The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
if willing to draw her utmost attention to his words; a movement that Cora as
firmly but quietly repulsed, by extricating the limb from his grasp:
“Magua was born a chief and a warrior among the red Hurons of the lakes;
he saw the suns of twenty summers make the snows of twenty winters run off in
the streams before he saw a pale face; and he was happy! Then his Canada
fathers came into the woods, and taught him to drink the fire-water, and he
became a rascal. The Hurons drove him from the graves of his fathers, as they
would chase the hunted buffalo. He ran down the shores of the lakes, and
followed their outlet to the ‘city of cannon.’ There he hunted and
fished, till the people chased him again through the woods into the arms of his
enemies. The chief, who was born a Huron, was at last a warrior among the
Mohawks!”
“Something like this I had heard before,” said Cora, observing that
he paused to suppress those passions which began to burn with too bright a
flame, as he recalled the recollection of his supposed injuries.
“Was it the fault of Le Renard that his head was not made of rock? Who
gave him the fire-water? who made him a villain? ’Twas the pale faces,
the people of your own color.”
“And am I answerable that thoughtless and unprincipled men exist, whose
shades of countenance may resemble mine?” Cora calmly demanded of the
excited savage.
“No; Magua is a man, and not a fool; such as you never open their lips to
the burning stream: the Great Spirit has given you wisdom!”
“What, then, have I do to, or say, in the matter of your misfortunes, not
to say of your errors?”
“Listen,” repeated the Indian, resuming his earnest attitude;
“when his English and French fathers dug up the hatchet, Le Renard struck
the war-post of the Mohawks, and went out against his own nation. The pale
faces have driven the red-skins from their hunting grounds, and now when they
fight, a white man leads the way. The old chief at Horican, your father, was
the great captain of our war-party. He said to the Mohawks do this, and do
that, and he was minded. He made a law, that if an Indian swallowed the
fire-water, and came into the cloth wigwams of his warriors, it should not be
forgotten. Magua foolishly opened his mouth, and the hot liquor led him into
the cabin of Munro. What did the gray-head? let his daughter say.”
“He forgot not his words, and did justice, by punishing the
offender,” said the undaunted daughter.
“Justice!” repeated the Indian, casting an oblique glance of the
most ferocious expression at her unyielding countenance; “is it justice
to make evil and then punish for it? Magua was not himself; it was the
fire-water that spoke and acted for him! but Munro did believe it. The Huron
chief was tied up before all the pale-faced warriors, and whipped like a
dog.”
Cora remained silent, for she knew not how to palliate this imprudent severity
on the part of her father in a manner to suit the comprehension of an Indian.
“See!” continued Magua, tearing aside the slight calico that very
imperfectly concealed his painted breast; “here are scars given by knives
and bullets—of these a warrior may boast before his nation; but the
gray-head has left marks on the back of the Huron chief that he must hide like
a squaw, under this painted cloth of the whites.”
“I had thought,” resumed Cora, “that an Indian warrior was
patient, and that his spirit felt not and knew not the pain his body
suffered.”
“When the Chippewas tied Magua to the stake, and cut this gash,”
said the other, laying his finger on a deep scar, “the Huron laughed in
their faces, and told them, Women struck so light! His spirit was then in the
clouds! But when he felt the blows of Munro, his spirit lay under the birch.
The spirit of a Huron is never drunk; it remembers forever!”
“But it may be appeased. If my father has done you this injustice, show
him how an Indian can forgive an injury, and take back his daughters. You have
heard from Major Heyward—”
Magua shook his head, forbidding the repetition of offers he so much despised.
“What would you have?” continued Cora, after a most painful pause,
while the conviction forced itself on her mind that the too sanguine and
generous Duncan had been cruelly deceived by the cunning of the savage.
“What a Huron loves—good for good; bad for bad!”
“You would, then, revenge the injury inflicted by Munro on his helpless
daughters. Would it not be more like a man to go before his face, and take the
satisfaction of a warrior?”
“The arms of the pale faces are long, and their knives sharp!”
returned the savage, with a malignant laugh: “why should Le Renard go
among the muskets of his warriors, when he holds the spirit of the gray-head in
his hand?”
“Name your intention, Magua,” said Cora, struggling with herself to
speak with steady calmness. “Is it to lead us prisoners to the woods, or
do you contemplate even some greater evil? Is there no reward, no means of
palliating the injury, and of softening your heart? At least, release my gentle
sister, and pour out all your malice on me. Purchase wealth by her safety and
satisfy your revenge with a single victim. The loss of both his daughters might
bring the aged man to his grave, and where would then be the satisfaction of Le
Renard?”
“Listen,” said the Indian again. “The light eyes can go back
to the Horican, and tell the old chief what has been done, if the dark-haired
woman will swear by the Great Spirit of her fathers to tell no lie.”
“What must I promise?” demanded Cora, still maintaining a secret
ascendancy over the fierce native by the collected and feminine dignity of her
presence.
“When Magua left his people his wife was given to another chief; he has
now made friends with the Hurons, and will go back to the graves of his tribe,
on the shores of the great lake. Let the daughter of the English chief follow,
and live in his wigwam forever.”
However revolting a proposal of such a character might prove to Cora, she
retained, notwithstanding her powerful disgust, sufficient self-command to
reply, without betraying the weakness.
“And what pleasure would Magua find in sharing his cabin with a wife he
did not love; one who would be of a nation and color different from his own? It
would be better to take the gold of Munro, and buy the heart of some Huron maid
with his gifts.”
The Indian made no reply for near a minute, but bent his fierce looks on the
countenance of Cora, in such wavering glances, that her eyes sank with shame,
under an impression that for the first time they had encountered an expression
that no chaste female might endure. While she was shrinking within herself, in
dread of having her ears wounded by some proposal still more shocking than the
last, the voice of Magua answered, in its tones of deepest malignancy:
“When the blows scorched the back of the Huron, he would know where to
find a woman to feel the smart. The daughter of Munro would draw his water, hoe
his corn, and cook his venison. The body of the gray-head would sleep among his
cannon, but his heart would lie within reach of the knife of Le Subtil.”
“Monster! well dost thou deserve thy treacherous name,” cried Cora,
in an ungovernable burst of filial indignation. “None but a fiend could
meditate such a vengeance. But thou overratest thy power! You shall find it is,
in truth, the heart of Munro you hold, and that it will defy your utmost
malice!”
The Indian answered this bold defiance by a ghastly smile, that showed an
unaltered purpose, while he motioned her away, as if to close the conference
forever. Cora, already regretting her precipitation, was obliged to comply, for
Magua instantly left the spot, and approached his gluttonous comrades. Heyward
flew to the side of the agitated female, and demanded the result of a dialogue
that he had watched at a distance with so much interest. But, unwilling to
alarm the fears of Alice, she evaded a direct reply, betraying only by her
anxious looks fastened on the slightest movements of her captors. To the
reiterated and earnest questions of her sister concerning their probable
destination, she made no other answer than by pointing toward the dark group,
with an agitation she could not control, and murmuring as she folded Alice to
her bosom.
“There, there; read our fortunes in their faces; we shall see; we shall
see!”
The action, and the choked utterance of Cora, spoke more impressively than any
words, and quickly drew the attention of her companions on that spot where her
own was riveted with an intenseness that nothing but the importance of the
stake could create.
When Magua reached the cluster of lolling savages, who, gorged with their
disgusting meal, lay stretched on the earth in brutal indulgence, he commenced
speaking with the dignity of an Indian chief. The first syllables he uttered
had the effect to cause his listeners to raise themselves in attitudes of
respectful attention. As the Huron used his native language, the prisoners,
notwithstanding the caution of the natives had kept them within the swing of
their tomahawks, could only conjecture the substance of his harangue from the
nature of those significant gestures with which an Indian always illustrates
his eloquence.
At first, the language, as well as the action of Magua, appeared calm and
deliberative. When he had succeeded in sufficiently awakening the attention of
his comrades, Heyward fancied, by his pointing so frequently toward the
direction of the great lakes, that he spoke of the land of their fathers, and
of their distant tribe. Frequent indications of applause escaped the listeners,
who, as they uttered the expressive “Hugh!” looked at each other in
commendation of the speaker. Le Renard was too skillful to neglect his
advantage. He now spoke of the long and painful route by which they had left
those spacious grounds and happy villages, to come and battle against the
enemies of their Canadian fathers. He enumerated the warriors of the party;
their several merits; their frequent services to the nation; their wounds, and
the number of the scalps they had taken. Whenever he alluded to any present
(and the subtle Indian neglected none), the dark countenance of the flattered
individual gleamed with exultation, nor did he even hesitate to assert the
truth of the words, by gestures of applause and confirmation. Then the voice of
the speaker fell, and lost the loud, animated tones of triumph with which he
had enumerated their deeds of success and victory. He described the cataract of
Glenn’s; the impregnable position of its rocky island, with its caverns
and its numerous rapids and whirlpools; he named the name of “La Longue
Carabine,” and paused until the forest beneath them had sent up the last
echo of a loud and long yell, with which the hated appellation was received. He
pointed toward the youthful military captive, and described the death of a
favorite warrior, who had been precipitated into the deep ravine by his hand.
He not only mentioned the fate of him who, hanging between heaven and earth,
had presented such a spectacle of horror to the whole band, but he acted anew
the terrors of his situation, his resolution and his death, on the branches of
a sapling; and, finally, he rapidly recounted the manner in which each of their
friends had fallen, never failing to touch upon their courage, and their most
acknowledged virtues. When this recital of events was ended, his voice once
more changed, and became plaintive and even musical, in its low guttural
sounds. He now spoke of the wives and children of the slain; their destitution;
their misery, both physical and moral; their distance; and, at last, of their
unavenged wrongs. Then suddenly lifting his voice to a pitch of terrific
energy, he concluded by demanding: