CHAPTER XI.
And now 'tis still! no sound to wake
The primal forest's awful shade;
And breathless lies the covert brake,
Where many an ambushed form is laid:
I see the red-man's gleaming eye,
Yet all so hushed the gloom profound,
That summer birds flit heedlessly,
And mocking nature smiles around.
Lunt.
The eventful summer of 1776 had been genial and generous
in the valley of the Hutted Knoll. With a desire to drive
away obtrusive thoughts, the captain had been much in his
fields, and he was bethinking himself of making a large contribution
to the good cause, in the way of fatted porkers, of
which he had an unusual number, that he thought might
yet be driven through the forest to Fort Stanwix, before the
season closed. In the way of intelligence from the seat of
war, nothing had reached the family but a letter from the
major, which he had managed to get sent, and in which he
wrote with necessary caution. He merely mentioned the
arrival of Sir William Howe's forces, and the state of his
own health. There was a short postscript, in the following
words, the letter having been directed to his father:—“Tell
dearest Maud,” he said, “that charming women have ceased
to charm me; glory occupying so much of my day-dreams,
like an ignis fatuus, I fear; and that as for love, all my
affections are centred in the dear objects at the Hutted Knoll.
If I had met with a single woman I admired half as much
as I do her pretty self, I should have been married long
since.” This was written in answer to some thoughtless
rattle that the captain had volunteered to put in his last
letter, as coming from Maud, who had sensitively shrunk
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from sending a message when asked; and it was read by
father, mother, and Beulah, as the badinage of a brother to
a sister, without awaking a second thought in either. Not
so with Maud, herself, however. When her seniors had
done with this letter, she carried it to her own room, reading
and re-reading it a dozen times; nor could she muster resolution
to return it; but, finding at length that the epistle was
forgotten, she succeeded in retaining it without awakening
attention to what she had done. This letter now became
her constant companion, and a hundred times did the sweet
girl trace its characters, in the privacy of her chamber, or
in that of her now solitary walks in the woods.
As yet, the war had produced none of those scenes of
ruthless frontier violence, that had distinguished all the previous
conflicts of America. The enemy was on the coast,
and thither the efforts of the combatants had been principally
directed. It is true, an attempt on Canada had been made,
but it failed for want of means; neither party being in a
condition to effect much, as yet, in that quarter. The captain
had commented on this peculiarity of the present struggle;
all those which had preceded it having, as a matter of
course, taken the direction of the frontiers between the hostile
provinces.
“There is no use, Woods, in bothering ourselves about
these things, after all,” observed captain Willoughby, one
day, when the subject of hanging the long-neglected gates
came up between them. “It's a heavy job, and the crops
will suffer if we take off the hands this week. We are as
safe, here, as we should be in Hyde Park; and safer too;
for there house-breakers and foot-pads abound; whereas,
your preaching has left nothing but very vulgar and every-day
sinners at the Knoll.”
The chaplain had little to say against this reasoning; for,
to own the truth, he saw no particular cause for apprehension.
Impunity had produced the feeling of security, until
these gates had got to be rather a subject of amusement,
than of any serious discussion. The preceding year, when
the stockade was erected, Joel had managed to throw so
many obstacles in the way of hanging the gates, that the
duty was not performed throughout the whole of the present
summer, the subject having been mentioned but once or
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twice, and then only to be postponed to a more fitting occasion.
As yet no one in the valley knew of the great event which
had taken place in July. A rumour of a design to declare
the provinces independent had reached the Hut in
May; but the major's letter was silent on this important
event, and positive information had arrived by no other
channel; otherwise, the captain would have regarded the
struggle as much more serious than he had ever done before;
and he might have set about raising these all-important
gates in earnest. As it was, however, there they stood;
each pair leaning against its proper wall or stockade, though
those of the latter were so light as to have required but
eight or ten men to set them on their hinges, in a couple of
hours at most.
Captain Willoughby still confined his agricultural schemes
to the site of the old Beaver Pond. The area of that was
perfectly beautiful, every unsightly object having been removed,
while the fences and the tillage were faultlessly neat
and regular. Care had been taken, too, to render the few
small fields around the cabins which skirted this lovely rural
scene, worthy of their vicinage. The stumps had all been
dug, the surfaces levelled, and the orchards and gardens
were in keeping with the charms that nature had so bountifully
scattered about the place.
While, however, all in the shape of tillage was confined
to this one spot, the cattle ranged the forest for miles. Not
only was the valley, but the adjacent mountain-sides were
covered with intersecting paths, beaten by the herds, in the
course of years. These paths led to many a glen, or lookout,
where Beulah and Maud had long been in the habit of
pursuing their rambles, during the sultry heats of summer.
Though so beautiful to the eye, the flats were not agreeable
for walks; and it was but natural for the lovers of the picturesque
to seek the eminences, where they could overlook
the vast surfaces of leaves that were spread before them; or
to bury themselves in ravines and glens, within which the
rays of the sun scarce penetrated. The paths mentioned
led near, or to, a hundred of these places, all within a mile
or two of the Hut. As a matter of course, then, they were
not neglected.
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Beulah had now been a mother several months. Her
little Evert was born at the Knoll, and he occupied most of
those gentle and affectionate thoughts which were not engrossed
by his absent father. Her marriage, of itself, had
made some changes in her intercourse with Maud; but the
birth of the child had brought about still more. The care
of this little being formed Beulah's great delight; and Mrs.
Willoughby had all that peculiar interest in her descendant,
which marks a grandmother's irresponsible love. These
two passed half their time in the nursery, a room fitted between
their respective chambers; leaving Maud more alone
than it was her wont to be, and of course to brood over her
thoughts and feelings. These periods of solitude our heroine
was much accustomed to pass in the forest. Use had so far
emboldened her, that apprehension never shortened her
walks, or lessened their pleasure. Of danger, from any
ordinary source, there was literally next to none, man never
having been known to approach the valley, unless by the
regular path; while the beasts of prey had been so actively
hunted, as rarely to be seen in that quarter of the country.
The panther excepted, no wild quadruped was to be in the
least feared in summer; and, of the first, none had ever
been met with by Nick, or any of the numerous woodsmen
who had now frequented the adjacent hills for two lustrums.
About three hours before the setting of the sun, on the
evening of the 23d of September, 1776, Maud Willoughby
was pursuing her way, quite alone, along one of the paths
beaten by the cattle, at some little distance from a rocky
eminence, where there was a look-out, on which Mike, by
her father's orders, had made a rude seat. It was on the
side of the clearing most remote from all the cabins; though,
once on the elevation, she could command a view of the
whole of the little panorama around the site of the ancient
pond. In that day, ladies wore the well-known gipsey hat,
a style that was peculiarly suited to the face of our heroine.
Exercise had given her cheeks a rich glow; and though a
shade of sadness, or at least of reflection, was now habitually
thrown athwart her sweet countenance, this bloom added an
unusual lustre to her eyes, and a brilliancy to her beauty,
that the proudest belle of any drawing-room might have
been glad to possess. Although living so retired her dress
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always became her rank; being simple, but of the character
that denotes refinement, and the habits and tastes of a
gentlewoman. In this particular, Maud had ever been observant
of what was due to herself; and, more than all, had
she attended to her present appearance since a chance expression
of Robert Willoughby's had betrayed how much
he prized the quality in her.
Looking thus, and in a melancholy frame of mind, Maud
reached the rock, and took her place on its simple seat,
throwing aside her hat, to catch a little of the cooling air on
her burning cheeks. She turned to look at the lovely view
again, with a pleasure that never tired. The rays of the
sun were streaming athwart the verdant meadows and rich
corn, lengthening the shadows, and mellowing everything,
as if expressly to please the eye of one like her who now
gazed upon the scene. Most of the people of the settlement
were in the open air, the men closing their day's works in
the fields, and the women and children busied beneath
shades, with their wheels and needles; the whole presenting
such a picture of peaceful, rural life, as a poet might delight
to describe, or an artist to delineate with his pencil.
“The landscape smiles
Calm in the sun; and silent are the hills
And valleys, and the blue serene of air.”
The Vanished Lark.
“It is very beautiful!” thought Maud. “Why cannot
men be content with such scenes of loveliness and nature
as this, and love each other, and be at peace, as God's laws
command? Then we might all be living happily together,
here, without trembling lest news of some sad misfortune
should reach us, from hour to hour. Beulah and Evert
would not be separated; but both could remain with their
child—and my dear, dear father and mother would be so
happy to have us all around them, in security—and, then,
Bob, too—perhaps Bob might bring a wife from the town,
with him, that I could love as I do Beulah”—It was one of
Maud's day-dreams to love the wife of Bob, and make him
happy by contributing to the happiness of those he most
prized—“No; I could never love her as I do Beulah; but
I should make her very dear to me, as I ought to, since she
would be Bob's wife.”
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The expression of Maud's face, towards the close of this
mental soliloquy, was of singular sadness; and yet it was
the very picture of sincerity and truth. It was some such
look as the windows of the mind assume, when the feelings
struggle against nature and hope, for resignation and submission
to duty.
At this instant, a cry arose from the valley! It was one
of those spontaneous, involuntary outbreakings of alarm,
that no art can imitate, no pen describe; but which conveys
to the listener's ear, terror in the very sound. At the next
instant, the men from the mill were seen rushing up to the
summit of the cliff that impended over their dwellings, followed
by their wives dragging children after them, making
frantic gestures, indicative of alarm. The first impulse of
Maud was to fly; but a moment's reflection told her it was
much too late for that. To remain and witness what followed
would be safer, and more wise. Her dress was dark,
and she would not be likely to be observed at the distance
at which she was placed; having behind her, too, a back-ground
of gloomy rock. Then the scene was too exciting to
admit of much hesitation or delay in coming to a decision;
a fearful species of maddened curiosity mingling with her
alarm. Under such circumstances, it is not surprising that
Maud continued gazing on what she saw, with eyes that
seemed to devour the objects before them.
The first cry from the valley was followed by the appearance
of the fugitives from the mill. These took the way
towards the Hut, calling on the nearest labourers by name,
to seek safety in flight. The words could not be distinguished
at the rock, though indistinct sounds might; but
the gestures could not be mistaken. In half a minute, the
plain was alive with fugitives; some rushing to their cabins
for their children, and all taking the direction of the stockade,
as soon as the last were found. In five minutes the
roads and lanes near the Knoll were crowded with men,
women and children, hastening forward to its protection,
while a few of the former had already rushed through the
gate-ways, as Maud correctly fancied, in quest of their arms.
Captain Willoughby was riding among his labourers when
this fearful interruption to a tranquillity so placid first broke
upon his ear. Accustomed to alarms, he galloped forward
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to meet the fugitives from the mill, issuing orders as he
passed to several of the men nearest the house. With the
miller, who thought little of anything but safety at that instant,
he conversed a moment, and then pushed boldly on
towards the verge of the cliffs. Maud trembled as she saw
her father in a situation which she thought must be so exposed;
but his cool manner of riding about proved that he
saw no enemy very near. At length he waved his hat to
some object, or person in the glen beneath; and she even
thought she heard his shout. At the next moment, he turned
his horse, and was seen scouring along the road towards the
Hut. The lawn was covered with the fugitives as the captain
reached it, while a few armed men were already coming out
of the court-yard. Gesticulating as if giving orders, the
captain dashed through them all, without drawing the rein,
and disappeared in the court. A minute later, he re-issued,
bearing his arms, followed by his wife and Beulah, the latter
pressing little Evert to her bosom.
Something like order now began to appear among the
men. Counting all ages and both colours, the valley, at
this particular moment, could muster thirty-three males
capable of bearing arms. To these might be added some
ten or fifteen women who had occasionally brought down a
deer, and who might be thought more or less dangerous,
stationed at a loop, with a rifle or a musket. Captain Willoughby
had taken some pains to drill the former, who could
go through some of the simpler light-infantry evolutions.
Among them he had appointed sundry corporals, while Joel
Strides had been named a serjeant. Joyce, now an aged
and war-worn veteran, did the duty of adjutant. Twenty
men were soon drawn up in array, in front of the open gate-way
on the lawn, under the immediate orders of Joyce; and
the last woman and child, that had been seen approaching
the place of refuge, had passed within the stockade. At this
instant captain Willoughby called a party of the stragglers
around him, and set about hanging the gates of the outer
passage, or that which led through the palisades.
Maud would now have left the rock, but, at that moment,
a dark body of Indians poured up over the cliffs, crowning
it with a menacing cloud of at least fifty armed warriors.
The rivulet lay between her and the Hut, and the nearest
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bridge that crossed it would have brought her within reach
of danger. Then it would require at least half an hour to
reach that bridge by the circuitous path she would be compelled
to take, and there was little hope of getting over it
before the strangers should have advanced. It was better
to remain where she could behold what was passing, and to
be governed by events, than to rush blindly into unseen
risks.
The party that crowned the cliffs near the mills, showed
no impatience to advance. It was evidently busy in reconnoitring,
and in receiving accessions to its numbers. The
latter soon increased to some seventy or eighty warriors.
After waiting several minutes in inaction, a musket, or rifle,
was fired towards the Hut, as if to try the effect of a summons
and the range of a bullet. At this hint the men on the lawn
retired within the stockade, stacked their arms, and joined
the party that was endeavouring to get the gates in their
places. From the circumstance that her father directed all
the women and children to retire within the court, Maud
supposed that the bullet might have fallen somewhere near
them. It was quite evident, however, that no one was injured.
The gates intended for the stockade, being open like the
rest of that work, were materially lighter than those constructed
for the house itself. The difficulty was in handling
them with the accuracy required to ehter the hinges, of
which there were three pairs. This difficulty existed on
account of their great height. Of physical force, enough
could be applied to toss them over the stockade itself, if
necessary; but finesse was needed, rather than force, to
effect the principal object, and that under difficult circumstances.
It is scarcely possible that the proximity of so
fierce an enemy as a body of savages in their war-paint,
for such the men at the mill had discovered was the guise
of their assailants, would in any measure favour the coolness
and tact of the labourers. Poor Maud lost the sense of her
own danger, in the nervous desire to see the long-forgotten
gates hung; and she rose once or twice, in feverish excitement,
as she saw that the leaf which was raised fell in or
out, missing its fastenings. Still the men persevered, one
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or two sentinels being placed to watch the Indians, and give
timely notice of their approach, should they advance.
Maud now kneeled, with her face bowed to the seat, and
uttered a short but most fervent prayer, in behalf of the dear
beings that the Hut contained. This calmed her spirits a
little, and she rose once more to watch the course of events.
The body of men had left the gate at which they had just
been toiling, and were crowding around its fellow. One
leaf was hung! As an assurance of this, she soon after saw
her father swing it backward and forward on its hinges, to
cause it to settle into its place. This was an immense relief,
though she had heard too many tales of Indian warfare, to
think there was any imminent danger of an attack by open
day, in the very face of the garrison. The cool manner in
which her father proceeded, satisfied her that he felt the
same security, for the moment; his great object being, in
truth, to make suitable provision against the hours of darkness.
Although Maud had been educated as a lady, and possessed
the delicacy and refinement of her class, she had unavoidably
caught some of the fire and resolution of a frontier life.
To her, the forest, for instance, possessed no fancied dangers;
but when there was real ground for alarm, she estimated
its causes intelligently, and with calmness. So it was, also,
in the present crisis. She remembered all she had been
taught, or had heard, and quick of apprehension, her information
was justly applied to the estimate of present circumstances.
The men at the Hut soon had the second leaf of the gate
ready to be raised. At this instant, an Indian advanced
across the flat alone, bearing a branch of a tree in his hand,
and moving swiftly. This was a flag of truce, desiring to
communicate with the pale-faces. Captain Willoughby met
the messenger alone, at the foot of the lawn, and there a
conference took place that lasted several minutes. Maud
could only conjecture its objects, though she thought her
father's attitude commanding, and his gestures stern. The
red-man, as usual, was quiet and dignified. This much our
heroine saw, or fancied she saw; but beyond this, of course,
all was vague conjecture. Just as the two were about to
part, and had even made courteous signs of their intention, a
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shout arose from the workmen, which ascended, though
faintly, as high as the rock. Captain Willoughby turned,
and then Maud saw his arm extended towards the stockade.
The second leaf of the gate was in its place, swinging to
and fro, in a sort of exulting demonstration of its uses!
The savage moved away, more slowly than he had advanced,
occasionally stopping to reconnoitre the Knoll and its defences.
Captain Willoughby now returned to his people, and he
was some time busied in examining the gates, and giving
directions about its fastenings. Utterly forgetful of her own
situation, Maud shed tears of joy, as she saw that this great
object was successfully effected. The stockade was an immense
security to the people of the Hut. Although it certainly
might be scaled, such an enterprise would require
great caution, courage, and address; and it could hardly
be effected, at all, by day-light. At night, even, it would
allow the sentinels time to give the alarm, and with a vigilant
look-out, might be the means of repelling an enemy.
There was also another consideration connected with this
stockade. An enemy would not be fond of trusting himself
inside of it, unless reasonably certain of carrying the citadel
altogether; inasmuch as it might serve as a prison to place
him in the hands of the garrison. To recross it under a
fire from the loops, would be an exploit so hazardous that
few Indians would think of undertaking it. All this Maud
knew from her father's conversations, and she saw how
much had been obtained in raising the gates. Then the
stockade, once properly closed, afforded great security to
those moving about within it; the timbers would be apt to
stop a bullet, and were a perfect defence against a rush;
leaving time to the women and children to get into the court,
even allowing that the assailants succeeded in scaling the
palisades.
Maud thought rapidly and well, in the strait in which she
was placed. She understood most of the movements, on
both sides, and she also saw the importance of her remaining
where she could note all that passed, if she intended to
make an attempt at reaching the Hut, after dark. This
necessity determined her to continue at the rock, so long as
light remained. She wondered she was not missed, but
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rightly attributed the circumstance to the suddenness of the
alarm, and the crowd of other thoughts which would naturally
press upon the minds of her friends, at such a fearful
moment. “I will stay where I am,” thought Maud, a little
proudly, “and prove, if I am not really the daughter of
Hugh Willoughby, that I am not altogether unworthy of
his love and care! I can even pass the night in the forest,
at this warm season, without suffering.”
Just as these thoughts crossed her mind, in a sort of mental
soliloquy, a stone rolled from a path above her, and fell
over the rock on which the seat was placed. A footstep was
then heard, and the girl's heart beat quick with apprehension.
Still she conceived it safest to remain perfectly quiet.
She scarce breathed in her anxiety to be motionless. Then
it occurred to her, that some one beside herself might be
out from the Hut, and that a friend was near. Mike had
been in the woods that very afternoon, she knew; for she
had seen him; and the true-hearted fellow would indeed be
a treasure to her, at that awful moment. This idea, which
rose almost to certainty as soon as it occurred, induced her
to spring forward, when the appearance of a man, whom
she did not recognise, dressed in a hunting-shirt, and otherwise
attired for the woods, carrying a short rifle in the
hollow of his arm, caused her to stop, in motionless terror.
At first, her presence was not observed; but, no sooner did the
stranger catch a glimpse of her person, than he stopped,
raised his hands in surprise, laid his rifle against a tree, and
sprang forward; the girl closing her eyes, and sinking on
the seat, with bowed head, expecting the blow of the deadly
tomahawk.
“Maud—dearest, dearest Maud—do you not know me!”
exclaimed one, leaning over the pallid girl, while he passed
an arm round her slender waist, with an affection so delicate
and reserved, that, at another time, it might have attracted
attention. “Look up, dear girl, and show that at least you
fear not me!”
“Bob,” said the half-senseless Maud. “Whence come
you?—Why do you come at this fearful instant!—Would
to God your visit had been better timed!”
“Terror makes you say this, my poor Maud! Of all the
family, I had hoped for the warmest welcome from you.
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We think alike about this war—then you are not so much
terrified at the idea of my being found here, but can hear
reason. Why do you say this, then, my dearest Maud?”
By this time Maud had so far recovered as to be able to
look up into the major's face, with an expression in which
alarm was blended with unutterable tenderness. Still she
did not throw her arms around him, as a sister would clasp
a beloved brother; but, rather, as he pressed her gently to
his bosom, repelled the embrace by a slight resistance.
Extricating herself, however, she turned and pointed towards
the valley.
“Why do I say this? See for yourself—the savages have
at length come, and the whole dreadful picture is before
you.”
Young Willoughby's military eye took in the scene at a
glance. The Indians were still at the cliff, and the people
of the settlement were straining at the heavier gates of the
Hut, having already got one of them into a position where
it wanted only the proper application of a steady force to be
hung. He saw his father actively employed in giving directions;
and a few pertinent questions drew all the other circumstances
from Maud. The enemy had now been in the
valley more than an hour, and the movements of the two
parties were soon related.
“Are you alone, dearest Maud? are you shut out by this
sudden inroad?” demanded the major, with concern and
surprise.
“So it would seem. I can see no other—though I did
think Michael might be somewhere near me, in the woods,
here; I at first mistook your footsteps for his.”
“That is a mistake”—returned Willoughby, levelling a
small pocket spy-glass at the Hut—“Mike is tugging at
that gate, upholding a part of it, like a corner-stone. I see
most of the faces I know there, and my dear father is as
active, and yet as cool, as if at the head of a regiment.”
“Then I am alone—it is perhaps better that as many as
possible should be in the house to defend it.”
“Not alone, my sweet Maud, so long as I am with you.
Do you still think my visit so ill-timed?”
“Perhaps not, after all. Heaven knows what I should
have done, by myself, when it became dark!”
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“But are we safe on this seat?—May we not be seen by
the Indians, since we so plainly see them?”
“I think not. I have often remarked that when Evert
and Beulah have been here, their figures could not be perceived
from the lawn; owing, I fancy, to the dark back-ground
of rock. My dress is not light, and you are in
green; which is the colour of the leaves, and not easily to
be distinguished. No other spot gives so good a view of
what takes place in the valley. We must risk a little exposure,
or act in the dark.”
“You are a soldier's daughter, Maud”—This was as true
of major Meredith as of captain Willoughby, and might
therefore be freely said by even Bob—“You are a soldier's
daughter, and nature has clearly intended you to be a soldier's
wife. This is a coup-d'-æil not to be despised.”
“I shall never be a wife at all”—murmured Maud, scarce
knowing what she said; “I may not live to be a soldier's
daughter, even, much longer. But, why are you here?—
surely, surely you can have no connection with those savages!—
I have heard of such horrors; but you would not
accompany them, even though it were to protect the Hut.”
“I'll not answer for that, Maud. One would do a great
deal to preserve his paternal dwelling from pillage, and his
father's grey hairs from violence. But I came alone; that
party and its objects being utterly strangers to me.”
“And why do you come at all, Bob?” inquired the anxious
girl, looking up into his face with open affection — “The
situation of the country is now such, as to make your visits
very hazardous.”
“Who could know the regular major in this hunting-shirt,
and forest garb? I have not an article about my person
to betray me, even were I before a court. No fear for
me then, Maud; unless it be from these demons in human
shape, the savages. Even they do not seem to be very
fiercely inclined, as they appear at this moment more disposed
to eat, than to attack the Hut. Look for yourself;
those fellows are certainly preparing to take their food; the
group that is just now coming over the cliffs, is dragging a
deer after it.”
Maud took the glass, though with an unsteady hand, and
she looked a moment at the savages. The manner in which
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the instrument brought these wild beings nearer to her eye,
caused her to shudder, and she was soon satisfied.
“That deer was killed this morning by the miller,” she
said; “they have doubtless found it in or near his cabin.
We will be thankful, however, for this breathing-time — it
may enable my dear father to get up the other gate. Look,
Robert, and see what progress they make?”
“One side is just hung, and much joy does it produce
among them! Persevere, my noble old father, and you will
soon be safe against your enemies. What a calm and steady
air he has, amid it all! Ah! Maud, Hugh Willoughby ought,
at this moment, to be at the head of a brigade, helping to
suppress this accursed and unnatural rebellion. Nay, more;
he may be there, if he will only listen to reason and duty.”
“And this is then your errand here, Bob?” asked his
fair companion, gazing earnestly at the major.
“It is, Maud—and I hope you, whose feelings I know to
be right, can encourage me to hope.”
“I fear not. It is now too late. Beulah's marriage with
Evert has strengthened his opinions—and then—”
“What, dearest Maud? You pause as if that `then' had
a meaning you hesitated to express.”
Maud coloured; after which she smiled faintly, and proceeded:
“We should speak reverently of a father — and such a
father, too. But does it not seem probable to you, Bob, that
the many discussions he has with Mr. Woods may have a
tendency to confirm each in his notions?”
Robert Willoughby would have answered in the affirmative,
had not a sudden movement at the Hut prevented.
-- 182 --
Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1843], Wyandotte, or, The hutted knoll, volume 1 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf073v1].
