Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear
How he will shake me up.
—As you like it.
It is well known, that even long before the immense regions of
Louisiana changed their masters for the second, and, as it is to be
hoped, for the last time, its unguarded territory was by no means safe
from the inroads of white adventurers. The semi-barbarous hunters from
the Canadas, the same description of population, a little more
enlightened, from the States, and the metiffs or half-breeds, who
claimed to be ranked in the class of white men, were scattered among
the different Indian tribes, or gleaned a scanty livelihood in
solitude, amid the haunts of the beaver and the bison; or, to adopt the
popular nomenclature of the country of the buffaloe.[15]
It was, therefore, no unusual thing for strangers to encounter each
other in the endless wastes of the west. By signs, which an unpractised
eye would pass unobserved, these borderers knew when one of his fellows
was in his vicinity, and he avoided or approached the intruder as best
comported with his feelings or his interests. Generally, these
interviews were pacific; for the whites had a common enemy to dread, in
the ancient and perhaps more lawful occupants of the country; but
instances were not rare, in which jealousy and cupidity had caused them
to terminate in scenes of the most violent and ruthless treachery. The
meeting of two hunters on the American desert, as we find it convenient
sometimes to call this region, was consequently somewhat in the
suspicious and wary manner in which two vessels draw together in a sea
that is known to be infested with pirates. While neither party is
willing to betray its weakness, by exhibiting distrust, neither is
disposed to commit itself by any acts of confidence, from which it may
be difficult to recede.
Such was, in some degree, the character of the present interview. The
stranger drew nigh deliberately; keeping his eyes steadily fastened on
the movements of the other party, while he purposely created little
difficulties to impede an approach which might prove too hasty. On the
other hand, Paul stood playing with the lock of his rifle, too proud to
let it appear that three men could manifest any apprehension of a
solitary individual, and yet too prudent to omit, entirely, the
customary precautions. The principal reason of the marked difference
which the two legitimate proprietors of the banquet made in the
receptions of their guests, was to be explained by the entire
difference which existed in their respective appearances.
While the exterior of the naturalist was decidedly pacific, not to say
abstracted, that of the new comer was distinguished by an air of
vigour, and a front and step which it would not have been difficult to
have at once pronounced to be military.
He wore a forage-cap of fine blue cloth, from which depended a soiled
tassel in gold, and which was nearly buried in a mass of exuberant,
curling, jet-black hair. Around his throat he had negligently fastened
a stock of black silk. His body was enveloped in a hunting-shirt of
dark green, trimmed with the yellow fringes and ornaments that were
sometimes seen among the border-troops of the Confederacy. Beneath
this, however, were visible the collar and lapels of a jacket, similar
in colour and cloth to the cap. His lower limbs were protected by
buckskin leggings, and his feet by the ordinary Indian moccasins. A
richly ornamented, and exceedingly dangerous straight dirk was stuck in
a sash of red silk net-work; another girdle, or rather belt, of
uncoloured leather contained a pair of the smallest sized pistols, in
holsters nicely made to fit, and across his shoulder was thrown a
short, heavy, military rifle; its horn and pouch occupying the usual
places beneath his arms. At his back he bore a knapsack, marked by the
well known initials that have since gained for the government of the
United States the good-humoured and quaint appellation of Uncle Sam.
“I come in amity,” the stranger said, like one too much accustomed to
the sight of arms to be startled at the ludicrously belligerent
attitude which Dr. Battius had seen fit to assume. “I come as a friend;
and am one whose pursuits and wishes will not at all interfere with
your own.”
“Harkee, stranger,” said Paul Hover, bluntly; “do you understand lining
a bee from this open place into a wood, distant, perhaps, a dozen
miles?”
“The bee is a bird I have never been compelled to seek,” returned the
other, laughing; “though I have, too, been something of a fowler in my
time.”
“I thought as much,” exclaimed Paul, thrusting forth his hand frankly,
and with the true freedom of manner that marks an American borderer.
“Let us cross fingers. You and I will never quarrel about the comb,
since you set so little store by the honey. And now, if your stomach
has an empty corner, and you know how to relish a genuine dew-drop when
it falls into your very mouth, there lies the exact morsel to put into
it. Try it, stranger; and having tried it, if you don’t call it as snug
a fit as you have made since—How long ar’ you from the settlements,
pray?”
“’Tis many weeks, and I fear it may be as many more before I can
return. I will, however, gladly profit by your invitation, for I have
fasted since the rising of yesterday’s sun, and I know too well the
merits of a bison’s bump to reject the food.”
“Ah! you ar’ acquainted with the dish! Well, therein you have the
advantage of me, in setting out, though I think I may say we could now
start on equal ground. I should be the happiest fellow between Kentucky
and the Rocky Mountains, if I had a snug cabin, near some old wood that
was filled with hollow trees, just such a hump every day as that for
dinner, a load of fresh straw for hives, and little El—”
“Little what?” demanded the stranger, evidently amused with the
communicative and frank disposition of the bee-hunter.
“Something that I shall have one day, and which concerns nobody so much
as myself,” returned Paul, picking the flint of his rifle, and
beginning very cavalierly to whistle an air well known on the waters of
the Mississippi.
During this preliminary discourse the stranger had taken his seat by
the side of the hump, and was already making a serious inroad on its
relics. Dr. Battius, however, watched his movements with a jealousy,
still more striking than the cordial reception which the open-hearted
Paul had just exhibited.
But the doubts, or rather apprehensions, of the naturalist were of a
character altogether different from the confidence of the bee-hunter.
He had been struck with the stranger’s using the legitimate, instead of
the perverted name of the animal off which he was making his repast;
and as he had been among the foremost himself to profit by the removal
of the impediments which the policy of Spain had placed in the way of
all explorers of her trans-Atlantic dominions, whether bent on the
purposes of commerce, or, like himself, on the more laudable pursuits
of science, he had a sufficiency of every-day philosophy to feel that
the same motives, which had so powerfully urged himself to his present
undertaking, might produce a like result on the mind of some other
student of nature. Here, then, was the prospect of an alarming rivalry,
which bade fair to strip him of at least a moiety of the just rewards
of all his labours, privations, and dangers. Under these views of his
character, therefore, it is not at all surprising that the native
meekness of the naturalist’s disposition was a little disturbed, and
that he watched the proceedings of the other with such a degree of
vigilance as he believed best suited to detect his sinister designs.
“This is truly a delicious repast,” observed the unconscious young
stranger, for both young and handsome he was fairly entitled to be
considered; “either hunger has given a peculiar relish to the viand, or
the bison may lay claim to be the finest of the ox family!”
“Naturalists, sir, are apt, when they speak familiarly, to give the cow
the credit of the genus,” said Dr. Battius, swelling with secret
distrust, and clearing his throat, before speaking, much in the manner
that a duellist examines the point of the weapon he is about to plunge
into the body of his foe. “The figure is more perfect; as the bos,
meaning the ox, is unable to perpetuate his kind; and the bos, in its
most extended meaning, or vacca, is altogether the nobler animal of the
two.”
The Doctor uttered this opinion with a certain air, that he intended
should express his readiness to come at once, to any of the numerous
points of difference which he doubted not existed between them; and he
now awaited the blow of his antagonist, intending that his next thrust
should be still more vigorous. But the young stranger appeared much
better disposed to partake of the good cheer, with which he had been so
providentially provided, than to take up the cudgels of argument on
this, or on any other of the knotty points which are so apt to furnish
the lovers of science with the materials of a mental joust.
“I dare say you are very right, sir,” he replied, with a most provoking
indifference to the importance of the points he conceded. “I dare say
you are quite right; and that vacca would have been the better word.”
“Pardon me, sir; you are giving a very wrong construction to my
language, if you suppose I include, without many and particular
qualifications, the bibulus Americanus, in the family of the vacca.
For, as you well know, sir—or, as I presume I should say, Doctor; you
have the medical diploma, no doubt?”
“You give me credit for an honour I cannot claim,” interrupted the
other.
“An under-graduate!—or perhaps your degrees have been taken in some
other of the liberal sciences?”
“Still wrong, I do assure you.”
“Surely, young man, you have not entered on this important—I may say,
this awful service, without some evidence of your fitness for the task!
Some commission by which you can assert an authority to proceed, or by
which you may claim an affinity and a communion with your
fellow-workers in the same beneficent pursuits!”
“I know not by what means, or for what purposes, you have made yourself
master of my objects!” exclaimed the youth, reddening and rising with a
quickness which manifested how little he regarded the grosser
appetites, when a subject nearer his heart was approached. “Still, sir,
your language is incomprehensible. That pursuit, which in another might
perhaps be justly called beneficent, is, in me, a dear and cherished
duty; though why a commission should be demanded or needed is, I
confess, no less a subject of surprise.”
“It is customary to be provided with such a document,” returned the
Doctor, gravely; “and, on all suitable occasions to produce it, in
order that congenial and friendly minds may, at once, reject unworthy
suspicions, and stepping over, what may be called the elements of
discourse, come at once to those points which are desiderata to both.”
“It is a strange request!” the youth muttered, turning his frowning eye
from one to the other, as if examining the characters of his
companions, with a view to weigh their physical powers. Then, putting
his hand into his bosom, he drew forth a small box, and extending it
with an air of dignity towards the Doctor, he continued—“You will find
by this, sir, that I have some right to travel in a country which is
now the property of the American States.”
“What have we here!” exclaimed the naturalist, opening the folds of a
large parchment. “Why, this is the sign-manual of the philosopher,
Jefferson! The seal of state! Countersigned by the minister of war! Why
this is a commission creating Duncan Uncas Middleton a captain of
artillery!”
“Of whom? of whom?” repeated the trapper, who had sat regarding the
stranger, during the whole discourse, with eyes that seemed greedily to
devour each lineament. “How is the name? did you call him Uncas?—Uncas!
Was it Uncas?”
“Such is my name,” returned the youth, a little haughtily. “It is the
appellation of a native chief, that both my uncle and myself bear with
pride; for it is the memorial of an important service done my family by
a warrior in the old wars of the provinces.”
“Uncas! did ye call him Uncas?” repeated the trapper, approaching the
youth and parting the dark curls which clustered over his brow, without
the slightest resistance on the part of their wondering owner. “Ah my
eyes are old, and not so keen as when I was a warrior myself; but I can
see the look of the father in the son! I saw it when he first came
nigh, but so many things have since passed before my failing sight,
that I could not name the place where I had met his likeness! Tell me,
lad, by what name is your father known?”
“He was an officer of the States in the war of the revolution, of my
own name of course; my mother’s brother was called Duncan Uncas
Heyward.”
“Still Uncas! still Uncas!” echoed the other, trembling with eagerness.
“And his father?”
“Was called the same, without the appellation of the native chief. It
was to him, and to my grandmother, that the service of which I have
just spoken was rendered.”
“I know’d it! I know’d it!” shouted the old man, in his tremulous
voice, his rigid features working powerfully, as if the names the other
mentioned awakened some long dormant emotions, connected with the
events of an anterior age. “I know’d it! son or grandson, it is all the
same; it is the blood, and ’tis the look! Tell me, is he they call’d
Duncan, without the Uncas—is he living?”
The young man shook his head sorrowfully, as he replied in the
negative.
“He died full of days and of honours. Beloved, happy, and bestowing
happiness!”
“Full of days!” repeated the trapper, looking down at his own meagre,
but still muscular hands. “Ah! he liv’d in the settlements, and was
wise only after their fashions. But you have often seen him; and you
have heard him discourse of Uncas, and of the wilderness?”
“Often! he was then an officer of the king; but when the war took place
between the crown and her colonies, my grandfather did not forget his
birthplace, but threw off the empty allegiance of names, and was true
to his proper country; he fought on the side of liberty.”
“There was reason in it; and what is better, there was natur’! Come,
sit ye down beside me, lad; sit ye down, and tell me of what your
grand’ther used to speak, when his mind dwelt on the wonders of the
wilderness.”
The youth smiled, no less at the importunity than at the interest
manifested by the old man; but as he found there was no longer the
least appearance of any violence being contemplated, he unhesitatingly
complied.
“Give it all to the trapper by rule, and by figures of speech,” said
Paul, very coolly taking his seat on the other side of the young
soldier. “It is the fashion of old age to relish these ancient
traditions, and, for that matter, I can say that I don’t dislike to
listen to them myself.”
Middleton smiled again, and perhaps with a slight air of derision; but,
good-naturedly turning to the trapper, he continued—
“It is a long, and might prove a painful story. Bloodshed and all the
horrors of Indian cruelty and of Indian warfare are fearfully mingled
in the narrative.”
“Ay, give it all to us, stranger,” continued Paul; “we are used to
these matters in Kentuck, and, I must say, I think a story none the
worse for having a few scalps in it!”
“But he told you of Uncas, did he?” resumed the trapper, without
regarding the slight interruptions of the bee-hunter, which amounted to
no more than a sort of by-play. “And what thought he and said he of the
lad, in his parlour, with the comforts and ease of the settlements at
his elbow?”
“I doubt not he used a language similar to that he would have adopted
in the woods, and had he stood face to face, with his friend—”
“Did he call the savage his friend; the poor, naked, painted warrior?
he was not too proud then to call the Indian his friend?”
“He even boasted of the connection; and as you have already heard,
bestowed a name on his first-born, which is likely to be handed down as
an heir-loom among the rest of his descendants.”
“It was well done! like a man: ay! and like a Christian, too! He used
to say the Delaware was swift of foot—did he remember that?”
“As the antelope! Indeed, he often spoke of him by the appellation of
Le Cerf Agile, a name he had obtained by his activity.”
“And bold, and fearless, lad!” continued the trapper, looking up into
the eyes of his companion, with a wistfulness that bespoke the delight
he received in listening to the praises of one, whom it was so very
evident, he had once tenderly loved.
“Brave as a blooded hound! Without fear! He always quoted Uncas and his
father, who from his wisdom was called the Great Serpent, as models of
heroism and constancy.”
“He did them justice! he did them justice! Truer men were not to be
found in tribe or nation, be their skins of what colour they might. I
see your grand’ther was just, and did his duty, too, by his offspring!
’Twas a perilous time he had of it, among them hills, and nobly did he
play his own part! Tell me, lad, or officer, I should say,—since
officer you be,—was this all?”
“Certainly not; it was, as I have said, a fearful tale, full of moving
incidents, and the memories both of my grandfather and of my
grandmother—”
“Ah!” exclaimed the trapper, tossing a hand into the air as his whole
countenance lighted with the recollections the name revived. “They
called her Alice! Elsie or Alice; ’tis all the same. A laughing,
playful child she was, when happy; and tender and weeping in her
misery! Her hair was shining and yellow, as the coat of the young fawn,
and her skin clearer than the purest water that drips from the rock.
Well do I remember her! I remember her right well!”
The lip of the youth slightly curled, and he regarded the old man with
an expression, which might easily have been construed into a
declaration that such were not his own recollections of his venerable
and revered ancestor, though it would seem he did not think it
necessary to say as much in words. He was content to answer—
“They both retained impressions of the dangers they had passed, by far
too vivid easily to lose the recollection of any of their
fellow-actors.”
The trapper looked aside, and seemed to struggle with some deeply
innate feeling; then, turning again towards his companion, though his
honest eyes no longer dwelt with the same open interest, as before, on
the countenance of the other, he continued—
“Did he tell you of them all? Were they all red-skins, but himself and
the daughters of Munro?”
“No. There was a white man associated with the Delawares. A scout of
the English army, but a native of the provinces.”
“A drunken worthless vagabond, like most of his colour who harbour with
the savages, I warrant you!”
“Old man, your grey hairs should caution you against slander. The man I
speak of was of great simplicity of mind, but of sterling worth. Unlike
most of those who live a border life, he united the better, instead of
the worst, qualities of the two people. He was a man endowed with the
choicest and perhaps rarest gift of nature; that of distinguishing good
from evil. His virtues were those of simplicity, because such were the
fruits of his habits, as were indeed his very prejudices. In courage he
was the equal of his red associates; in warlike skill, being better
instructed, their superior. ‘In short, he was a noble shoot from the
stock of human nature, which never could attain its proper elevation
and importance, for no other reason, than because it grew in the
forest:’ such, old hunter, were the very words of my grandfather, when
speaking of the man you imagine so worthless!”
The eyes of the trapper had sunk to the earth, as the stranger
delivered this character in the ardent tones of generous youth. He
played with the ears of his hound; fingered his own rustic garment, and
opened and shut the pan of his rifle, with hands that trembled in a
manner that would have implied their total unfitness to wield the
weapon. When the other had concluded, he hoarsely added—
“Your grand’ther didn’t then entirely forget the white man!”
“So far from that, there are already three among us, who have also
names derived from that scout.”
“A name, did you say?” exclaimed the old man, starting; “what, the name
of the solitary, unl’arned hunter? Do the great, and the rich, and the
honoured, and, what is better still, the just, do they bear his very,
actual name?”
“It is borne by my brother, and by two of my cousins, whatever may be
their titles to be described by the terms you have mentioned.”
“Do you mean the actual name itself; spelt with the very same letters,
beginning with an N and ending with an L?”
“Exactly the same,” the youth smilingly replied. “No, no, we have
forgotten nothing that was his. I have at this moment a dog brushing a
deer, not far from this, who is come of a hound that very scout sent as
a present after his friends, and which was of the stock he always used
himself: a truer breed, in nose and foot, is not to be found in the
wide Union.”
“Hector!” said the old man, struggling to conquer an emotion that
nearly suffocated him, and speaking to his hound in the sort of tones
he would have used to a child, “do ye hear that, pup! your kin and
blood are in the prairies! A name—it is wonderful—very wonderful!”
Nature could endure no more. Overcome by a flood of unusual and
extraordinary sensations, and stimulated by tender and long dormant
recollections, strangely and unexpectedly revived, the old man had just
self-command enough to add, in a voice that was hollow and unnatural,
through the efforts he made to command it—
“Boy, I am that scout; a warrior once, a miserable trapper now!” when
the tears broke over his wasted cheeks, out of fountains that had long
been dried, and, sinking his face between his knees, he covered it
decently with his buckskin garment, and sobbed aloud.
The spectacle produced correspondent emotions in his companions. Paul
Hover had actually swallowed each syllable of the discourse as they
fell alternately from the different speakers, his feelings keeping
equal pace with the increasing interest of the scene. Unused to such
strange sensations, he was turning his face on every side of him, to
avoid he knew not what, until he saw the tears and heard the sobs of
the old man, when he sprang to his feet, and grappling his guest
fiercely by the throat, he demanded by what authority he had made his
aged companion weep. A flash of recollection crossing his brain at the
same instant, he released his hold, and stretching forth an arm in the
very wantonness of gratification, he seized the Doctor by the hair,
which instantly revealed its artificial formation, by cleaving to his
hand, leaving the white and shining poll of the naturalist with a
covering no warmer than the skin.
“What think you of that, Mr. Bug-gatherer?” he rather shouted than
cried: “is not this a strange bee to line into his hole?”
“’Tis remarkable! wonderful! edifying!” returned the lover of nature,
good-humouredly recovering his wig, with twinkling eyes and a husky
voice. “’Tis rare and commendable. Though I doubt not in the exact
order of causes and effects.”
With this sudden outbreaking, however, the commotion instantly
subsided; the three spectators clustering around the trapper with a
species of awe, at beholding the tears of one so aged.
“It must be so, or how could he be so familiar with a history that is
little known beyond my own family,” at length the youth observed, not
ashamed to acknowledge how much he had been affected, by unequivocally
drying his own eyes.
“True!” echoed Paul; “if you want any more evidence I will swear to it!
I know every word of it myself to be true as the gospel!”
“And yet we had long supposed him dead!” continued the soldier. “My
grandfather had filled his days with honour, and he had believed
himself the junior of the two.”
“It is not often that youth has an opportunity of thus looking down on
the weakness of age!” the trapper observed, raising his head, and
looking around him with composure and dignity. “That I am still here,
young man, is the pleasure of the Lord, who has spared me until I have
seen fourscore long and laborious years, for his own secret ends. That
I am the man I say, you need not doubt; for why should I go to my grave
with so cheap a lie in my mouth?”
“I do not hesitate to believe; I only marvel that it should be so! But
why do I find you, venerable and excellent friend of my parents, in
these wastes, so far from the comforts and safety of the lower
country?”
“I have come into these plains to escape the sound of the axe; for here
surely the chopper can never follow! But I may put the like question to
yourself. Are you of the party which the States have sent into their
new purchase, to look after the natur’ of the bargain they have made?”
“I am not. Lewis is making his way up the river, some hundreds of miles
from this. I come on a private adventure.”
“Though it is no cause of wonder, that a man whose strength and eyes
have failed him as a hunter, should be seen nigh the haunts of the
beaver, using a trap instead of a rifle, it is strange that one so
young and prosperous, and bearing the commission of the Great Father,
should be moving among the prairies, without even a camp-colourman to
do his biddings!”
“You would think my reasons sufficient did you know them, as know them
you shall if you are disposed to listen to my story. I think you all
honest, and men who would rather aid than betray one bent on a worthy
object.”
“Come, then, and tell us at your leisure,” said the trapper, seating
himself, and beckoning to the youth to follow his example. The latter
willingly complied; and after Paul and the Doctor had disposed of
themselves to their several likings, the new comer entered into a
narrative of the singular reasons which had led him so far into the
deserts.
[15] In addition to the scientific distinctions which mark the two
species, it may be added, with due deference to Dr. Battius, that a
much more important particular is the fact, that while the former of
these animals is delicious and nourishing food, the latter is scarcely
edible.