“And I could weep”--
th' Oneida chief
His descant wildly thus begun--
“But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son.”
--Gertrude of Wyoming.
It was yet early on the following morning, when Elizabeth and Louisa met
by appointment, and proceeded to the store of Monsieur Le Quoi, in order
to redeem the pledge the former had given to the Leather-Stocking. The
people were again assembling for the business of the day, but the hour
was too soon for a crowd, and the ladies found the place in possession
of its polite owner, Billy Kirby, one female customer, and the boy who
did the duty of helper or clerk.
Monsieur Le Quoi was perusing a packet of letters with manifest delight,
while the wood-chopper, with one hand thrust in his bosom, and the other
in the folds of his jacket, holding an axe under his right arm, stood
sympathizing in the Frenchman's pleasure with good-natured interest.
The freedom of manners that prevailed in the new settlements commonly
levelled all difference in rank, and with it, frequently, all
considerations of education and intelligence. At the time the ladies
entered the store, they were unseen by the owner, who was saying to
Kirby:
“Ah! ha! Monsieur Beel, dis lettair mak me de most happi of mans. Ah! ma
chére France! I vill see you again.”
“I rejoice, monsieur, at anything that contributes to your happiness,”
said Elizabeth, “but hope we are not going to lose you entirely.”
The complaisant shopkeeper changed the language to French and recounted
rapidly to Elizabeth his hopes of being permitted to return to his own
country. Habit had, however, so far altered the manners of this pliable
person age, that he continued to serve the wood-chopper, who was in
quest of some tobacco, while he related to his more gentle visitor
the happy change that had taken place in the dispositions of his own
countrymen.
The amount of it all was, that Mr. Le Quoi, who had fled from his own
country more through terror than because he was offensive to the ruling
powers in France, had succeeded at length in getting an assurance that
his return to the West Indies would be unnoticed; and the Frenchman, who
had sunk into the character of a country shopkeeper with so much grace,
was about to emerge again from his obscurity into his proper level in
society.
We need not repeat the civil things that passed between the parties on
this occasion, nor recount the endless repetitions of sorrow that the
delighted Frenchman expressed at being compelled to quit the society of
Miss Temple. Elizabeth took an opportunity, during this expenditure of
polite expressions, to purchase the powder privately of the boy, who
bore the generic appellation of Jonathan. Before they parted, however,
Mr. Le Quoi, who seemed to think that he had not said enough, solicited
the honor of a private interview with the heiress, with a gravity in his
air that announced the importance of the subject. After conceding the
favor, and appointing a more favorable time for the meeting, Elizabeth
succeeded in getting out of the store, into which the countrymen now
began to enter, as usual, where they met with the same attention and
bien seance as formerly.
Elizabeth and Louisa pursued their walk as far as the bridge in profound
silence; but when they reached that place the latter stopped, and
appeared anxious to utter something that her diffidence suppressed.
“Are you ill, Louisa?” exclaimed Miss Temple; “had we not better return,
and seek another opportunity to meet the old man?”
“Not ill, but terrified. Oh! I never, never can go on that hill again
with you only. I am not equal to it, in deed I am not.”
This was an unexpected declaration to Elizabeth, who, although she
experienced no idle apprehension of a danger that no longer existed,
felt most sensitively all the delicacy of maiden modesty. She stood for
some time, deeply reflecting within herself; but, sensible it was a
time for action instead of reflection, she struggled to shake off her
hesitation, and replied, firmly:
“Well, then it must be done by me alone. There is no other than yourself
to be trusted, or poor old Leather-Stocking will be discovered. Wait for
me in the edge of these woods, that at least I may not be seen strolling
in the hills by myself just now, One would not wish to create remarks,
Louisa--if--if--You will wait for me, dear girl?”
“A year, in sight of the village, Miss Temple,” returned the agitated
Louisa, “but do not, do not ask me to go on that hill.”
Elizabeth found that her companion was really unable to proceed,
and they completed their arrangement by posting Louisa out of the
observation of the people who occasionally passed, but nigh the road,
and in plain view of the whole valley. Miss Temple then proceeded
alone. She ascended the road which has been so often mentioned in our
narrative, with an elastic and firm step, fearful that the delay in the
store of Mr. Le Quoi, and the time necessary for reaching the summit,
would prevent her being punctual to the appointment Whenever she pressed
an opening in the bushes, she would pause for breath, or, perhaps,
drawn from her pursuit by the picture at her feet, would linger a moment
to gaze at the beauties of the valley. The long drought had, however,
changed its coat of verdure to a hue of brown, and, though the same
localities were there, the view wanted the lively and cheering aspect of
early summer. Even the heavens seemed to share in the dried appearance
of the earth, for the sun was concealed by a haziness in the atmosphere,
which looked like a thin smoke without a particle of moisture, if such
a thing were possible. The blue sky was scarcely to be seen, though now,
and then there was a faint lighting up in spots through which masses
of rolling vapor could be discerned gathering around the horizon, as if
nature were struggling to collect her floods for the relief of man. The
very atmosphere that Elizabeth inhaled was hot and dry, and by the time
she reached the point where the course led her from the highway
she experienced a sensation like suffocation. But, disregarding her
feelings, she hastened to execute her mission, dwelling on nothing
but the disappointment, and even the helplessness, the hunter would
experience without her aid.
On the summit of the mountain which Judge Temple had named the “Vision,”
a little spot had been cleared, in order that a better view might
be obtained of the village and the valley. At this point Elizabeth
understood the hunter she was to meet him; and thither she urged
her way, as expeditiously as the difficulty of the ascent, and the
impediment of a forest, in a state of nature, would admit. Numberless
were the fragments of rocks, trunks of fallen trees, and branches,
with which she had to contend; but every difficulty vanished before her
resolution, and, by her own watch, she stood on the desired spot several
minutes before the appointed hour.
After resting a moment on the end of a log, Miss Temple cast a glance
about her in quest of her old friend, but he was evidently not in the
clearing; she arose and walked around its skirts, examining every place
where she thought it probable Natty might deem it prudent to conceal him
self. Her search was fruitless; and, after exhausting not only herself,
but her conjectures, in efforts to discover or imagine his situation,
she ventured to trust her voice in that solitary place.
“Natty! Leather-Stocking! old man!” she called aloud, in every
direction; but no answer was given, excepting the reverberations of her
own clear tones, as they were echoed in the parched forest.
Elizabeth approached the brow of the mountain, where a faint cry, like
the noise produced by striking the hand against the mouth, at the same
time that the breath is strongly exhaled, was heard answering to her own
voice. Not doubting in the least that it was the Leather-Stocking lying
in wait for her, and who gave that signal to indicate the place where he
was to be found, Elizabeth descended for near a hundred feet, until she
gained a little natural terrace, thinly scattered with trees, that grew
in the fissures of the rocks, which were covered by a scanty soil.
She had advanced to the edge of this platform, and was gazing over the
perpendicular precipice that formed its face, when a rustling among
the dry leaves near her drew her eyes in another direction. Our heroine
certainly was startled by the object that she then saw, but a moment
restored her self-possession, and she advanced firmly, and with some
interest in her manner, to the spot.
Mohegan was seated on the trunk of a fallen oak, with his tawny visage
turned toward her, and his eyes fixed on her face with an expression of
wildness and fire, that would have terrified a less resolute female.
His blanket had fallen from his shoulders, and was lying in folds around
him, leaving his breast, arms, and most of his body bare. 'The medallion
of Washington reposed on his chest, a badge of distinction that
Elizabeth well knew he only produced on great and solemn occasions. But
the whole appearance of the aged chief was more studied than common, and
in some particulars it was terrific. The long black hair was plaited on
his head, failing away, so as to expose his high forehead and piercing
eyes. In the enormous incisions of his ears were entwined ornaments
of silver, beads, and porcupine's quills, mingled in a rude taste, and
after the Indian fashions. A large drop, composed of similar materials,
was suspended from the cartilage of his nose, and, falling below his
lips, rested on his chin. Streaks of red paint crossed his wrinkled
brow, and were traced down his cheeks, with such variations in the lines
as caprice or custom suggested. His body was also colored in the same
manner; the whole exhibiting an Indian warrior prepared for some event
of more than usual moment.
“John! how fare you, worthy John?” said Elizabeth, as she approached
him; “you have long been a stranger in the village. You promised me a
willow basket, and I have long had a shirt of calico in readiness for
you.”
The Indian looked steadily at her for some time without answering, and
then, shaking his head, he replied, in his low, guttural tones:
“John's hand can make baskets no more--he wants no shirt.”
“But if he should, he will know where to come for it,” returned Miss
Temple. “Indeed old John. I feel as if you had a natural right to order
what you will from us.”
“Daughter,” said the Indian, “listen: Six times ten hot summers have
passed since John was young tall like a pine; straight like the bullet
of Hawk-eye, strong as all buffalo; spry as the cat of the mountain. He
was strong, and a warrior like the Young Eagle. If his tribe wanted to
track the Maquas for many suns, the eye of Chingachgook found the print
of their moccasins. If the people feasted and were glad, as they counted
the scalps of their enemies, it was on his pole they hung. If the squaws
cried because there was no meat for their children, he was the first
in the chase. His bullet was swifter than the deer. Daughter, then
Chingachgook struck his tomahawk into the trees; it was to tell the lazy
ones where to find him and the Mingoes--but he made no baskets.”
“Those times have gone by, old warrior,” returned Elizabeth; “since then
your people have disappeared, and, in place of chasing your enemies, you
have learned to fear God and to live at peace.”
“Stand here, daughter, where you can see the great spring, the wigwams
of your father, and the land on the crooked river. John was young
when his tribe gave away the country, in council, from where the blue
mountain stands above the water, to where the Susquehanna is hid by the
trees. All this, and all that grew in it, and all that walked over it,
and all that fed there, they gave to the Fire-eater----for they loved
him. He was strong, and they were women, and he helped them. No Delaware
would kill a deer that ran in his woods, nor stop a bird that flew over
his land; for it was his. Has John lived in peace? Daughter, since John
was young, he has seen the white man from Frontinac come down on his
white brothers at Albany and fight. Did they fear God? He has seen his
English and his American fathers burying their tomahawks in each other's
brains, for this very land. Did they fear God, and live in peace? He has
seen the land pass away from the Fire-eater, and his children, and the
child of his child, and a new chief set over the country. Did they live
in peace who did this? did they fear God?”
“Such is the custom of the whites, John. Do not the Delawares fight, and
exchange their lands for powder, and blankets, and merchandise?”
The Indian turned his dark eyes on his companion, and kept them there
with a scrutiny that alarmed her a little.
“Where are the blankets and merchandise that bought the right of the
Fire-eater?” he replied in a more animated voice; “are they with him in
his wigwam? Did they say to him, Brother, sell us your land, and take
this gold, this silver, these blankets, these rifles, or even this rum?
No; they tore it front him, as a scalp is torn from an enemy; and they
that did it looked not behind them, to see whether he lived or died. Do
such men live in peace and fear the Great Spirit?”
“But you hardly understand the circumstances,” said Elizabeth, more
embarrassed than she would own, even to herself. “If you knew our laws
and customs better, you would Judge differently of our acts. Do not
believe evil of my father, old Mohegan, for he is just and good.”
“The brother of Miquon is good, and he will do right. I have said it to
Hawk-eye---I have said it to the Young Eagle that the brother of Miquon
would do justice.”
“Whom call you the Young Eagle?” said Elizabeth, averting her face from
the gaze of the Indian, as she asked the question; “whence comes he, and
what are his rights?”
“Has my daughter lived so long with him to ask this question?” returned
the Indian warily. “Old age freezes up the blood, as the frosts cover
the great spring in winter; but youth keeps the streams of the blood
open like a sun in the time of blossoms. The Young Eagle has eyes; had
he no tongue?”
The loveliness to which the old warrior alluded was in no degree
diminished by his allegorical speech; for the blushes of the maiden who
listened covered her burning cheeks till her dark eyes seemed to glow
with their reflection; but, after struggling a moment with shame, she
laughed, as if unwilling to understand him seriously, and replied in
pleasantry:
“Not to make me the mistress of his secret. He is too much of a Delaware
to tell his secret thoughts to a woman.”
“Daughter, the Great Spirit made your father with a white skin, and he
made mine with a red; but he colored both their hearts with blood. When
young, it is swift and warm; but when old, it is still and cold. Is
there difference below the skin? No. Once John had a woman. She was
the mother of so many sons”--he raised his hand with three fingers
elevated--“and she had daughters that would have made the young
Delawares happy. She was kind, daughter, and what I said she did. You
have different fashions; but do you think John did not love the wife of
his youth--the mother of his children?”
“And what has become of your family, John--your wife and your children?”
asked Elizabeth, touched by the Indian's manner.
“Where is the ice that covered the great spring? It is melted, and gone
with the waters. John has lived till all his people have left him for
the land of spirits; his time has come, and he is ready.”
Mohegan dropped his head in his blanket, and sat in silence. Miss Temple
knew not what to say. She wished to draw the thoughts of the old warrior
from his gloomy recollections, but there was a dignity in his sorrow,
and in his fortitude, that repressed her efforts to speak. After a long
pause, however, she renewed the discourse by asking:
“Where is the Leather-Stocking, John? I have brought this canister
of powder at his request; but he is nowhere to be seen. Will you take
charge of it, and see it delivered?”
The Indian raised his head slowly and looked earnestly at the gift,
which she put into his hand.
“This is the great enemy of my nation. Without this, when could the
white man drive the Delawares? Daughter, the Great Spirit gave your
fathers to know how to make guns and powder, that they might sweep the
Indians from the land. There will soon be no red-skin in the country.
When John has gone, the last will leave these hills, and his family will
be dead.” The aged warrior stretched his body forward, leaning an elbow
on his knee, and appeared to be taking a parting look at the objects of
the vale, which were still visible through the misty atmosphere, though
the air seemed to thicken at each moment around Miss Temple, who became
conscious of an increased difficulty of respiration. The eye of Mohegan
changed gradually from its sorrowful expression to a look of wildness
that might be supposed to border on the inspiration of a prophet, as he
continued: “But he will go on to the country where his fathers have met.
The game shall be plenty as the Ash in the lakes. No woman shall cry for
meat: no Mingo can ever come The chase shall be for children; and all
just red men shall live together as brothers.”
“John! this is not the heaven of a Christian,” cried Miss Temple; “you
deal now in the superstition of your forefathers.”
“Fathers! sons!” said Mohegan, with firmness.--“all gone--all
gone!--have no son but the Young Eagle, and he has the blood of a white
man.”
“Tell me, John,” said Elizabeth, willing to draw his thoughts to other
subjects, and at the same time yielding to her own powerful interest
in the youth; “who is this Mr. Edwards? why are you so fond of him, and
whence does he come?”
The Indian started at the question, which evidently recalled his
recollection to earth. Taking her hand, he drew Miss Temple to a seat
beside him, and pointed to the country beneath them.
“See, daughter,” he said, directing her looks toward the north; “as far
as your young eyes can see, it was the land of his. But immense volumes
of smoke at that moment rolled over their heath, and, whirling in the
eddies formed by the mountains, interposed a barrier to their sight,
while he was speaking. Startled by this circumstance, Miss Temple sprang
to her feet, and, turning her eyes toward the summit of the mountain,
she beheld It covered by a similar canopy, while a roaring sound was
heard in the forest above her like the rushing of winds.
“What means it, John?” she exclaimed: “we are enveloped in smoke, and I
feel a heat like the glow of a furnace.”
Before the Indian could reply, a voice was heard crying In the woods:
“John! where are you, old Mohegan! the woods are on fire, and you have
but a minute for escape.”
The chief put his hand before his mouth, and, making it lay on his lips,
produced the kind of noise that had attracted Elizabeth to the place,
when a quick and hurried step was heard dashing through the dried
underbrush and bushes, and presently Edwards rushed to his side, with
horror an every feature.