The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
“Would not our resting-place have been more retired, my worthy
friend,” demanded the more vigilant Duncan, perceiving that the scout had
already finished his short survey, “had we chosen a spot less known, and
one more rarely visited than this?”
“Few live who know the blockhouse was ever raised,” was the slow
and musing answer; “’tis not often that books are made, and
narratives written of such a scrimmage as was here fou’t atween the
Mohicans and the Mohawks, in a war of their own waging. I was then a younker,
and went out with the Delawares, because I know’d they were a scandalized
and wronged race. Forty days and forty nights did the imps crave our blood
around this pile of logs, which I designed and partly reared, being, as
you’ll remember, no Indian myself, but a man without a cross. The
Delawares lent themselves to the work, and we made it good, ten to twenty,
until our numbers were nearly equal, and then we sallied out upon the hounds,
and not a man of them ever got back to tell the fate of his party. Yes, yes; I
was then young, and new to the sight of blood; and not relishing the thought
that creatures who had spirits like myself should lay on the naked ground, to
be torn asunder by beasts, or to bleach in the rains, I buried the dead with my
own hands, under that very little hillock where you have placed yourselves; and
no bad seat does it make neither, though it be raised by the bones of mortal
men.”
Heyward and the sisters arose, on the instant, from the grassy sepulcher; nor
could the two latter, notwithstanding the terrific scenes they had so recently
passed through, entirely suppress an emotion of natural horror, when they found
themselves in such familiar contact with the grave of the dead Mohawks. The
gray light, the gloomy little area of dark grass, surrounded by its border of
brush, beyond which the pines rose, in breathing silence, apparently into the
very clouds, and the deathlike stillness of the vast forest, were all in unison
to deepen such a sensation. “They are gone, and they are harmless,”
continued Hawkeye, waving his hand, with a melancholy smile at their manifest
alarm; “they’ll never shout the war-whoop nor strike a blow with
the tomahawk again! And of all those who aided in placing them where they lie,
Chingachgook and I only are living! The brothers and family of the Mohican
formed our war party; and you see before you all that are now left of his
race.”
The eyes of the listeners involuntarily sought the forms of the Indians, with a
compassionate interest in their desolate fortune. Their dark persons were still
to be seen within the shadows of the blockhouse, the son listening to the
relation of his father with that sort of intenseness which would be created by
a narrative that redounded so much to the honor of those whose names he had
long revered for their courage and savage virtues.
“I had thought the Delawares a pacific people,” said Duncan,
“and that they never waged war in person; trusting the defense of their
hands to those very Mohawks that you slew!”
“’Tis true in part,” returned the scout, “and yet, at
the bottom, ’tis a wicked lie. Such a treaty was made in ages gone by,
through the deviltries of the Dutchers, who wished to disarm the natives that
had the best right to the country, where they had settled themselves. The
Mohicans, though a part of the same nation, having to deal with the English,
never entered into the silly bargain, but kept to their manhood; as in truth
did the Delawares, when their eyes were open to their folly. You see before you
a chief of the great Mohican Sagamores! Once his family could chase their deer
over tracts of country wider than that which belongs to the Albany Patteroon,
without crossing brook or hill that was not their own; but what is left of
their descendant? He may find his six feet of earth when God chooses, and keep
it in peace, perhaps, if he has a friend who will take the pains to sink his
head so low that the plowshares cannot reach it!”
“Enough!” said Heyward, apprehensive that the subject might lead to
a discussion that would interrupt the harmony so necessary to the preservation
of his fair companions; “we have journeyed far, and few among us are
blessed with forms like that of yours, which seems to know neither fatigue nor
weakness.”
“The sinews and bones of a man carry me through it all,” said the
hunter, surveying his muscular limbs with a simplicity that betrayed the honest
pleasure the compliment afforded him; “there are larger and heavier men
to be found in the settlements, but you might travel many days in a city before
you could meet one able to walk fifty miles without stopping to take breath, or
who has kept the hounds within hearing during a chase of hours. However, as
flesh and blood are not always the same, it is quite reasonable to suppose that
the gentle ones are willing to rest, after all they have seen and done this
day. Uncas, clear out the spring, while your father and I make a cover for
their tender heads of these chestnut shoots, and a bed of grass and
leaves.”
The dialogue ceased, while the hunter and his companions busied themselves in
preparations for the comfort and protection of those they guided. A spring,
which many long years before had induced the natives to select the place for
their temporary fortification, was soon cleared of leaves, and a fountain of
crystal gushed from the bed, diffusing its waters over the verdant hillock. A
corner of the building was then roofed in such a manner as to exclude the heavy
dew of the climate, and piles of sweet shrubs and dried leaves were laid
beneath it for the sisters to repose on.
While the diligent woodsmen were employed in this manner, Cora and Alice
partook of that refreshment which duty required much more than inclination
prompted them to accept. They then retired within the walls, and first offering
up their thanksgivings for past mercies, and petitioning for a continuance of
the Divine favor throughout the coming night, they laid their tender forms on
the fragrant couch, and in spite of recollections and forebodings, soon sank
into those slumbers which nature so imperiously demanded, and which were
sweetened by hopes for the morrow. Duncan had prepared himself to pass the
night in watchfulness near them, just without the ruin, but the scout,
perceiving his intention, pointed toward Chingachgook, as he coolly disposed
his own person on the grass, and said:
“The eyes of a white man are too heavy and too blind for such a watch as
this! The Mohican will be our sentinel, therefore let us sleep.”
“I proved myself a sluggard on my post during the past night,” said
Heyward, “and have less need of repose than you, who did more credit to
the character of a soldier. Let all the party seek their rest, then, while I
hold the guard.”
“If we lay among the white tents of the Sixtieth, and in front of an
enemy like the French, I could not ask for a better watchman,” returned
the scout; “but in the darkness and among the signs of the wilderness
your judgment would be like the folly of a child, and your vigilance thrown
away. Do then, like Uncas and myself, sleep, and sleep in safety.”
Heyward perceived, in truth, that the younger Indian had thrown his form on the
side of the hillock while they were talking, like one who sought to make the
most of the time allotted to rest, and that his example had been followed by
David, whose voice literally “clove to his jaws,” with the fever of
his wound, heightened, as it was, by their toilsome march. Unwilling to prolong
a useless discussion, the young man affected to comply, by posting his back
against the logs of the blockhouse, in a half recumbent posture, though
resolutely determined, in his own mind, not to close an eye until he had
delivered his precious charge into the arms of Munro himself. Hawkeye,
believing he had prevailed, soon fell asleep, and a silence as deep as the
solitude in which they had found it, pervaded the retired spot.
For many minutes Duncan succeeded in keeping his senses on the alert, and alive
to every moaning sound that arose from the forest. His vision became more acute
as the shades of evening settled on the place; and even after the stars were
glimmering above his head, he was able to distinguish the recumbent forms of
his companions, as they lay stretched on the grass, and to note the person of
Chingachgook, who sat upright and motionless as one of the trees which formed
the dark barrier on every side. He still heard the gentle breathings of the
sisters, who lay within a few feet of him, and not a leaf was ruffled by the
passing air of which his ear did not detect the whispering sound. At length,
however, the mournful notes of a whip-poor-will became blended with the
moanings of an owl; his heavy eyes occasionally sought the bright rays of the
stars, and he then fancied he saw them through the fallen lids. At instants of
momentary wakefulness he mistook a bush for his associate sentinel; his head
next sank upon his shoulder, which, in its turn, sought the support of the
ground; and, finally, his whole person became relaxed and pliant, and the young
man sank into a deep sleep, dreaming that he was a knight of ancient chivalry,
holding his midnight vigils before the tent of a recaptured princess, whose
favor he did not despair of gaining, by such a proof of devotion and
watchfulness.
How long the tired Duncan lay in this insensible state he never knew himself,
but his slumbering visions had been long lost in total forgetfulness, when he
was awakened by a light tap on the shoulder. Aroused by this signal, slight as
it was, he sprang upon his feet with a confused recollection of the
self-imposed duty he had assumed with the commencement of the night.
“Who comes?” he demanded, feeling for his sword, at the place where
it was usually suspended. “Speak! friend or enemy?”
“Friend,” replied the low voice of Chingachgook; who, pointing
upward at the luminary which was shedding its mild light through the opening in
the trees, directly in their bivouac, immediately added, in his rude English:
“Moon comes and white man’s fort far—far off; time to move,
when sleep shuts both eyes of the Frenchman!”
“You say true! Call up your friends, and bridle the horses while I
prepare my own companions for the march!”
“We are awake, Duncan,” said the soft, silvery tones of Alice
within the building, “and ready to travel very fast after so refreshing a
sleep; but you have watched through the tedious night in our behalf, after
having endured so much fatigue the livelong day!”
“Say, rather, I would have watched, but my treacherous eyes betrayed me;
twice have I proved myself unfit for the trust I bear.”
“Nay, Duncan, deny it not,” interrupted the smiling Alice, issuing
from the shadows of the building into the light of the moon, in all the
loveliness of her freshened beauty; “I know you to be a heedless one,
when self is the object of your care, and but too vigilant in favor of others.
Can we not tarry here a little longer while you find the rest you need?
Cheerfully, most cheerfully, will Cora and I keep the vigils, while you and all
these brave men endeavor to snatch a little sleep!”
“If shame could cure me of my drowsiness, I should never close an eye
again,” said the uneasy youth, gazing at the ingenuous countenance of
Alice, where, however, in its sweet solicitude, he read nothing to confirm his
half-awakened suspicion. “It is but too true, that after leading you into
danger by my heedlessness, I have not even the merit of guarding your pillows
as should become a soldier.”
“No one but Duncan himself should accuse Duncan of such a weakness. Go,
then, and sleep; believe me, neither of us, weak girls as we are, will betray
our watch.”