CHAPTER XIV.
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“Therefore, lay bare your bosom.”
Merchant of Venice.
The night that succeeded was wild and melancholy.
The moon was nearly full, but its place in
the heavens was only seen, as the masses of vapor
which drove through the air occasionally opened,
suffering short gleams of fitful light to fall on the
scene below. A south-western wind rather moaned
than sighed through the forest, and there were
moments when its freshness increased, till every leaf
seemed a tongue, and each low plant appeared to
be endowed with the gift of speech. With the exception
of these imposing and not unpleasing natural
sounds, there was a solemn quiet in and about the
village of the Wish-Ton-Wish. An hour before the
moment when we resume the action of the legend,
the sun had settled into the neighboring forest, and
most of its simple and laborious inhabitants had
already sought their rest.
The lights however still shone through many of
the windows of the “Heathcote house,” as, in the
language of the country, the dwelling of the Puritan
was termed. There was the usual stirring industry
in and about the offices, and the ordinary calm was
reigning in the superior parts of the habitation. A
solitary man was to be seen on its piazza. It was
young Mark Heathcote, who paced the long and
narrow gallery, as if impatient of some interruption
to his wishes.
The uneasiness of the young man was of short
continuance; for, ere he had been many minutes at
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his post, a door opened, and two light and timid
forms glided out of the house.
“Thou hast not come alone, Martha,” said the
youth, half-displeased. “I told thee that the matter
I had to say was for thine own ear.”
“It is our Ruth. Thou knowest, Mark, that she
may not be left alone, for we fear her return to the
forest. She is like some ill-tamed fawn, that would
be apt to leap away at the first well-known sound
from the woods. Even now, I fear that we are too
much asunder.”
“Fear nothing; my sister fondles her infant, and she
thinketh not of flight; thou seest I am here to intercept
her, were such her intention. Now speak with
candor, Martha, and say if thou meant in sincerity
that the visits of the Hartford gallant were less to
thy liking than most of thy friends have believed?”
“What I have said cannot be recalled.”
“Still it may be repented of.”
“I do not number the dislike I may feel for the
young man, among my failings. I am too happy,
here, in this family, to wish to quit it. And now that
our sister—there is one speaking to her at this
moment, Mark!”
“'Tis only the innocent,” returned the young man,
glancing his eye to the other end of the piazza.
“They confer often together. Whittal hath just
come in from the woods, whither he is much inclined
to pass an hour or two, each evening. Thou wast
saying that now we have our sister—?”
“I feel less desire to change my abode.”
“Then why not stay with us for ever, Martha?”
“Hist!” interrupted his companion, who, though
conscious of what she was about to listen to, shrunk,
with the waywardness of female nature, from the
very declaration she most wished to hear, “hist—
there was a movement. Ah! our Ruth and Whittal
are fled!”
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“They seek some amusement for the babe—they
are near the out-buildings. Then why not accept a
right to remain for ever—”
“It may not be, Mark,” cried the girl, wresting
her hand from his grasp; “they are fled!”
Mark reluctantly released his hold, and followed
to the spot where his sister had been sitting. She
was, in truth, gone; though some minutes passed
before even Martha seriously believed that she had
disappeared without an intention of returning. The
agitation of both rendered the search ill-directed
and uncertain, and there was perhaps a secret satisfaction
in prolonging their interview even in this
vague manner, that prevented them for some time
from giving the alarm. When that moment did come,
it was too late. The fields were examined, the
orchards and out-houses thoroughly searched, without
any traces of the fugitives. It would have been
useless to enter the forest in the darkness, and all
that could be done, in reason, was to set a watch
during the night, and to prepare for a more active
and intelligent pursuit in the morning.
But, long before the sun arose, the small and melancholy
party of the fugitives threaded the woods at
such a distance from the valley, as would have rendered
the plan of the family entirely nugatory. Conanchet
had led the way over a thousand forest knolls,
across water-courses, and through dark glens, followed
by his silent partner, with an industry that
would have baffled the zeal of even those from
whom they fled. Whittal Ring, bearing the infant on
his back, trudged with unwearied step in the rear.
Hours had passed in this manner, and not a syllable
had been uttered by either of the three. Once or
twice, they had stopped at some spot where water,
limpid as the air, gushed from the rocks; and, drinking
from the hollows of their hands, the march had
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been resumed with the same speechless industry as
before.
At length Conanchet paused. He studied the position
of the sun, gravely, and took a long and anxious
look at the signs of the forest, in order that he
might not be deceived in its quarter. To an unpractised
eye, the arches of the trees, the leaf-covered
earth, and the mouldering logs, would have seemed
everywhere the same. But it was not easy to deceive
one so trained in the woods. Satisfied equally
with the progress he had made, and with the hour,
the chief signed to his two companions to place
themselves at his side, and took a seat on a low shelf
of rock, that thrust its naked head out of the side
of a hill.
For many minutes, after all were seated, no one
broke the silence. The eye of Narra-mattah sought
the countenance of her husband, as the eye of woman
seeks instruction from the expression of features
that she has been taught to revere; but still she
spoke not. The innocent laid the patient babe at
the feet of its mother, and imitated her reserve.
“Is the air of the woods pleasant to the Honey-suckle,
after living in the wigwam of her people?”
asked Conanchet, breaking the long silence. “Can a
flower, which blossomed in the sun, like the shade?”
“A woman of the Narragansetts is happiest in
the lodge of her husband.”
The eye of the chief met her confiding look with
affection, and then it fell, mild and full of kindness,
on the features of the infant that lay at their feet.
There was a minute, during which an expression of
bitter melancholy gathered about his brow.
“The Spirit that made the earth,” he continued,
“is very cunning. He has known where to put the
hemlock, and where the oak should grow. He has
left the moose and the deer to the Indian hunter,
and he has given the horse and the ox to a Pale-face.
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Each tribe hath its hunting-grounds, and its game.
The Narragansetts know the taste of a clam, while
the Mohawks eat the berries of the mountains.
Thou hast seen the bright bow which shines in the
skies, Narra-mattah, and knowest how one color is
mixed with another, like paint on a warrior's face.
The leaf of the hemlock is like the leaf of the
sumach; the ash, the chestnut; the chestnut, the
linden; and the linden, the broad-leaved tree which
bears the red fruit in the clearing of the Yengeese;
but the tree of the red fruit is little like the hemlock!
Conanchet is a tall and straight hemlock, and
the father of Narra-mattah is a tree of the clearing,
that bears the red fruit. The Great Spirit was
angry when they grew together.”
The sensitive wife understood but too well the
current of the chief's thoughts. Suppressing the pain
she felt, however, she answered, with the readiness
of a woman whose imagination was quickened by
her affections.
“What Conanchet hath said is true. But the
Yengeese have put the apple of their own land on
the thorn of our woods, and the fruit is good!”
“It is like that boy,” said the chief, pointing to
his son; “neither red nor pale. No, Narra-mattah;
what the Great Spirit hath commanded, even a
Sachem must do.”
“And doth Conanchet say this fruit is not good?”
asked his wife, lifting the smiling boy with a mother's
joy before his eyes.
The heart of the warrior was touched. Bending
his head, he kissed the babe, with such fondness as
parents less stern are wont to exhibit. For a moment,
he appeared to have satisfaction in gazing at
the promise of the child. But, as he raised his head,
his eye caught a glimpse of the sun, and the whole
expression of his countenance changed. Motioning
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to his wife to replace the infant on the earth, he
turned to her with solemnity, and continued—
“Let the tongue of Narra-mattah speak without
fear. She hath been in the lodges of her father,
and hath tasted of their plenty. Is her heart glad?”
The young wife paused. The question brought
with it a sudden recollection of all those reviving
sensations, of that tender solicitude, and of those
soothing sympathies, of which she had so lately been
the subject. But these feelings soon vanished; for,
without daring to lift her eyes to meet the attentive
and anxious gaze of the chief, she said firmly,
though with a voice that was subdued by diffidence—
“Narrah-mattah is a wife.”
“Then will she listen to the words of her husband.
Conanchet is a chief no longer. He is a
prisoner of the Mohicans. Uncas waits for him in
the woods!”
Notwithstanding the recent declaration of the
young wife, she heard of this calamity with little
of the calmness of an Indian woman. At first, it
seemed as if her senses refused to comprehend the
meaning of the words. Wonder, doubt, horror, and
fearful certainty, each in its turn prevailed; for
she was too well schooled in all the usages and opinions
of the people with whom she dwelt, not to understand
the jeopardy in which her husband was
placed.
“The Sachem of the Narragansetts a prisoner
of Mohican Uncas!” she repeated in a low tone,
as if the sound of her voice were necessary to dispel
some horrible illusion. “No! Uncas is not a
warrior to strike Conanchet!”
“Hear my words,” said the chief, touching the
shoulder of his wife, as one arouses a friend from
his slumbers. “There is a Pale-face in these woods
who is a burrowing fox. He hides his head from
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the Yengeese. When his people were on the trail,
barking like hungry wolves, this man trusted to a
Sagamore. It was a swift chase, and my father is
getting very old. He went up a young hickory,
like a bear, and Conanchet led off the lying tribe.
But he is not a moose. His legs cannot go like running
water, for ever!”
“And why did the great Narragansett give his
life for a stranger?”
“The man is a brave;” returned the Sachem,
proudly: “he took the scalp of a Sagamore!”
Again Narra-mattah was silent. She brooded, in
nearly stupid amazement, on the frightful truth.
“The Great Spirit sees that the man and his wife
are of different tribes,” she at length ventured to
rejoin. “He wishes them to become the same people.
Let Conanchet quit the woods, and go into the
clearings with the mother of his boy. Her white
father will be glad, and Mohican Uncas will not
dare to follow.”
“Woman, I am a Sachem and a warrior among
my people!”
There was a severe and cold displeasure in the
voice of Conanchet, that his companion had never
before heard. He spoke in the manner of a chief
to his woman, rather than with that manly softness
with which he had been accustomed to address the
scion of the Pale-faces. The words came over her
heart like a withering chill, and affliction kept her
mute. The chief himself sate a moment longer in
a stern calmness, and then rising in displeasure, he
pointed to the sun, and beckoned to his companions
to proceed. In a time that appeared to the throbbing
heart of her who followed his swift footsteps,
but a moment, they had turned a little eminence,
and, in another minute, they stood in the presence
of a party that evidently awaited their coming.
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This grave group consisted only of Uncas, two of
his fiercest-looking and most athletic warriors, the
divine, and Eben Dudley.
Advancing rapidly to the spot where his enemy
stood, Conanchet took his post at the foot of the fatal
tree. Pointing to the shadow, which had not yet
turned towards the east, he folded his arms on his
naked bosom, and assumed an air of haughty unconcern.
These movements were made in the midst
of a profound stillness.
Disappointment, unwilling admiration, and distrust,
all struggled through the mask of practised
composure, in the dark countenance of Uncas. He
regarded his long-hated and terrible foe, with an
eye that seemed willing to detect some lurking signs
of weakness. It would not have been easy to say,
whether he most felt respect, or regret, at the faith
of the Narragansett. Accompanied by his two grim
warriors, the chief examined the position of the
shadow with critical minuteness, and when there no
longer existed a pretext for affecting to doubt the
punctuality of their captive, a deep ejaculation of
assent issued from the chest of each. Like some
wary judge, whose justice is fettered by legal precedents,
as if satisfied there was no flaw in the proceedings,
the Mohegan then signed to the white men
to draw near.
“Man of a wild and unreclaimed nature!” commenced
Meek Wolfe, in his usual admonitory and
ascetic tones, “the hour of thy existence draws to
its end! Judgment hath had rule; thou hast been
weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.
But Christian charity is never weary. We may not
resist the ordinances of Providence, but we may
temper the blow to the offender. That thou art
here to die, is a mandate decreed in equity, and
rendered awful by mystery; but further,
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submission to the will of Heaven doth not exact. Heathen,
thou hast a soul, and it is about to leave its earthly
tenement for the unknown world—”
Until now, the captive had listened with the
courtesy of a savage when unexcited. He had
even gazed at the quiet enthusiasm, and singularly
contradictory passions, that shone in the deep lines
of the speaker's face, with some such reverence as
he might have manifested at an exhibition of one
of the pretended revelations of a prophet of his
tribe. But when the divine came to touch upon
his conditiou after death, his mind received a clear,
and to him an unerring, clue to the truth. Laying
a finger suddenly on the shoulder of Meek, he interrupted
him, by saying—
“My father forgets that the skin of his son is red.
The path to the happy hunting-grounds of just Indians
lies before him.”
“Heathen, in thy words hath the Master Spirit
of Delusion and Sin uttered his blasphemies!”
“Hist!—Did my father see that which stirred the
bush?”
“It was the viewless wind, idolatrous and idle-minded
infant, in the form of adult man!”
“And yet my father speaks to it,” returned the
Indian, with the grave but cutting sarcasm of his
people. “See,” he added, haughtily, and even
with ferocity; “the shadow hath passed the root
of the tree. Let the cunning man of the Pale-faces
stand aside; a Sachem is ready to die!”
Meek groaned audibly, and in real sorrow; for,
notwithstanding the veil which exalted theories and
doctrinal subtleties had drawn before his judgment,
the charities of the man were grounded in truth.
Bowing to what he believed to be a mysterious dispensation
of the will of Heaven, he withdrew to a
short distance, and, kneeling on a rock, his voice
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was heard, during the remainder of the ceremonies,
lifting its tones in fervent prayer for the soul of the
condemned.
The divine had no sooner quitted the place, than
Uncas motioned to Dudley to approach. Though
the nature of the borderer was essentially honest
and kind, he was, in opinions and prejudices, but a
creature of the times. If he had assented to the
judgment which committed the captive to the mercy
of his implacable enemies, he had the merit of
having suggested the expedient that was to protect
the sufferer from those refinements in cruelty which
the savages were known to be too ready to inflict.
He had even volunteered to be one of the agents
to enforce his own expedient, though, in so doing, he
had committed no little violence to his natural inclinations.
The reader will therefore judge of his
conduct, in this particular, with the degree of lenity
that a right consideration of the condition of the
country and of the usages of the age may require.
There was even a relenting and a yielding of purpose
in the countenance of this witness of the scene, that
was favorable to the safety of the captive, as he
now spoke. His address was first to Uncas.
“A happy fortune, Mohegan, something aided by
the power of the white men, hath put this Narragansett
into thy hands,” he said. “It is certain that
the Commissioners of the Colony have consented that
thou shouldst exercise thy will on his life; but there
is a voice in the breast of every human being, which
should be stronger than the voice of revenge, and
that is the voice of mercy. It is not yet too late to
hearken to it. Take the promise of the Narragansett
for his faith—take more, take a hostage in this
child, which with its mother shall be guarded among
the English, and let the prisoner go.”
“My brother asketh with a big mind!” said Uncas,
drily.
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“I know not how nor why it is I ask with this
earnestness,” resumed Dudley, “but there are old
recollections, and former kindnesses, in the face and
manner of this Indian! And here, too, is one, in the
woman, that I know is tied to some of our settlements,
with a bond nearer than that of common
charity—Mohegan, I will add a goodly gift of powder
and of muskets, if thou wilt listen to mercy, and take
the faith of the Narragansett.”
Uncas pointed with ironical coldness to his captive,
as he said—
“Let Conanchet speak!”
“Thou hearest, Narragansett. If the man I begin
to suspect thee to be, thou knowest something of
the usages of the whites. Speak; wilt swear to
keep peace with the Mohegans, and to bury the
hatchet in the path between your villages?”
“The fire that burnt the lodges of my people
turned the heart of Conanchet to stone,” was the
steady answer.
“Then can I do no more than see the treaty respected,”
returned Dudley, in disappointment. “Thou
hast thy nature, and it will have way. The Lord
have mercy on thee, Indian, and render thee such
judgment as is meet for one of savage opportunities.”
He made a gesture to Uncas that he had done,
and fell back a few paces from the tree, his honest
features expressing all his concern, while his eye
did not refuse to do its duty by closely watching
each movement of the adverse parties. At the same
instant, the grim attendants of the Mohegan chief,
in obedience to a sign, took their stations on each
side of the captive. They evidently waited for the
last and fatal signal, to complete their unrelenting
purpose. At this grave moment there was a pause,
as if each of the principal actors pondered serious
matter in his inmost mind.
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“The Narragansett hath not spoken to his woman,”
said Uncas, secretly hoping that his enemy
might yet betray some unmanly weakness, in a
moment of so severe trial. “She is near.”
“I said my heart was stone;” coldly returned the
Narragansett.
“See—the girl creepeth like a frightened fowl
among the leaves. If my brother Conanchet will
look, he will see his beloved.”
The countenance of Conanchet grew dark, but
it did not waver.
“We will go among the bushes, if the Sachem
is afraid to speak to his woman with the eyes of a
Mohican on him. A warrior is not a curious girl,
that he wishes to see the sorrow of a chief!”
Conanchet felt, hurriedly, for some weapon that
might strike his enemy to the earth, and then a low
murmuring sound at his elbow stole so softly on his
ear, as suddenly to divert the tempest of passion.
“Will not a Sachem look at his boy?” demanded
the suppliant. “It is the son of a great warrior;
why is the face of his father so dark on him?”
Narrah-mattah had drawn near enough to her
husband, to be within reach of his hand. With extended
arms she held the pledge of their former
happiness towards the chief, as if to beseech a last
and kindly look of recognition and love.
“Will not the great Narragansett look at his
boy?” she repeated, in a voice that sounded like the
lowest notes of some touching melody. “Why is
his face so dark, on a woman of his tribe?”
Even the stern features of the Mohegan Sagamore
showed that he was touched. Beckoning to his grim
attendants to move behind the tree, he turned and
walked aside, with the noble air of a savage, when
influenced by his better feelings. Then light shot
into the clouded countenance of Conanchet. His
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eyes sought the face of his stricken and grieved
consort, who mourned less for his danger than she
grieved for his displeasure. He received the boy
from her hands, and studied his features long and
intently. Beckoning to Dudley, who alone gazed on
the scene, he placed the infant in his arms.
“See!” he said, pointing to the child; “it is a
blossom of the clearings. It will not live in the
shade.”
He then fastened a look on his trembling partner.
There was a husband's love in the glance. “Flower
of the open land!” he said; “the Manitou of thy
race will place thee in the fields of thy fathers.
The sun will shine upon thee, and the winds from
beyond the salt lake will blow the clouds into the
woods. A Just and Great Chief cannot shut his ear
to the Good Spirit of his people. Mine calls his son
to hunt among the braves that have gone on the
long path; thine points another way. Go, hear his
voice, and obey. Let thy mind be like a wide clearing;
let all its shadows be next the woods; let it
forget the dream it dreamt among the trees. 'Tis
the will of the Manitou.”
“Conanchet asketh much of his wife; her soul
is only the soul of a woman!”
“A woman of the Pale-faces; now let her seek
her tribe. Narra-mattah, thy people speak strange
traditions. They say that one just man died for all
colors. I know not. Conanchet is a child among
the cunning, and a man with the warriors. If this
be true, he will look for his woman and boy in the
happy hunting-grounds, and they will come to him.
There is no hunter of the Yengeese that can kill
so many deer. Let Narra-mattah forget her chief
till that time, and then, when she calls him by name,
let her speak strong, for he will be very glad to hear
her voice again. Go; a Sagamore is about to start
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on a long journey. He takes leave of his wife with
a heavy spirit. She will put a little flower of two
colors before her eyes, and be happy in its growth.
Now let her go. A Sagamore is about to die.”
The attentive woman caught each slow and
measured syllable, as one trained in superstitious
legends would listen to the words of an oracle. But,
accustomed to obedience and bewildered with her
grief, she hesitated no longer. The head of Narra-mattah
sunk on her bosom, as she left him, and her
face was buried in her robe. The step with which
she passed Uncas was so light as to be inaudible;
but when he saw her tottering form, turning swiftly,
he stretched an arm high in the air. The terrible
mutes just showed themselves from behind the tree,
and vanished. Conanchet started, and it seemed as
if he were about to plunge forward; but, recovering
himself by a desperate effort, his body sunk
back against the tree, and he fell in the attitude of
a chief seated in council. There was a smile of
fierce triumph on his face, and his lips evidently
moved. Uncas did not breathe, as he bent forward
to listen:—
“Mohican, I die before my heart is soft!” uttered
firmly, but with a struggle, reached his ears. Then
came two long and heavy respirations. One was the
returning breath of Uncas, and the other the dying
sigh of the last Sachem of the broken and dispersed
tribe of the Narragansetts.
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Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1829], The wept of wish ton-wish, volume 2 (Carey, Lea & Carey, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf059v2].
