The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
“Our accounts vary,” said Duncan, carelessly; “the highest,
however, has not exceeded twenty thousand men.”
The Frenchman bit his lip, and fastened his eyes keenly on the other as if to
read his thoughts; then, with a readiness peculiar to himself, he continued, as
if assenting to the truth of an enumeration which quite doubled his army:
“It is a poor compliment to the vigilance of us soldiers, monsieur, that,
do what we will, we never can conceal our numbers. If it were to be done at
all, one would believe it might succeed in these woods. Though you think it too
soon to listen to the calls of humanity,” he added, smiling archly,
“I may be permitted to believe that gallantry is not forgotten by one so
young as yourself. The daughters of the commandant, I learn, have passed into
the fort since it was invested?”
“It is true, monsieur; but, so far from weakening our efforts, they set
us an example of courage in their own fortitude. Were nothing but resolution
necessary to repel so accomplished a soldier as M. de Montcalm, I would gladly
trust the defense of William Henry to the elder of those ladies.”
“We have a wise ordinance in our Salique laws, which says, ‘The
crown of France shall never degrade the lance to the distaff’,”
said Montcalm, dryly, and with a little hauteur; but instantly adding, with his
former frank and easy air: “as all the nobler qualities are hereditary, I
can easily credit you; though, as I said before, courage has its limits, and
humanity must not be forgotten. I trust, monsieur, you come authorized to treat
for the surrender of the place?”
“Has your excellency found our defense so feeble as to believe the
measure necessary?”
“I should be sorry to have the defense protracted in such a manner as to
irritate my red friends there,” continued Montcalm, glancing his eyes at
the group of grave and attentive Indians, without attending to the
other’s questions; “I find it difficult, even now, to limit them to
the usages of war.”
Heyward was silent; for a painful recollection of the dangers he had so
recently escaped came over his mind, and recalled the images of those
defenseless beings who had shared in all his sufferings.
“Ces messieurs-là,” said Montcalm, following up the advantage which
he conceived he had gained, “are most formidable when baffled; and it is
unnecessary to tell you with what difficulty they are restrained in their
anger. Eh bien, monsieur! shall we speak of the terms?”
“I fear your excellency has been deceived as to the strength of William
Henry, and the resources of its garrison!”
“I have not sat down before Quebec, but an earthen work, that is defended
by twenty-three hundred gallant men,” was the laconic reply.
“Our mounds are earthen, certainly—nor are they seated on the rocks
of Cape Diamond; but they stand on that shore which proved so destructive to
Dieskau and his army. There is also a powerful force within a few hours’
march of us, which we account upon as a part of our means.”
“Some six or eight thousand men,” returned Montcalm, with much
apparent indifference, “whom their leader wisely judges to be safer in
their works than in the field.”
It was now Heyward’s turn to bite his lip with vexation as the other so
coolly alluded to a force which the young man knew to be overrated. Both mused
a little while in silence, when Montcalm renewed the conversation, in a way
that showed he believed the visit of his guest was solely to propose terms of
capitulation. On the other hand, Heyward began to throw sundry inducements in
the way of the French general, to betray the discoveries he had made through
the intercepted letter. The artifice of neither, however, succeeded; and after
a protracted and fruitless interview, Duncan took his leave, favorably
impressed with an opinion of the courtesy and talents of the enemy’s
captain, but as ignorant of what he came to learn as when he arrived. Montcalm
followed him as far as the entrance of the marquee, renewing his invitations to
the commandant of the fort to give him an immediate meeting in the open ground
between the two armies.
There they separated, and Duncan returned to the advanced post of the French,
accompanied as before; whence he instantly proceeded to the fort, and to the
quarters of his own commander.
CHAPTER XVI.
“EDG.—Before you fight the battle ope this letter.”
—Lear
Major Heyward found Munro attended only by his daughters. Alice sat upon his
knee, parting the gray hairs on the forehead of the old man with her delicate
fingers; and whenever he affected to frown on her trifling, appeasing his
assumed anger by pressing her ruby lips fondly on his wrinkled brow. Cora was
seated nigh them, a calm and amused looker-on; regarding the wayward movements
of her more youthful sister with that species of maternal fondness which
characterized her love for Alice. Not only the dangers through which they had
passed, but those which still impended above them, appeared to be momentarily
forgotten, in the soothing indulgence of such a family meeting. It seemed as if
they had profited by the short truce, to devote an instant to the purest and
best affection; the daughters forgetting their fears, and the veteran his
cares, in the security of the moment. Of this scene, Duncan, who, in his
eagerness to report his arrival, had entered unannounced, stood many moments an
unobserved and a delighted spectator. But the quick and dancing eyes of Alice
soon caught a glimpse of his figure reflected from a glass, and she sprang
blushing from her father’s knee, exclaiming aloud:
“Major Heyward!”
“What of the lad?” demanded her father; “I have sent him to
crack a little with the Frenchman. Ha, sir, you are young, and you’re
nimble! Away with you, ye baggage; as if there were not troubles enough for a
soldier, without having his camp filled with such prattling hussies as
yourself!”
Alice laughingly followed her sister, who instantly led the way from an
apartment where she perceived their presence was no longer desirable. Munro,
instead of demanding the result of the young man’s mission, paced the
room for a few moments, with his hands behind his back, and his head inclined
toward the floor, like a man lost in thought. At length he raised his eyes,
glistening with a father’s fondness, and exclaimed:
“They are a pair of excellent girls, Heyward, and such as any one may
boast of.”
“You are not now to learn my opinion of your daughters, Colonel
Munro.”
“True, lad, true,” interrupted the impatient old man; “you
were about opening your mind more fully on that matter the day you got in, but
I did not think it becoming in an old soldier to be talking of nuptial
blessings and wedding jokes when the enemies of his king were likely to be
unbidden guests at the feast. But I was wrong, Duncan, boy, I was wrong there;
and I am now ready to hear what you have to say.”
“Notwithstanding the pleasure your assurance gives me, dear sir, I have
just now, a message from Montcalm—”
“Let the Frenchman and all his host go to the devil, sir!”
exclaimed the hasty veteran. “He is not yet master of William Henry, nor
shall he ever be, provided Webb proves himself the man he should. No, sir,
thank Heaven we are not yet in such a strait that it can be said Munro is too
much pressed to discharge the little domestic duties of his own family. Your
mother was the only child of my bosom friend, Duncan; and I’ll just give
you a hearing, though all the knights of St. Louis were in a body at the
sally-port, with the French saint at their head, crying to speak a word under
favor. A pretty degree of knighthood, sir, is that which can be bought with
sugar hogsheads! and then your twopenny marquisates. The thistle is the order
for dignity and antiquity; the veritable ‘nemo me impune lacessit’
of chivalry. Ye had ancestors in that degree, Duncan, and they were an ornament
to the nobles of Scotland.”
Heyward, who perceived that his superior took a malicious pleasure in
exhibiting his contempt for the message of the French general, was fain to
humor a spleen that he knew would be short-lived; he therefore, replied with as
much indifference as he could assume on such a subject:
“My request, as you know, sir, went so far as to presume to the honor of
being your son.”
“Ay, boy, you found words to make yourself very plainly comprehended.
But, let me ask ye, sir, have you been as intelligible to the girl?”
“On my honor, no,” exclaimed Duncan, warmly; “there would
have been an abuse of a confided trust, had I taken advantage of my situation
for such a purpose.”
“Your notions are those of a gentleman, Major Heyward, and well enough in
their place. But Cora Munro is a maiden too discreet, and of a mind too
elevated and improved, to need the guardianship even of a father.”
“Cora!”
“Ay—Cora! we are talking of your pretensions to Miss Munro, are we
not, sir?”
“I—I—I was not conscious of having mentioned her name,”
said Duncan, stammering.
“And to marry whom, then, did you wish my consent, Major Heyward?”
demanded the old soldier, erecting himself in the dignity of offended feeling.
“You have another, and not less lovely child.”
“Alice!” exclaimed the father, in an astonishment equal to that
with which Duncan had just repeated the name of her sister.
“Such was the direction of my wishes, sir.”
The young man awaited in silence the result of the extraordinary effect
produced by a communication, which, as it now appeared, was so unexpected. For
several minutes Munro paced the chamber with long and rapid strides, his rigid
features working convulsively, and every faculty seemingly absorbed in the
musings of his own mind. At length, he paused directly in front of Heyward, and
riveting his eyes upon those of the other, he said, with a lip that quivered
violently:
“Duncan Heyward, I have loved you for the sake of him whose blood is in
your veins; I have loved you for your own good qualities; and I have loved you,
because I thought you would contribute to the happiness of my child. But all
this love would turn to hatred, were I assured that what I so much apprehend is
true.”
“God forbid that any act or thought of mine should lead to such a
change!” exclaimed the young man, whose eye never quailed under the
penetrating look it encountered. Without adverting to the impossibility of the
other’s comprehending those feelings which were hid in his own bosom,
Munro suffered himself to be appeased by the unaltered countenance he met, and
with a voice sensibly softened, he continued:
“You would be my son, Duncan, and you’re ignorant of the history of
the man you wish to call your father. Sit ye down, young man, and I will open
to you the wounds of a seared heart, in as few words as may be suitable.”
By this time, the message of Montcalm was as much forgotten by him who bore it
as by the man for whose ears it was intended. Each drew a chair, and while the
veteran communed a few moments with his own thoughts, apparently in sadness,
the youth suppressed his impatience in a look and attitude of respectful
attention. At length, the former spoke:
“You’ll know, already, Major Heyward, that my family was both
ancient and honorable,” commenced the Scotsman; “though it might
not altogether be endowed with that amount of wealth that should correspond
with its degree. I was, maybe, such an one as yourself when I plighted my faith
to Alice Graham, the only child of a neighboring laird of some estate. But the
connection was disagreeable to her father, on more accounts than my poverty. I
did, therefore, what an honest man should—restored the maiden her troth,
and departed the country in the service of my king. I had seen many regions,
and had shed much blood in different lands, before duty called me to the