"Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloved till life could charm no more,
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead."
Collins.
An hour later, and the principal actors in the foregoing scene had
disappeared. There remained only the widowed Narra-mattah, with Dudley,
the divine, and Whittal Ring.
The body of Conanchet still continued, where he had died, seated like a
chief in council. The daughter of Content and Ruth had stolen to its side,
and she had taken her seat, in that species of dull woe, which so
frequently attends the first moments of any unexpected and overwhelming
affliction. She neither spoke, sobbed, nor sorrowed in anyway that grief
is wont to affect the human system. The mind seemed palsied, though a
withering sense of the blow was fearfully engraven on every lineament of
her eloquent face. The color had deserted her cheeks, the lips were
bloodless, while, at moments, they quivered convulsively, like the
tremulous movement of the sleeping infant; and, at long intervals, her
bosom heaved, as if the spirit within struggled heavily to escape from its
earthly prison. The child lay unheeded at her side, and Whittal Ring had
placed himself on the opposite side of the corpse.
The two agents, appointed by the Colony to witness the death of Conanchet,
stood near, gazing mournfully on the piteous spectacle. The instant the
spirit of the condemned man had fled, the prayers of the divine had
ceased, for he believed that then the soul had gone to judgment. But there
was more of human charity, and less of that exaggerated severity in his
aspect, than was ordinarily seated in the deep lines of his austere
countenance. Now that the deed was done, and the excitement of his exalted
theories had given way to the more positive appearance of the result, he
might even have moments of harassing doubts concerning the lawfulness of
an act that he had hitherto veiled under the forms of a legal and
necessary execution of justice. The mind of Eben Dudley vacillated with
none of the subtleties of doctrine or of law. As there had been less
exaggeration in his original views of the necessity of the proceeding, so
was there more steadiness in his contemplation of its fulfilment.
Feelings, they might be termed emotions, of a different nature troubled
the breast of this resolute but justly-disposed borderer.
"This hath been a melancholy visitation of necessity, and a severe
manifestation of the foreordering will," said the Ensign, as he gazed at
the sad spectacle before him. "Father and son have both died, as it were,
in my presence, and both have departed for the world of spirits, in a
manner to prove the inscrutableness of Providence. But dost not see, here,
in the face of her who looketh like a form of stone, traces of a
countenance that is familiar?"
"Thou hast allusion to the consort of Captain Content Heathcote?"
"Truly, to her only. Thou art not, reverend sir, of sufficient residence
at the Wish-Ton-Wish, to remember that lady in her youthfulness. But to
me, the hour when the Captain led his followers into the wilderness,
seemeth but as a morning of the past season. I was then active in limb,
and something idle in reflection and discourse; it was in that journey,
that the woman who is now the mother of my children and I first made
acquaintance. I have seen many comely females in my time, but never did I
look on one so pleasant to the eye, as was the consort of the Captain
until the night of the burning. Thou hast often heard the loss she then
met, and, from that hour, her beauty hath been that of the October leaf
rather than its loveliness in the season of fertility. Now look on the
face of this mourner, and say if there be not here such an image as the
water reflects from the overhanging bush. In verity, I could believe it
was the sorrowing eye and bereaved look of the mother herself!"
"Grief hath struck its blow heavily on this unoffending victim," uttered
Meek, with great and subdued softness in his manner. "The voice of
petition must be raised in her behalf, or----"
"Hist!--there are some in the forest; I hear the rustling of leaves!"
"The voice of him, who made the earth, whispereth in the winds; his breath
is the movement of nature!"
"Here are living men!--But, happily, the meeting is friendly, and there
will be no further occasion for strife. The heart of a father is sure as
ready eye and swift foot."
Dudley suffered his musket to fall at his side, and both he and his
companion stood in attitudes of decent composure, to await the arrival of
those who approached. The party that drew near, arrived on the side of the
tree opposite to that on which the death of Conanchet had occurred. The
enormous trunk and swelling roots of the pine concealed the group at its
feet, but the persons of Meek and the Ensign were soon observed. The
instant they were discovered, he who led the new-comers bent his footsteps
in that direction.
"If, as thou hast supposed, the Narragansett hath again led her thou hast
so long mourned into the forest," said Submission, who acted as guide to
those who followed, "here are we, at no great distance from the place of
his resort. It was near yon rock that he gave the meeting with the
bloody-minded Philip, and the place where I received the boon of an
useless and much-afflicted life from his care, is within the bosom of that
thicket which borders the brook. This minister of the Lord, and our stout
friend the Ensign, may have further matter to tell us of his movements."
The speaker had stopped within a short distance of the two he named, but
still on the side of the tree opposite to that where the body lay. He had
addressed his words to Content, who also halted to await the arrival of
Ruth, who came in the rear, supported by her son, and attended by Faith
and the physician, all equipped like persons engaged in a search through
the forest. A mother's heart had sustained the feeble woman for many a
weary mile, but her steps had begun to drag, shortly before they so
happily fell upon the signs of human beings, near the spot where they now
met the two agents of the Colony.
Notwithstanding the deep interest which belonged to the respective
pursuits of the individuals who composed these two parties, the interview
was opened with no lively signs of feeling on either side. To them a
journey in the forest possessed no novelties, and after traversing its
mazes for a day, the newly-arrived encountered their friends, as men meet
on more beaten tracks, in countries where roads unavoidably lead them to
cross each other's paths. Even the appearance of Submission in front of
the travellers, elicited no marks of surprise in the unmoved features of
those who witnessed his approach. Indeed, the mutual composure of on who
had so long concealed his person, and of those who had more than once seen
him in striking and mysterious situations, might well justify a belief
that the secret of his presence near the valley had not been confined to
the family of the Heathcotes. This fact is rendered still more probable,
by the recollection of the honesty of Dudley, and of the professional
characters of the two others.
"We are on the trail of one fled, as the truant fawn seeketh again the
covers of the woods," said Content. "Our hunt was uncertain, and it might
have been vain, so many feet have lately crossed the forest, were it not
that Providence hath cast our route on that of our friend, here, who hath
had reason to know the probable situation of the Indian camp. Hast seen
aught of the Sachem of the Narragansetts, Dudley? and where are those thou
led'st against the subtle Philip? That thou fell upon his party, we have
heard; though further than thy general success, we have yet to learn. The
Wampanoag escaped thee?"
"The wicked agencies that back him in his designs, profited the savage in
his extremity. Else would his fate have been that which I fear a far
worthier spirit hath been doomed to suffer."
"Of whom dost speak?--but it mattereth not We seek our child; she, whom
thou hast known, and whom thou hast so lately seen, hath again left us. We
seek her in the camp of him who hath been to her--Dudley, hast seen aught
of the Narragansett Sachem?"
The Ensign looked at Ruth, as he had once before been seen to gaze on-the
sorrowing features of the woman; but he spoke not. Meek folded his arms on
his breast, and seemed to pray inwardly. There was, however, one who broke
the silence, though his tones were low and menacing.
"It was a bloody deed!" muttered the innocent. "The lying Mohican hath
struck a Great Chief, from behind. Let him dig the prints of his moccason
from the earth, with his nails, like a burrowing fox: for there'll be one
on his trail, before he can hide his head. Nipset will be a warrior the
next snow!"
"There speaks my witless brother!" exclaimed Faith, rushing ahead--she
recoiled, covered her face with her hands, and sunk upon the ground, under
the violence of the surprise that followed.
Though time moved with his ordinary pace, it appeared to those who
witnessed the scene which succeeded, as if the emotions of many days were
collected within the brief compass of a few minutes. We shall not dwell on
the first harrowing and exciting moments of the appalling discovery.
A short half-hour served to make each person acquainted with all that it
was necessary to know. We shall therefore transfer the narrative to the
end of that period.
The body of Conanchet still rested against the tree. The eyes were open,
and though glazed in death, there still remained about the brow, the
compressed lips, and the expansive nostrils, much of that lofty firmness
which had sustained him in the last trial of life. The arms were passive
at its sides, but one hand was clenched in the manner with which it had so
often grasped the tomahawk, while the other had lost its power in a vain
effort to seek the place in the girdle where the keen knife should have
been. These two movements had probably been involuntary, for, in all other
respects, the form was expressive of dignity and repose. At its side, the
imaginary Nipset still held his place menacing discontent betraying itself
through the ordinary dull fatuity of his countenance.
The others present were collected around the mother and her stricken
child. It would seem that all other feelings were, for the moment,
absorbed in apprehensions for the latter. There was much reason to dread,
that the recent shock had suddenly deranged some of that fearful machinery
which links the soul to the body. This dreaded effect, however, was more
to be apprehended by a general apathy and failing of the system, than by
any violent and intelligible symptom.
The pulses still vibrated, but it was heavily, and like the irregular and
faltering evolutions of the mill, which the dying breeze is ceasing to
fan. The pallid countenance was fixed in its expression of anguish. Color
there was none, even the lips resembling the unnatural character which is
given by images of wax. Her limbs, like her features, were immovable; and
yet there was, at moments, a working of the latter, which would seem to
imply not only consciousness, but vivid and painful recollections of the
realities of her situation.
"This surpasseth my art," said Doctor Ergot, raising himself from a long
and silent examination of the pulse; "there is a mystery in the
construction of the body, which human knowledge hath not yet unveiled. The
currents of existence are sometimes frozen in an incomprehensible manner,
and this I conceive to be a case that would confound the most learned of
our art, even in the oldest countries of the earth. It hath been my
fortune to see many arrive and but few depart from this busy world, and
yet do I presume to foretell that here is one destined to quit its limits
ere the natural number of her days has been filled!"
"Let us address ourselves, in behalf of that which shall never die, to Him
who hath ordered the event from the commencement of time," said Meek,
motioning to those around him to join in prayer.
The divine then lifted up his voice, under the arches of the forest, in
an ardent, pious, and eloquent petition. When this solemn duty was
performed, attention was again bestowed on the sufferer. To the surprise
of all, it was found that the blood had revisited her face, and that her
radiant eyes were lighted with an expression of brightness and peace. She
even motioned to be raised, in order that those near her person might be
better seen.
"Dost know us?" asked the trembling Ruth. "Look on thy friends,
long-mourned and much-suffering daughter! 'Tis she who sorrowed over thy
infant afflictions, who rejoiced in thy childish happiness, and who hath
so bitterly wept thy loss, that craveth the boon. In this awful moment,
recall the lessons of youth. Surely, surely, the God that bestowed thee in
mercy, though he hath led thee on a wonderful and inscrutable path, will
not desert thee at the end! Think of thy early instruction, child of my
love; feeble of spirit as thou art, the seed may yet quicken, though it
hath been cast where the glory of the promise hath so long been hid."
"Mother!" said a low struggling voice in reply The word reached every ear,
and it caused a general and breathless attention. The sound was soft and
low, perhaps infantile, but it was uttered without accent, and clearly.
"Mother--why are we in the forest?" continued the speaker. "Have any
robbed us of our home, that we dwell beneath the trees?"
Ruth raised a hand imploringly, for none to interrupt the illusion.
"Nature hath revived the recollections of her youth," she whispered. "Let
the spirit-depart, if such be his holy will, in the blessedness of infant
innocence!"
"Why do Mark and Martha stay?" continued the other. "It is not safe, thou
knowest, mother, to wander far in the woods; the heathen may be out of
their towns, and one cannot say what evil chance might happen to the
indiscreet."
A groan struggled from the chest of Content, and the muscular hand of
Dudley compressed itself on the shoulder of his wife, until the
breathlessly attentive woman withdrew, unconsciously, with pain.
"I've said as much to Mark, for he doth not always remember thy
warnings, mother; and those children do so love to wander together!--but
Mark is, in common, good; do not chide, if he stray too far--mother,
thou wilt not chide!"
The youth turned his head, for even at that moment, the pride of young
manhood prompted him to conceal his weakness.
"Hast prayed to-day, my daughter?" said Ruth, struggling to be composed.
"Thou shouldst not forget thy duty to His blessed name, even though we are
houseless in the woods."
"I will pray now, mother," said the creature of this mysterious
hallucination, struggling to bow her face into the lap of Ruth. Her wish
was indulged, and for a minute, the same low childish voice was heard
distinctly repeating the words of a prayer adapted to the earliest period
of life. Feeble as were the sounds, none of their intonations escaped the
listeners, until near the close, when a species of holy calm seemed to
absorb the utterance. Ruth raised the form of her child, and saw that the
features bore the placid look of a sleeping infant. Life played upon them,
as the flickering light lingers on the dying torch. Her dove-like eyes
looked up into the face of Ruth, and the anguish of the mother was
alleviated by a smile of intelligence and love. The full and sweet organs
next rolled from face to face, recognition and pleasure accompanying each
change. On Whittal they became perplexed and doubtful, but when they met
the fixed, frowning, and still commanding eye of the dead chief, their
wandering ceased for ever. There was a minute, during which, fear, doubt,
wildness, and early recollections, struggled for the mastery. The hands of
Narra-mattah trembled, and she clung convulsively to the robe of Ruth.
"Mother!--mother!--" whispered the agitated victim of so many conflicting
emotions, "I will pray again--an evil Spirit besets me."
Ruth felt the force of her grasp, and heard the breathing of a few words
of petition; after which the voice was mute, and the hands relaxed their
hold. When the face of the nearly insensible parent was withdrawn, to the
others the dead appeared to gaze at each other with a mysterious and
unearthly intelligence. The look of the Narragansett was still, as in his
hour of pride, haughty, unyielding, and filled with defiance; while that
of the creature who had so long lived in his kindness was perplexed,
timid, but not without a character of hope. A solemn calm succeeded, and
when Meek raised his voice again in the forest, it was to ask the
Omnipotent Ruler of Heaven and Earth to sanctify his dispensation to those
who survived.
The changes which have been wrought, on this continent, within a century
and a half, are very wonderful. Cities have appeared where the wilderness
then covered the ground, and there is good reason to believe that a
flourishing town now stands on, or near, the spot where Conanchet met his
death. But, notwithstanding so much activity has prevailed in the country,
the valley of this legend remains but little altered. The hamlet has
increased to a village; the farms possess more of the air of cultivation;
the dwellings are enlarged, and are somewhat more commodious; the
churches are increased to three; the garrisoned houses, and all other
signs of apprehension from violence, have long since disappeared; but
still the place is secluded, little known, and strongly impressed with the
marks of its original sylvan character.
A descendant of Mark and Martha is, at this hour, the proprietor of the
estate on which so many of the moving incidents of our simple tale were
enacted. Even the building which was the second habitation of his
ancestor, is in part standing, though additions and improvements have
greatly changed its form. The orchards, which in 1675 were young and
thrifty, are now old and decaying. The trees have yielded their character
for excellence, to those varieties of the fruit which the soil and the
climate have since made known to the inhabitants. Still they stand, for it
is known that fearful scenes occurred beneath their shades, and there is a
deep moral interest attached to their existence.
The ruins of the block-house, though much dilapidated and crumbling, are
also, visible. At their foot is the last abode of all the Heathcotes who
have lived and died in that vicinity, for near two centuries. The graves
of those of later times are known by tablets of marble: but nearer to the
ruin are many, whose monuments, half-concealed in the grass, are cut in
the common coarse free-stone of the country.
One, who took an interest in the recollection of days long gone, had
occasion a few years since to visit the spot. It was easy to trace the
births and deaths of generations, by the visible records on the more
pretending monuments of those interred within a hundred years. Beyond that
period, research became difficult and painful. But his zeal was not to be
easily defeated.
To every little mound, one only excepted, there was a stone, and on each
stone, illegible as it might be, there was an inscription. The
undistinguished grave, it was presumed, by its size and its position, was
that which contained the bones of those who fell in the night of the
burning. There was another, which bore, in deep letters, the name of the
Puritan. His death occurred in 1680. At its side there was an humble
stone, on which, with great difficulty, was traced the single word
'Submission.' It was impossible to ascertain whether the date was 1680, or
1690. The same mystery remained about the death of this man, as had
clouded so much of his life. His real name, parentage, or character,
further than they have been revealed in these pages, was never traced.
There still remains, however, in the family of the Heathcotes, an
orderly-book of a troop of horse, which tradition says had some connexion
with his fortunes. Affixed to this defaced and imperfect document, is a
fragment of some diary or journal, which has reference to the condemnation
of Charles I. to the scaffold.
The body of Content lay near his infant children, and it would seem that
he still lived in the first quarter of the last century. There was an aged
man, lately in existence, who remembers to have seen him, a white-headed
patriarch, reverend by his years, and respected for his meekness and
justice. He had passed nearly, or quite, half-a-century unmarried. This
melancholy fact was sufficiently shown by the date on the stone of the
nearest mound. The inscription denoted it to be the grave of "Ruth,
daughter of George Harding of the Colony of Massachusetts Bay, and wife of
Capt. Content Heathcote." She died in the autumn of 1675, with, as the
stone reveals, "a spirit broken for the purposes of earth, by much family
affliction, though with hopes justified by the covenant and her faith in
the Lord."
The divine, who lately officiated, if he do not now officiate, in the
principal church of the village, is called the reverend Meek Lamb. Though
claiming a descent from him who ministered in the temple at the period of
our tale, time and intermarriages have produced this change in the name,
and happily some others in doctrinal interpretations of duty. When this
worthy servant of the church found the object which had led one born in
another state and claiming descent from a line of religionists who had
left the common country of their ancestors to worship in still another
manner, to take an interest in the fortunes of those who first inhabited
the valley, he found a pleasure in aiding the inquiries. The abodes of the
Dudleys and Rings were numerous in the village and its environs. He showed
a stone, surrounded by many others that bore these names, on which was
rudely carved, "I am Nipset, a Narragansett; the next snow, I shall be a
warrior!" There is a rumor, that though the hapless brother of Faith
gradually returned to the ways of civilized life, he had frequent glimpses
of those seducing pleasures which he had once enjoyed in the freedom of
the woods.
Whilst wandering through these melancholy remains of former scenes, a
question was put to the divine concerning the place where Conanchet was
interred. He readily offered to show it. The grave was on the hill, and
distinguished only by a head-stone that the grass had concealed from
former search. It merely bore the words--"the Narragansett."
"And this at its side?" asked the inquirer. "Here is one also,
before unnoted."
The divine bent in the grass, and scraped the moss from the humble
monument. He then pointed to a line, carved with more than usual care. The
inscription simply said--
"THE WEPT OF WISH-TON-WISH."
End of Project Gutenberg's The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish, by James Fenimore Cooper