinquent countryman.
The young Huron was in his war paint, and very little of a finely molded form
was concealed by his attire. The light rendered every limb and joint
discernible, and Duncan turned away in horror when he saw they were writhing in
irrepressible agony. The woman was commencing a low and plaintive howl at the
sad and shameful spectacle, when the chief put forth his hand and gently pushed
her aside.
“Reed-that-bends,” he said, addressing the young culprit by name,
and in his proper language, “though the Great Spirit has made you
pleasant to the eyes, it would have been better that you had not been born.
Your tongue is loud in the village, but in battle it is still. None of my young
men strike the tomahawk deeper into the war-post—none of them so lightly
on the Yengeese. The enemy know the shape of your back, but they have never
seen the color of your eyes. Three times have they called on you to come, and
as often did you forget to answer. Your name will never be mentioned again in
your tribe—it is already forgotten.”
As the chief slowly uttered these words, pausing impressively between each
sentence, the culprit raised his face, in deference to the other’s rank
and years. Shame, horror, and pride struggled in its lineaments. His eye, which
was contracted with inward anguish, gleamed on the persons of those whose
breath was his fame; and the latter emotion for an instant predominated. He
arose to his feet, and baring his bosom, looked steadily on the keen,
glittering knife, that was already upheld by his inexorable judge. As the
weapon passed slowly into his heart he even smiled, as if in joy at having
found death less dreadful than he had anticipated, and fell heavily on his
face, at the feet of the rigid and unyielding form of Uncas.
The squaw gave a loud and plaintive yell, dashed the torch to the earth, and
buried everything in darkness. The whole shuddering group of spectators glided
from the lodge like troubled sprites; and Duncan thought that he and the yet
throbbing body of the victim of an Indian judgment had now become its only
tenants.