The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
the neighboring entrenched camp, “has been keenly disputed; and he who
holds it is sure to be possessed of this fort, and that which it contains. My
days and nights have all been passed there since we separated, because I
thought that duty called me thither. But,” he added, with an air of
chagrin, which he endeavored, though unsuccessfully, to conceal, “had I
been aware that what I then believed a soldier’s conduct could be so
construed, shame would have been added to the list of reasons.”
“Heyward! Duncan!” exclaimed Alice, bending forward to read his
half-averted countenance, until a lock of her golden hair rested on her flushed
cheek, and nearly concealed the tear that had started to her eye; “did I
think this idle tongue of mine had pained you, I would silence it forever. Cora
can say, if Cora would, how justly we have prized your services, and how
deep—I had almost said, how fervent—is our gratitude.”
“And will Cora attest the truth of this?” cried Duncan, suffering
the cloud to be chased from his countenance by a smile of open pleasure.
“What says our graver sister? Will she find an excuse for the neglect of
the knight in the duty of a soldier?”
Cora made no immediate answer, but turned her face toward the water, as if
looking on the sheet of the Horican. When she did bend her dark eyes on the
young man, they were yet filled with an expression of anguish that at once
drove every thought but that of kind solicitude from his mind.
“You are not well, dearest Miss Munro!” he exclaimed; “we
have trifled while you are in suffering!”
“’Tis nothing,” she answered, refusing his support with
feminine reserve. “That I cannot see the sunny side of the picture of
life, like this artless but ardent enthusiast,” she added, laying her
hand lightly, but affectionately, on the arm of her sister, “is the
penalty of experience, and, perhaps, the misfortune of my nature. See,”
she continued, as if determined to shake off infirmity, in a sense of duty;
“look around you, Major Heyward, and tell me what a prospect is this for
the daughter of a soldier whose greatest happiness is his honor and his
military renown.”
“Neither ought nor shall be tarnished by circumstances over which he has
had no control,” Duncan warmly replied. “But your words recall me
to my own duty. I go now to your gallant father, to hear his determination in
matters of the last moment to the defense. God bless you in every fortune,
noble—Cora—I may and must call you.” She frankly gave him her
hand, though her lip quivered, and her cheeks gradually became of ashly
paleness. “In every fortune, I know you will be an ornament and honor to
your sex. Alice, adieu”—his voice changed from admiration to
tenderness—“adieu, Alice; we shall soon meet again; as conquerors,
I trust, and amid rejoicings!”
Without waiting for an answer from either, the young man threw himself down the
grassy steps of the bastion, and moving rapidly across the parade, he was
quickly in the presence of their father. Munro was pacing his narrow apartment
with a disturbed air and gigantic strides as Duncan entered.
“You have anticipated my wishes, Major Heyward,” he said; “I
was about to request this favor.”
“I am sorry to see, sir, that the messenger I so warmly recommended has
returned in custody of the French! I hope there is no reason to distrust his
fidelity?”
“The fidelity of ‘The Long Rifle’ is well known to me,”
returned Munro, “and is above suspicion; though his usual good fortune
seems, at last, to have failed. Montcalm has got him, and with the accursed
politeness of his nation, he has sent him in with a doleful tale, of
‘knowing how I valued the fellow, he could not think of retaining
him.’ A Jesuitical way that, Major Duncan Heyward, of telling a man of
his misfortunes!”
“But the general and his succor?”
“Did ye look to the south as ye entered, and could ye not see
them?” said the old soldier, laughing bitterly. “Hoot! hoot!
you’re an impatient boy, sir, and cannot give the gentlemen leisure for
their march!”
“They are coming, then? The scout has said as much?”
“When? and by what path? for the dunce has omitted to tell me this. There
is a letter, it would seem, too; and that is the only agreeable part of the
matter. For the customary attentions of your Marquis of Montcalm—I
warrant me, Duncan, that he of Lothian would buy a dozen such
marquisates—but if the news of the letter were bad, the gentility of this
French monsieur would certainly compel him to let us know it.”
“He keeps the letter, then, while he releases the messenger?”
“Ay, that does he, and all for the sake of what you call your
‘bonhommie.’ I would venture, if the truth was known, the
fellow’s grandfather taught the noble science of dancing.”
“But what says the scout? he has eyes and ears, and a tongue. What verbal
report does he make?”
“Oh! sir, he is not wanting in natural organs, and he is free to tell all
that he has seen and heard. The whole amount is this; there is a fort of his
majesty’s on the banks of the Hudson, called Edward, in honor of his
gracious highness of York, you’ll know; and it is well filled with armed
men, as such a work should be.”
“But was there no movement, no signs of any intention to advance to our
relief?”
“There were the morning and evening parades; and when one of the
provincial loons—you’ll know, Duncan, you’re half a Scotsman
yourself—when one of them dropped his powder over his porretch, if it
touched the coals, it just burned!” Then, suddenly changing his bitter,
ironical manner, to one more grave and thoughtful, he continued: “and yet
there might, and must be, something in that letter which it would be well to
know!”
“Our decision should be speedy,” said Duncan, gladly availing
himself of this change of humor, to press the more important objects of their
interview; “I cannot conceal from you, sir, that the camp will not be
much longer tenable; and I am sorry to add, that things appear no better in the
fort; more than half the guns are bursted.”
“And how should it be otherwise? Some were fished from the bottom of the
lake; some have been rusting in woods since the discovery of the country; and
some were never guns at all—mere privateersmen’s playthings! Do you
think, sir, you can have Woolwich Warren in the midst of a wilderness, three
thousand miles from Great Britain?”
“The walls are crumbling about our ears, and provisions begin to fail
us,” continued Heyward, without regarding the new burst of indignation;
“even the men show signs of discontent and alarm.”
“Major Heyward,” said Munro, turning to his youthful associate with
the dignity of his years and superior rank; “I should have served his
majesty for half a century, and earned these gray hairs in vain, were I
ignorant of all you say, and of the pressing nature of our circumstances;
still, there is everything due to the honor of the king’s arms, and
something to ourselves. While there is hope of succor, this fortress will I
defend, though it be to be done with pebbles gathered on the lake shore. It is
a sight of the letter, therefore, that we want, that we may know the intentions
of the man the earl of Loudon has left among us as his substitute.”
“And can I be of service in the matter?”
“Sir, you can; the marquis of Montcalm has, in addition to his other
civilities, invited me to a personal interview between the works and his own
camp; in order, as he says, to impart some additional information. Now, I think
it would not be wise to show any undue solicitude to meet him, and I would
employ you, an officer of rank, as my substitute; for it would but ill comport
with the honor of Scotland to let it be said one of her gentlemen was outdone
in civility by a native of any other country on earth.”
Without assuming the supererogatory task of entering into a discussion of the
comparative merits of national courtesy, Duncan cheerfully assented to supply
the place of the veteran in the approaching interview. A long and confidential
communication now succeeded, during which the young man received some
additional insight into his duty, from the experience and native acuteness of
his commander, and then the former took his leave.
As Duncan could only act as the representative of the commandant of the fort,
the ceremonies which should have accompanied a meeting between the heads of the
adverse forces were, of course, dispensed with. The truce still existed, and
with a roll and beat of the drum, and covered by a little white flag, Duncan
left the sally-port, within ten minutes after his instructions were ended. He
was received by the French officer in advance with the usual formalities, and
immediately accompanied to a distant marquee of the renowned soldier who led
the forces of France.
The general of the enemy received the youthful messenger, surrounded by his
principal officers, and by a swarthy band of the native chiefs, who had
followed him to the field, with the warriors of their several tribes. Heyward
paused short, when, in glancing his eyes rapidly over the dark group of the
latter, he beheld the malignant countenance of Magua, regarding him with the
calm but sullen attention which marked the expression of that subtle savage. A
slight exclamation of surprise even burst from the lips of the young man, but
instantly, recollecting his errand, and the presence in which he stood, he
suppressed every appearance of emotion, and turned to the hostile leader, who
had already advanced a step to receive him.
The marquis of Montcalm was, at the period of which we write, in the flower of
his age, and, it may be added, in the zenith of his fortunes. But even in that
enviable situation, he was affable, and distinguished as much for his attention
to the forms of courtesy, as for that chivalrous courage which, only two short
years afterward, induced him to throw away his life on the plains of Abraham.
Duncan, in turning his eyes from the malign expression of Magua, suffered them
to rest with pleasure on the smiling and polished features, and the noble
military air, of the French general.
“Monsieur,” said the latter, “j’ai beaucoup de plaisir
à—bah!—où est cet interpréte?”
“Je crois, monsieur, qu’il ne sear pas nécessaire,” Heyward
modestly replied; “je parle un peu Français.”
“Ah! j’en suis bien aise,” said Montcalm, taking Duncan
familiarly by the arm, and leading him deep into the marquee, a little out of
earshot; “je déteste ces fripons-là; on ne sait jamais sur quel piè on
est avec eux. Eh, bien! monsieur,” he continued still speaking in French;
“though I should have been proud of receiving your commandant, I am very
happy that he has seen proper to employ an officer so distinguished, and who, I
am sure, is so amiable, as yourself.”
Duncan bowed low, pleased with the compliment, in spite of a most heroic
determination to suffer no artifice to allure him into forgetfulness of the
interest of his prince; and Montcalm, after a pause of a moment, as if to
collect his thoughts, proceeded:
“Your commandant is a brave man, and well qualified to repel my assault.
Mais, monsieur, is it not time to begin to take more counsel of humanity, and
less of your courage? The one as strongly characterizes the hero as the
other.”
“We consider the qualities as inseparable,” returned Duncan,
smiling; “but while we find in the vigor of your excellency every motive
to stimulate the one, we can, as yet, see no particular call for the exercise
of the other.”
Montcalm, in his turn, slightly bowed, but it was with the air of a man too
practised to remember the language of flattery. After musing a moment, he
added:
“It is possible my glasses have deceived me, and that your works resist
our cannon better than I had supposed. You know our force?”