The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
deigned to use the English tongue, unless urged by some motive of more than
usual moment.
There was no longer any plausible pretext for delay; and Duncan was obliged,
however reluctantly, to comply. As he performed this office, he whispered his
reviving hopes in the ears of the trembling females, who, through dread of
encountering the savage countenances of their captors, seldom raised their eyes
from the ground. The mare of David had been taken with the followers of the
large chief; in consequence, its owner, as well as Duncan, was compelled to
journey on foot. The latter did not, however, so much regret this circumstance,
as it might enable him to retard the speed of the party; for he still turned
his longing looks in the direction of Fort Edward, in the vain expectation of
catching some sound from that quarter of the forest, which might denote the
approach of succor. When all were prepared, Magua made the signal to proceed,
advancing in front to lead the party in person. Next followed David, who was
gradually coming to a true sense of his condition, as the effects of the wound
became less and less apparent. The sisters rode in his rear, with Heyward at
their side, while the Indians flanked the party, and brought up the close of
the march, with a caution that seemed never to tire.
In this manner they proceeded in uninterrupted silence, except when Heyward
addressed some solitary word of comfort to the females, or David gave vent to
the moanings of his spirit, in piteous exclamations, which he intended should
express the humility of resignation. Their direction lay toward the south, and
in a course nearly opposite to the road to William Henry. Notwithstanding this
apparent adherence in Magua to the original determination of his conquerors,
Heyward could not believe his tempting bait was so soon forgotten; and he knew
the windings of an Indian’s path too well to suppose that its apparent
course led directly to its object, when artifice was at all necessary. Mile
after mile was, however, passed through the boundless woods, in this painful
manner, without any prospect of a termination to their journey. Heyward watched
the sun, as he darted his meridian rays through the branches of the trees, and
pined for the moment when the policy of Magua should change their route to one
more favorable to his hopes. Sometimes he fancied the wary savage, despairing
of passing the army of Montcalm in safety, was holding his way toward a
well-known border settlement, where a distinguished officer of the crown, and a
favored friend of the Six Nations, held his large possessions, as well as his
usual residence. To be delivered into the hands of Sir William Johnson was far
preferable to being led into the wilds of Canada; but in order to effect even
the former, it would be necessary to traverse the forest for many weary
leagues, each step of which was carrying him further from the scene of the war,
and, consequently, from the post, not only of honor, but of duty.
Cora alone remembered the parting injunctions of the scout, and whenever an
opportunity offered, she stretched forth her arm to bend aside the twigs that
met her hands. But the vigilance of the Indians rendered this act of precaution
both difficult and dangerous. She was often defeated in her purpose, by
encountering their watchful eyes, when it became necessary to feign an alarm
she did not feel, and occupy the limb by some gesture of feminine apprehension.
Once, and once only, was she completely successful; when she broke down the
bough of a large sumach, and by a sudden thought, let her glove fall at the
same instant. This sign, intended for those that might follow, was observed by
one of her conductors, who restored the glove, broke the remaining branches of
the bush in such a manner that it appeared to proceed from the struggling of
some beast in its branches, and then laid his hand on his tomahawk, with a look
so significant, that it put an effectual end to these stolen memorials of their
passage.
As there were horses, to leave the prints of their footsteps, in both bands of
the Indians, this interruption cut off any probable hopes of assistance being
conveyed through the means of their trail.
Heyward would have ventured a remonstrance had there been anything encouraging
in the gloomy reserve of Magua. But the savage, during all this time, seldom
turned to look at his followers, and never spoke. With the sun for his only
guide, or aided by such blind marks as are only known to the sagacity of a
native, he held his way along the barrens of pine, through occasional little
fertile vales, across brooks and rivulets, and over undulating hills, with the
accuracy of instinct, and nearly with the directness of a bird. He never seemed
to hesitate. Whether the path was hardly distinguishable, whether it
disappeared, or whether it lay beaten and plain before him, made no sensible
difference in his speed or certainty. It seemed as if fatigue could not affect
him. Whenever the eyes of the wearied travelers rose from the decayed leaves
over which they trod, his dark form was to be seen glancing among the stems of
the trees in front, his head immovably fastened in a forward position, with the
light plume on his crest fluttering in a current of air, made solely by the
swiftness of his own motion.
But all this diligence and speed were not without an object. After crossing a
low vale, through which a gushing brook meandered, he suddenly ascended a hill,
so steep and difficult of ascent, that the sisters were compelled to alight in
order to follow. When the summit was gained, they found themselves on a level
spot, but thinly covered with trees, under one of which Magua had thrown his
dark form, as if willing and ready to seek that rest which was so much needed
by the whole party.
CHAPTER XI.
“Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him.”
—Shylock
The Indian had selected for this desirable purpose one of those steep,
pyramidal hills, which bear a strong resemblance to artificial mounds, and
which so frequently occur in the valleys of America. The one in question was
high and precipitous; its top flattened, as usual; but with one of its sides
more than ordinarily irregular. It possessed no other apparent advantage for a
resting place, than in its elevation and form, which might render defense easy,
and surprise nearly impossible. As Heyward, however, no longer expected that
rescue which time and distance now rendered so improbable, he regarded these
little peculiarities with an eye devoid of interest, devoting himself entirely
to the comfort and condolence of his feebler companions. The Narragansetts were
suffered to browse on the branches of the trees and shrubs that were thinly
scattered over the summit of the hill, while the remains of their provisions
were spread under the shade of a beech, that stretched its horizontal limbs
like a canopy above them.
Notwithstanding the swiftness of their flight, one of the Indians had found an
opportunity to strike a straggling fawn with an arrow, and had borne the more
preferable fragments of the victim, patiently on his shoulders, to the stopping
place. Without any aid from the science of cookery, he was immediately
employed, in common with his fellows, in gorging himself with this digestible
sustenance. Magua alone sat apart, without participating in the revolting meal,
and apparently buried in the deepest thought.
This abstinence, so remarkable in an Indian, when he possessed the means of
satisfying hunger, at length attracted the notice of Heyward. The young man
willingly believed that the Huron deliberated on the most eligible manner of
eluding the vigilance of his associates. With a view to assist his plans by any
suggestion of his own, and to strengthen the temptation, he left the beech, and
straggled, as if without an object, to the spot where Le Renard was seated.
“Has not Magua kept the sun in his face long enough to escape all danger
from the Canadians?” he asked, as though no longer doubtful of the good
intelligence established between them; “and will not the chief of William
Henry be better pleased to see his daughters before another night may have
hardened his heart to their loss, to make him less liberal in his
reward?”
“Do the pale faces love their children less in the morning than at
night?” asked the Indian, coldly.
“By no means,” returned Heyward, anxious to recall his error, if he
had made one; “the white man may, and does often, forget the burial place
of his fathers; he sometimes ceases to remember those he should love, and has
promised to cherish; but the affection of a parent for his child is never
permitted to die.”
“And is the heart of the white-headed chief soft, and will he think of
the babes that his squaws have given him? He is hard on his warriors and his
eyes are made of stone!”
“He is severe to the idle and wicked, but to the sober and deserving he
is a leader, both just and humane. I have known many fond and tender parents,
but never have I seen a man whose heart was softer toward his child. You have
seen the gray-head in front of his warriors, Magua; but I have seen his eyes
swimming in water, when he spoke of those children who are now in your
power!”
Heyward paused, for he knew not how to construe the remarkable expression that
gleamed across the swarthy features of the attentive Indian. At first it seemed
as if the remembrance of the promised reward grew vivid in his mind, while he
listened to the sources of parental feeling which were to assure its
possession; but, as Duncan proceeded, the expression of joy became so fiercely
malignant that it was impossible not to apprehend it proceeded from some
passion more sinister than avarice.
“Go,” said the Huron, suppressing the alarming exhibition in an
instant, in a death-like calmness of countenance; “go to the dark-haired
daughter, and say, ‘Magua waits to speak.’ The father will remember
what the child promises.”
Duncan, who interpreted this speech to express a wish for some additional
pledge that the promised gifts should not be withheld, slowly and reluctantly
repaired to the place where the sisters were now resting from their fatigue, to
communicate its purport to Cora.
“You understand the nature of an Indian’s wishes,” he
concluded, as he led her toward the place where she was expected, “and
must be prodigal of your offers of powder and blankets. Ardent spirits are,
however, the most prized by such as he; nor would it be amiss to add some boon
from your own hand, with that grace you so well know how to practise. Remember,
Cora, that on your presence of mind and ingenuity, even your life, as well as
that of Alice, may in some measure depend.”
“Heyward, and yours!”
“Mine is of little moment; it is already sold to my king, and is a prize
to be seized by any enemy who may possess the power. I have no father to expect
me, and but few friends to lament a fate which I have courted with the
insatiable longings of youth after distinction. But hush! we approach the
Indian. Magua, the lady with whom you wish to speak, is here.”
The Indian rose slowly from his seat, and stood for near a minute silent and
motionless. He then signed with his hand for Heyward to retire, saying, coldly:
“When the Huron talks to the women, his tribe shut their ears.”
Duncan, still lingering, as if refusing to comply, Cora said, with a calm
smile:
“You hear, Heyward, and delicacy at least should urge you to retire. Go
to Alice, and comfort her with our reviving prospects.”
She waited until he had departed, and then turning to the native, with the
dignity of her sex in her voice and manner, she added: “What would Le
Renard say to the daughter of Munro?”
“Listen,” said the Indian, laying his hand firmly upon her arm, as