The storm prognosticated from the red aspect of the setting sun the
night before had not descended when Edith Prevost left the door of her
father's house. No raindrops, fell, no breeze even stirred the trees,
and it was only a sort of misty obscurity to the westward which gave
token, to eyes well acquainted with the forest, that the promise of
the preceding sunset would yet be fulfilled. Overhead all was clear
and blue, and the sun, though there was some haze around the broad
disk, was powerful for the season of the year.
Edith's companions were only Chaudo the negro, the good woman Sister
Bab (whose kindness, faithfulness and intelligence had all been
tried), and Woodchuck, who refused to take a horse from the stable,
but set out on foot by the beautiful girl's side.
"You can't canter a step of the way, Miss Edith," he said, "so I can
keep up with you, I guess; for the road, such as it is, is better
fitted for two feet than four."
There were tears in Edith's eyes as she turned from the door, arising
from many a mingled source. She had seen her father and him whom she
loved as well, though differently, depart suddenly to danger and to
battle. Her brother was far away; and still she could not help
thinking him in peril. Not only was the future of all uncertain--for
that the future of everyone is--but the uncertainty was dark, and, as
it were, more tangible than is generally the case with the dim, misty
valley of the coming time. There was not only a cloud, but the cloud
was threatening.
The moment of departing from her father's door was one of those
pausing places of the mind for Edith Prevost. She did not cast her
thoughts far back; she took in but a little range; six months was the
limit. But she remembered how calmly happy she had been in that
dwelling six months before.
She mused sadly, gazing down upon the horse's neck, and hardly seeing
or thinking of the way she took. In the meantime, Woodchuck trudged on
by her side, with his head erect, his face lifted toward the sky, his
pace steady and assured. Edith suddenly and almost unconsciously
turned her eyes toward him. There was a tranquil elevation of his
countenance, a lofty resolution in his look, which gave her thoughts,
in a moment, another direction. She was parting from a well loved home
and cherished associations, with some clouds hanging over her, some
anxieties dogging her path, but with a probability of soon returning,
and with many a sweet promise of future happiness. Yet she was sad and
downcast. He was marching onward, wittingly and voluntarily, to a
certain and terrible death; and yet his march was tranquil, firm, and
resolute. She felt ashamed of her tears. Nay, more, as thought ran on,
she said to herself: "There is something more in life--something
higher, nobler, grander, than any human passion, than any mortal
enjoyment, than any mere earthly peace can give--something that comes
from heaven to aid and support us in our struggles here below. He
knows, he feels that he is doing his duty, that he is acting according
to the commandment of his God, and he is calm and firm in the presence
of death, and in the separation from all earthly things. And I--what
have I to suffer? What have I to fear in comparison with him?"
She made a great effort, she shook off her sadness, she wiped the
tears from her eyes, and said a few words to her companion in a quiet
tone. He answered briefly to her actual words, but then turned at once
to the feelings which he believed to be in her heart.
"Ah, Miss Prevost," he said, "it's a sad thing for a young lady like
you to part for the first time with those she loves when they are
going to battle, and I don't know that a woman's heart ever gets
rightly accustomed to it; but it don't do to love anything too well in
this world--no, not even one's own life. It's a sad stumbling block,
both in the way of our duty and our happiness. Not that I'd have
people keep from loving anything; that would never do. They wouldn't
be worth having if they couldn't love their friends, and love them
very well; but I guess the best way is to recollect always when we've
got a thing, that it is but a loan--life itself all the same as
everything else. It's all lent--all will be recalled. But only you
see, my dear young lady, we've got a promise that if we use what we've
lent to us well, it shall be given to us forever hereafter; and that
should always be a comfort to us--it is to me."
A slight sigh followed his words, and he walked on in silence for a
minute or two, probably pursuing the course which he had laid down for
himself in his very excellent philosophy, of marching on straight to a
high object, and casting from him all thought of the unavoidable
sufferings of the way. Soon after, he looked up to the sky and said:
"It's getting wonderfully black out there. I shouldn't wonder if we
had a flaw of wind and a good soaking rain. I say, Master Chaudo, put
that bearskin over the young lady's baggage and hold the horse better
in hand, or you'll have him down amongst these stumps. You ride better
than you lead, my friend."
The negro grinned at him, but did as he was directed, and a few
minutes after they issued out of the wood upon a small open space of
ground extending over the side of a slight eminence. The view thence
was prolonged far to the westward in a clear day, showing some
beautiful blue hills at the distance of some eight or nine miles.
Those hills, however, had now disappeared, and in their place was seen
what can only be called a dense black cloud, although those words give
a very inadequate idea of the sight which presented itself to Edith's
eyes. It was like a gigantic wall of black marble, with a faint,
irregular line at the top. But this wall evidently moved, coming
forward with vast rapidity, although where the travelers were not a
breath of air was felt. On it rushed toward them, swallowing up
everything, as it were, in its own obscurity. Each instant some tree,
some undulation of the ground, some marking object in the prospect,
disappeared in its deep, gloomy shadow, and for a few moments Edith
sat still upon her horse, gazing in awe, and even in terror. Woodchuck
himself seemed for an instant overpowered, but then he caught Edith's
rein and turned her horse, exclaiming: "Back, Miss Prevost! Back as
fast as possible! That's the blackest cloud I ever see in all my days.
There! there! to the eastward! Get under them big old hemlocks! Keep
away from the pines and the small trees! It'll need to have been
fastening to the ground for a hundred years to stand what's coming!"
As he spoke he ran on fast by the side of Edith's horse till they
reached the edge of the wood, and there he checked her. "Not too far
in! not too far in! You must be ready to jump out if you find that
even these old fellows commence crashing!"
He then left her bridle and walked carefully round several of the
trees, examining their trunks and roots with a very critical eye, to
ascertain that they were firmly fixed, and not decayed, and then
approaching Edith again, he held out his hand, saying: "Jump down!
Here's one will do. He must ha' stood many a hard storm and bitter
blast, and p'raps will bear this one, too; for he's as sound as when
he started up, a little twig, before the eyes of any mortal man now
living winked in the sunshine--aye! or his father's, either. There,
Chaudo, take the horses and grip them all tight, for depend upon it
they'll caper when the wind and rain come. Now, my dear, put yourself
on this side of the tree, keep close to it, and listen well. You may
find him shiver and sway a bit, but don't mind that, for he's not so
tall as the rest, and twice as stout; and what makes me trust him is
that in some storm his head has been broken off and his feet have
stood stout. He won't catch so much wind as the others, and I think
he'd stand it if he did. But if you hear him begin to crack, jump
clear out here to the left, into the open ground. They'll fall t'other
way. If you keep close, the branches won't strike you when they fall,
and the rain won't get at you, for it's taking a long sweep."
The next moment it came. The wind, blowing with the force of a
hurricane, rushed over the valley below; the leaves were torn off, the
small twigs, with their umbrageous covering, carried aloft into the
air and scattered; a few large drops of rain fell, and then the whole
force of the tempest struck the hillside and the more open space where
Edith stood. In an instant the scene of confusion and destruction was
indescribable. The gusts seemed to hiss as they passed through the
branches of the trees and between the tall stems. Large branches were
torn off and scattered far; the young pines and birches bent before
the force of the storm. As in the case of war and pestilence, the
weak, and the sickly, and the young, and the decayed, suffered first
and most. Wherever the roots had not got a firm hold of the ground,
wherever the frosts of the winter and the thawing of the spring, or
the heavy rains had washed away the earth, or loosened it, the trees
came thundering and crashing down, and the din was awful, the howling
wind, the breaking branches, the falling trees, all joining in the
roar; and a moment after the pattering rain, rustling and rushing
amongst the withered leaves left by the winter, becoming thicker and
more dense every moment, seemed more as if a river was falling down
from the sky, hardly separated into drops, than a fertilizing shower
passing over the landscape.
Edith gazed round her in affright, for she could, as Woodchuck had
predicted, feel the enormous but low-stemmed hemlock against which he
had placed her, tremble and quiver with the blast; and a number of
trees hard by were rooted up and cast prostrate, bearing the turf and
earth in which they had stood up into the air, while here and there
some more firmly fixed in the ground, but defective higher up, snapped
in the middle, and then the whole upper part was carried many yards
away. But though she gazed, little was the distance she could see, so
thick and black was the covering of the sky; while all around, what
between the close-falling deluge and a sudden mist rising up from the
ground, the sort of twilight that the storm cloud left was rendered
still more murky and obscure.
The two negroes, as usual with that race, were clamorous and excited,
adding the noise of their tongues to the roar of the tempest; but the
horses, contrary to the expectation of Woodchuck, seemed cowed and
paralyzed by fear. Instead of attempting to break loose and rushing
away, they merely turned from the wind and rain, and with hoofs set
firm, and drooping heads, abode the storm, with now and then a
shivering thrill, showing the terror that they felt. Woodchuck himself
stood silent, close by Edith, leading his strong shoulder against the
tree, and, with his eyes bent down upon the ground, seemed to lose
himself in heavy thought. A man who has parted with the world and the
world's hopes is tempest-proof.
After the first rush of the storm there came a lull, and then another
fierce roar, and more falling trees and crashing branches. The whole
forest swayed and bent like the harvest in a breeze, and down came the
torrent from the sky more furiously than ever. But in the midst of it
all Woodchuck started, leaned his head a little to one side, and
seemed to listen, with his eye fixed upon vacancy.
"What is the matter?" asked Edith, alarmed by his look.
"I thought I heard a footfall," he answered.
"In the roar of such a storm?" said Edith. "It must have been some
falling branch."
He only smiled for an answer, but still he listened, and she could see
him lift his arm a little from the lock of his rifle, on which it had
been tightly pressed, and look down upon it to see that it was dry.
The next moment, however, he resumed his ordinary attitude, and said
in a quiet tone: "It's all nonsense, however. The Ingians are all
quiet and friendly on this side of the lake. But you see, Miss
Prevost, I have been so many months on the watch every minute, not
knowing whether I should not feel the scalping knife or the tomahawk
the next, that I've got over-wary. The Mohawks are all on the move
about here, and no Hurons or any other of the enemies would venture
across, except in a large body, to fight a regular battle. It must
have been the tread of some friendly Ingian I heard, though they don't
usually leave the trail except they've some object in view."
"But is it possible you could hear anything distinctly amidst this
awful noise?" asked Edith. "Are you sure you are not mistaken?"
"Oh, no, I'm not likely to be mistaken," answered Woodchuck. "One's
ears get sharp with continued listening. I'm putty sure it was a foot
I heard, and a man's foot, too. It seemed to be as if it had slipped
off a loose stone hidden under the leaves, and came down harder,
perhaps, than he expected. But that's no proof that he meant mischief,
for they've all got those cat-like sort of ways, creeping about
silently, whether there's 'casion for it or not; and as I said just
now, they're all friendly here on this side of Horicon."
A few moments' silence succeeded, while the wind again swelled up,
raged for a minute or two, and then fell again; and Woodchuck, putting
out his head from beyond the shelter of the great trunk, observed: "It
seems to me to be getting a little clearer there to the westward. I
guess it won't last more nor half an hour longer."
[Illustration: Edith felt a strong arm seize her by the shoulder, and
turning her head in terror, she beheld the gleaming eyes of an Indian.
Page 281.--_Ticonderoga_.]
Almost as he spoke, from every side but that which opened upon the
hill, came a yell, so loud, so fierce, so fiend-like, that ere she
knew what she was doing, under the sudden impulse of terror, Edith
darted at once away from the tree into the open space, and ran a few
steps till her long riding dress caught round her small feet, and she
fell upon the grass. At the same instant she felt a strong arm seize
her by the shoulder and heard the rattle of a rifle, and turning her
head in mute terror, she beheld the gleaming eyes and dark countenance
of an Indian, rendered more hideous by the half-washed off war paint,
bending over her. His tomahawk was in his right hand; her last hour
seemed come, but so sudden, so confounding had been the attack that
she could not collect her ideas. She could not speak, she could not
think, she could not pray. The weapon did not fall, however, and the
savage dragged her up from the ground and gazed upon her, uttering
some of the uncouth exclamations of his people in tones of
satisfaction and even merriment.
One hurried glance around for help showed Edith that all hope for help
was vain; and no words can describe her horror at the scene she saw.
At the very moment she looked round, a tomahawk in the hands of a
gigantic Indian was falling on the head of the poor negro Chaudo, and
the next instant a wild, shrieking yell told her his agony was come
and gone. Woodchuck, hatchet in hand, was battling for life against
another savage, and seemed nearly, if not quite, his match, but eight
or ten more Indians were rushing up, yelling like wolves as they came,
and in the midst of the struggle, while hatchets were playing and
flashing round the heads of the combatants, a young and active Indian
sprang upon the poor hunter from behind and threw him backward on the
earth. He lay perfectly still and motionless, gazing up at the
tomahawk lifted over his head; but at that instant the young Indian
put his arm around his companion's naked breast and pushed him
violently back, with a loud exclamation in the Iroquois tongue. Then
seizing the hand of Woodchuck, he pulled up the sleeve of his hunting
shirt and pointed to a blue stripe tattooed upon his arm.
The lifted hand and tomahawk of the other sank slowly by his side, and
Woodchuck sat up and gazed round him, but without attempting to rise
altogether from the ground.
Some five or six of the Indians came quietly up, and some kneeling,
some bending down, gazed upon the blue line, while the savage who had
seized upon Edith dragged her forward to the spot, and still holding
her fast, gazed likewise. A few quick and muttered words succeeded
amongst their captors, some only of which Edith heard and understood.
"It's the sign! it's the sign!" said one. Then came a sentence or two
that escaped her ear, and then another cried, "Ask him! Ask him!"
Then one of the Indians seated himself on the ground before Woodchuck,
spread out his hands like a fan, and addressed some words to him,
which Edith, notwithstanding her perfect knowledge of the Iroquois
language in most of its dialects, did not in the least comprehend. The
answer of Woodchuck was equally unintelligible to her, and the only
word or words which she caught was "Honontkoh."
The moment he had spoken, two of the Indians placed their hands under
his arms and raised him from the ground. They took the precaution of
disarming him entirely, and then, gathering round, they talked quickly
and eagerly in low tones; but now they spoke a language which Edith
understood, and though she did not catch all that was said she heard
enough to show her that they were discussing what was to be done with
herself and Woodchuck, whom it seemed to her that from some cause they
recognized as a brother. Suddenly the savage who held her pressed his
fingers tighter upon her arm, exclaiming aloud in a fierce, angry
voice: "She is mine! I will dispose of her as I please."
"No one will oppose the brother of the Snake," said another elder man.
"Scalp her, if thou wilt, but where canst thou carry her if thou dost
not slay her?"
"Let us all go to the other side of Corlear, Apukwa," said the man who
held her. "I will take her with me; she shall cook my venison for me.
'Twas for this I brought you hither."
"What! Shall we become women amongst the Hurons?" said Apukwa.
"No," replied the brother of the Snake; "there are many of our tribe
and order there, of our own nation, outcasts like ourselves. We will
become, like them, warriors of the great French king, and fight
against the accursed Yengees."
"But how shall we cross?" said Apukwa.
"There are canoes in plenty," said the other. "Besides, our Canada
brethren are here, close at hand, at Che-on-de-ro-ga. They will give
us help."
A silent pause succeeded, and then Woodchuck stretched forth his arm,
recovered from the confusion which perhaps the suddenness of the
attack, perhaps the violence of his fall, had produced, and addressed
them after their own fashion.
"Are we not brothers?" he said. "Are we not all Honontkoh? Are we not
all bound by the dreadful name to aid each other, even unto blood and
death? I demand, therefore--ye who have lifted the hatchet against us
unjustly--to set me and this maiden free, to make our feet as the feet
of the panther, to go whither we will. I have spoken the terrible
words. I have uttered the dreadful name; the sign of the order is in
my flesh, and ye dare not refuse!"
A look of doubt and hesitation came over the faces of the Indians, and
Apukwa replied: "Whither wouldst thou go, my brother? We have all
sworn the oath in the presence of the dark spirit that we will aid one
another, and that each of the Honontkoh will defend and protect
another, though he should have eaten fire or shed his brother's blood.
Thou hast shed our brother's blood; for we know thee, though we knew
not that thou wert of our order. But we are Honontkoh, and we will
keep the saying. We will defend thee; we will protect thee; but
whither wouldst thou go?"
"I go," answered Woodchuck, with unfortunate frankness and truth, "I
go to lay down my life for your brother's life. I go to the Castle of
the Oneidas, to say: 'Woodchuck is here. Let the hatchet fall upon the
old tree, and let the young sapling grow up till its time be come. I
killed the Snake. Take the blood of him who slew him, and set the boy
Walter free.' As for this maiden, she is mine. I have adopted her. I
claim her, as brother claims from brother. Ye cannot be Honontkoh and
take her from me. If ye be true to our order, give her into my hand,
and let us go."
While he spoke, the countenances of the Indians round betrayed no mark
of any emotion whatever, though there were many and varying feelings,
undoubtedly, busy in their breasts. As he ended, however, a slight and
somewhat scornful smile came upon the cunning face of Apukwa, and he
replied: "We cannot let our brother go on such an errand. It would be
contrary to our laws. We are bound to defend and protect him, and must
not let him make wind of his life. The yellow leaf falls of itself
from the bough; the green leaf is torn off by the tempest. We must
preserve our brother's life, though the young man perish."
Edith's eyes wept fast with the bitterest drops of despair, but Apukwa
went on: "As for the maiden, we will hear and judge more another day.
Thou sayest thou hast adopted her. We will hear how, for we know her
to be the daughter of the paleface Prevost. If she be the prize of the
brother of the Snake, the brother of the Snake must have her. But if
she be thy daughter, she is thine. Let her be with thee till we have
heard all and judged. We have not room now; for time goes fast, and we
are near danger. The palefaces are to the rising and setting sun,
toward the cold and toward the soft wind. The Honontkoh is the enemy
of the paleface, the abandoned of the Mohawk, and the outcast of the
Oneida. Take the maiden in thy hand, and go on toward the rising sun.
We come with thee as thy brethren, and will preserve thy life."
Woodchuck gave an anxious glance to Edith, and said in a low voice and
in English: "We can't resist, but we may outwit them. Come on for the
present, for I guess it may be no better. I will shed my blood for
you, my dear, if I cannot for your brother." And taking her hand, he
led her on toward the northeast, preceded by one, and followed by five
or six Indians, who, on their usual cautious plan, walked singly, one
after another, well knowing that their prisoners could not escape
them. Several remained upon the spot a few minutes longer, engaged in
stripping the pack-horse of all that he carried, and taking the
saddles and bridles of the other horses, which they knew would be
valuable in the eyes of the French. All this was done with
extraordinary rapidity, and then the last party followed the first
into the depths of the wood.
By this time the wind had considerably abated, though it still rained
hard. The moment after the Indians had departed, however, the leaves
and branches of a large flower-covered bush, of the kalmia, growing
under a low-spreading hemlock, moved gently, and the next instant a
black face protruded. After one hasty glance around, the whole form of
the negress, Sister Bab, was drawn slowly out from the bush, and
running from tree to tree with silent speed, she stopped not till she
caught sight again of the retiring Indians, and then followed them
quietly and cautiously on their way toward Champlain.