The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
wild associate. In the meanwhile, Hawkeye, who looked on this burst of youthful
feeling with a cool but kind regard made the following reply:
“Life is an obligation which friends often owe each other in the
wilderness. I dare say I may have served Uncas some such turn myself before
now; and I very well remember that he has stood between me and death five
different times; three times from the Mingoes, once in crossing Horican,
and—”
“That bullet was better aimed than common!” exclaimed Duncan,
involuntarily shrinking from a shot which struck the rock at his side with a
smart rebound.
Hawkeye laid his hand on the shapeless metal, and shook his head, as he
examined it, saying, “Falling lead is never flattened, had it come from
the clouds this might have happened.”
But the rifle of Uncas was deliberately raised toward the heavens, directing
the eyes of his companions to a point, where the mystery was immediately
explained. A ragged oak grew on the right bank of the river, nearly opposite to
their position, which, seeking the freedom of the open space, had inclined so
far forward that its upper branches overhung that arm of the stream which
flowed nearest to its own shore. Among the topmost leaves, which scantily
concealed the gnarled and stunted limbs, a savage was nestled, partly concealed
by the trunk of the tree, and partly exposed, as though looking down upon them
to ascertain the effect produced by his treacherous aim.
“These devils will scale heaven to circumvent us to our ruin,” said
Hawkeye; “keep him in play, boy, until I can bring ‘killdeer’
to bear, when we will try his metal on each side of the tree at once.”
Uncas delayed his fire until the scout uttered the word.
The rifles flashed, the leaves and bark of the oak flew into the air, and were
scattered by the wind, but the Indian answered their assault by a taunting
laugh, sending down upon them another bullet in return, that struck the cap of
Hawkeye from his head. Once more the savage yells burst out of the woods, and
the leaden hail whistled above the heads of the besieged, as if to confine them
to a place where they might become easy victims to the enterprise of the
warrior who had mounted the tree.
“This must be looked to,” said the scout, glancing about him with
an anxious eye. “Uncas, call up your father; we have need of all our
we’pons to bring the cunning varmint from his roost.”
The signal was instantly given; and, before Hawkeye had reloaded his rifle,
they were joined by Chingachgook. When his son pointed out to the experienced
warrior the situation of their dangerous enemy, the usual exclamatory
“hugh” burst from his lips; after which, no further expression of
surprise or alarm was suffered to escape him. Hawkeye and the Mohicans
conversed earnestly together in Delaware for a few moments, when each quietly
took his post, in order to execute the plan they had speedily devised.
The warrior in the oak had maintained a quick, though ineffectual fire, from
the moment of his discovery. But his aim was interrupted by the vigilance of
his enemies, whose rifles instantaneously bore on any part of his person that
was left exposed. Still his bullets fell in the center of the crouching party.
The clothes of Heyward, which rendered him peculiarly conspicuous, were
repeatedly cut, and once blood was drawn from a slight wound in his arm.
At length, emboldened by the long and patient watchfulness of his enemies, the
Huron attempted a better and more fatal aim. The quick eyes of the Mohicans
caught the dark line of his lower limbs incautiously exposed through the thin
foliage, a few inches from the trunk of the tree. Their rifles made a common
report, when, sinking on his wounded limb, part of the body of the savage came
into view. Swift as thought, Hawkeye seized the advantage, and discharged his
fatal weapon into the top of the oak. The leaves were unusually agitated; the
dangerous rifle fell from its commanding elevation, and after a few moments of
vain struggling, the form of the savage was seen swinging in the wind, while he
still grasped a ragged and naked branch of the tree with hands clenched in
desperation.
“Give him, in pity, give him the contents of another rifle,” cried
Duncan, turning away his eyes in horror from the spectacle of a fellow creature
in such awful jeopardy.
“Not a karnel!” exclaimed the obdurate Hawkeye; “his death is
certain, and we have no powder to spare, for Indian fights sometimes last for
days; ’tis their scalps or ours! and God, who made us, has put into our
natures the craving to keep the skin on the head.”
Against this stern and unyielding morality, supported as it was by such visible
policy, there was no appeal. From that moment the yells in the forest once more
ceased, the fire was suffered to decline, and all eyes, those of friends as
well as enemies, became fixed on the hopeless condition of the wretch who was
dangling between heaven and earth. The body yielded to the currents of air, and
though no murmur or groan escaped the victim, there were instants when he
grimly faced his foes, and the anguish of cold despair might be traced, through
the intervening distance, in possession of his swarthy lineaments. Three
several times the scout raised his piece in mercy, and as often, prudence
getting the better of his intention, it was again silently lowered. At length
one hand of the Huron lost its hold, and dropped exhausted to his side. A
desperate and fruitless struggle to recover the branch succeeded, and then the
savage was seen for a fleeting instant, grasping wildly at the empty air. The
lightning is not quicker than was the flame from the rifle of Hawkeye; the
limbs of the victim trembled and contracted, the head fell to the bosom, and
the body parted the foaming waters like lead, when the element closed above it,
in its ceaseless velocity, and every vestige of the unhappy Huron was lost
forever.
No shout of triumph succeeded this important advantage, but even the Mohicans
gazed at each other in silent horror. A single yell burst from the woods, and
all was again still. Hawkeye, who alone appeared to reason on the occasion,
shook his head at his own momentary weakness, even uttering his
self-disapprobation aloud.
“’Twas the last charge in my horn and the last bullet in my pouch,
and ’twas the act of a boy!” he said; “what mattered it
whether he struck the rock living or dead! feeling would soon be over. Uncas,
lad, go down to the canoe, and bring up the big horn; it is all the powder we
have left, and we shall need it to the last grain, or I am ignorant of the
Mingo nature.”
The young Mohican complied, leaving the scout turning over the useless contents
of his pouch, and shaking the empty horn with renewed discontent. From this
unsatisfactory examination, however, he was soon called by a loud and piercing
exclamation from Uncas, that sounded, even to the unpracticed ears of Duncan,
as the signal of some new and unexpected calamity. Every thought filled with
apprehension for the previous treasure he had concealed in the cavern, the
young man started to his feet, totally regardless of the hazard he incurred by
such an exposure. As if actuated by a common impulse, his movement was imitated
by his companions, and, together they rushed down the pass to the friendly
chasm, with a rapidity that rendered the scattering fire of their enemies
perfectly harmless. The unwonted cry had brought the sisters, together with the
wounded David, from their place of refuge; and the whole party, at a single
glance, was made acquainted with the nature of the disaster that had disturbed
even the practiced stoicism of their youthful Indian protector.
At a short distance from the rock, their little bark was to be seen floating
across the eddy, toward the swift current of the river, in a manner which
proved that its course was directed by some hidden agent. The instant this
unwelcome sight caught the eye of the scout, his rifle was leveled as by
instinct, but the barrel gave no answer to the bright sparks of the flint.
“’Tis too late, ’tis too late!” Hawkeye exclaimed,
dropping the useless piece in bitter disappointment; “the miscreant has
struck the rapid; and had we powder, it could hardly send the lead swifter than
he now goes!”
The adventurous Huron raised his head above the shelter of the canoe, and,
while it glided swiftly down the stream, he waved his hand, and gave forth the
shout, which was the known signal of success. His cry was answered by a yell
and a laugh from the woods, as tauntingly exulting as if fifty demons were
uttering their blasphemies at the fall of some Christian soul.
“Well may you laugh, ye children of the devil!” said the scout,
seating himself on a projection of the rock, and suffering his gun to fall
neglected at his feet, “for the three quickest and truest rifles in these
woods are no better than so many stalks of mullein, or the last year’s
horns of a buck!”
“What is to be done?” demanded Duncan, losing the first feeling of
disappointment in a more manly desire for exertion; “what will become of
us?”
Hawkeye made no other reply than by passing his finger around the crown of his
head, in a manner so significant, that none who witnessed the action could
mistake its meaning.
“Surely, surely, our case is not so desperate!” exclaimed the
youth; “the Hurons are not here; we may make good the caverns, we may
oppose their landing.”
“With what?” coolly demanded the scout. “The arrows of Uncas,
or such tears as women shed! No, no; you are young, and rich, and have friends,
and at such an age I know it is hard to die! But,” glancing his eyes at
the Mohicans, “let us remember we are men without a cross, and let us
teach these natives of the forest that white blood can run as freely as red,
when the appointed hour is come.”
Duncan turned quickly in the direction indicated by the other’s eyes, and
read a confirmation of his worst apprehensions in the conduct of the Indians.
Chingachgook, placing himself in a dignified posture on another fragment of the
rock, had already laid aside his knife and tomahawk, and was in the act of
taking the eagle’s plume from his head, and smoothing the solitary tuft
of hair in readiness to perform its last and revolting office. His countenance
was composed, though thoughtful, while his dark, gleaming eyes were gradually
losing the fierceness of the combat in an expression better suited to the
change he expected momentarily to undergo.
“Our case is not, cannot be so hopeless!” said Duncan; “even
at this very moment succor may be at hand. I see no enemies! They have sickened
of a struggle in which they risk so much with so little prospect of
gain!”
“It may be a minute, or it may be an hour, afore the wily sarpents steal
upon us, and it is quite in natur’ for them to be lying within hearing at
this very moment,” said Hawkeye; “but come they will, and in such a
fashion as will leave us nothing to hope! Chingachgook”—he spoke in
Delaware—“my brother, we have fought our last battle together, and
the Maquas will triumph in the death of the sage man of the Mohicans, and of
the pale face, whose eyes can make night as day, and level the clouds to the
mists of the springs!”
“Let the Mingo women go weep over the slain!” returned the Indian,
with characteristic pride and unmoved firmness; “the Great Snake of the
Mohicans has coiled himself in their wigwams, and has poisoned their triumph
with the wailings of children, whose fathers have not returned! Eleven warriors
lie hid from the graves of their tribes since the snows have melted, and none
will tell where to find them when the tongue of Chingachgook shall be silent!
Let them draw the sharpest knife, and whirl the swiftest tomahawk, for their