The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
islands of the West Indies. There it was my lot to form a connection with one
who in time became my wife, and the mother of Cora. She was the daughter of a
gentleman of those isles, by a lady whose misfortune it was, if you
will,” said the old man, proudly, “to be descended, remotely, from
that unfortunate class who are so basely enslaved to administer to the wants of
a luxurious people. Ay, sir, that is a curse, entailed on Scotland by her
unnatural union with a foreign and trading people. But could I find a man among
them who would dare to reflect on my child, he should feel the weight of a
father’s anger! Ha! Major Heyward, you are yourself born at the south,
where these unfortunate beings are considered of a race inferior to your
own.”
“’Tis most unfortunately true, sir,” said Duncan, unable any
longer to prevent his eyes from sinking to the floor in embarrassment.
“And you cast it on my child as a reproach! You scorn to mingle the blood
of the Heywards with one so degraded—lovely and virtuous though she
be?” fiercely demanded the jealous parent.
“Heaven protect me from a prejudice so unworthy of my reason!”
returned Duncan, at the same time conscious of such a feeling, and that as
deeply rooted as if it had been ingrafted in his nature. “The sweetness,
the beauty, the witchery of your younger daughter, Colonel Munro, might explain
my motives without imputing to me this injustice.”
“Ye are right, sir,” returned the old man, again changing his tones
to those of gentleness, or rather softness; “the girl is the image of
what her mother was at her years, and before she had become acquainted with
grief. When death deprived me of my wife I returned to Scotland, enriched by
the marriage; and, would you think it, Duncan! the suffering angel had remained
in the heartless state of celibacy twenty long years, and that for the sake of
a man who could forget her! She did more, sir; she overlooked my want of faith,
and, all difficulties being now removed, she took me for her husband.”
“And became the mother of Alice?” exclaimed Duncan, with an
eagerness that might have proved dangerous at a moment when the thoughts of
Munro were less occupied that at present.
“She did, indeed,” said the old man, “and dearly did she pay
for the blessing she bestowed. But she is a saint in heaven, sir; and it ill
becomes one whose foot rests on the grave to mourn a lot so blessed. I had her
but a single year, though; a short term of happiness for one who had seen her
youth fade in hopeless pining.”
There was something so commanding in the distress of the old man, that Heyward
did not dare to venture a syllable of consolation. Munro sat utterly
unconscious of the other’s presence, his features exposed and working
with the anguish of his regrets, while heavy tears fell from his eyes, and
rolled unheeded from his cheeks to the floor. At length he moved, and as if
suddenly recovering his recollection; when he arose, and taking a single turn
across the room, he approached his companion with an air of military grandeur,
and demanded:
“Have you not, Major Heyward, some communication that I should hear from
the marquis de Montcalm?”
Duncan started in his turn, and immediately commenced in an embarrassed voice,
the half-forgotten message. It is unnecessary to dwell upon the evasive though
polite manner with which the French general had eluded every attempt of Heyward
to worm from him the purport of the communication he had proposed making, or on
the decided, though still polished message, by which he now gave his enemy to
understand, that, unless he chose to receive it in person, he should not
receive it at all. As Munro listened to the detail of Duncan, the excited
feelings of the father gradually gave way before the obligations of his
station, and when the other was done, he saw before him nothing but the
veteran, swelling with the wounded feelings of a soldier.
“You have said enough, Major Heyward,” exclaimed the angry old man;
“enough to make a volume of commentary on French civility. Here has this
gentleman invited me to a conference, and when I send him a capable substitute,
for ye’re all that, Duncan, though your years are but few, he answers me
with a riddle.”
“He may have thought less favorably of the substitute, my dear sir; and
you will remember that the invitation, which he now repeats, was to the
commandant of the works, and not to his second.”
“Well, sir, is not a substitute clothed with all the power and dignity of
him who grants the commission? He wishes to confer with Munro! Faith, sir, I
have much inclination to indulge the man, if it should only be to let him
behold the firm countenance we maintain in spite of his numbers and his
summons. There might be not bad policy in such a stroke, young man.”
Duncan, who believed it of the last importance that they should speedily come
to the contents of the letter borne by the scout, gladly encouraged this idea.
“Without doubt, he could gather no confidence by witnessing our
indifference,” he said.
“You never said truer word. I could wish, sir, that he would visit the
works in open day, and in the form of a storming party; that is the least
failing method of proving the countenance of an enemy, and would be far
preferable to the battering system he has chosen. The beauty and manliness of
warfare has been much deformed, Major Heyward, by the arts of your Monsieur
Vauban. Our ancestors were far above such scientific cowardice!”
“It may be very true, sir; but we are now obliged to repel art by art.
What is your pleasure in the matter of the interview?”
“I will meet the Frenchman, and that without fear or delay; promptly,
sir, as becomes a servant of my royal master. Go, Major Heyward, and give them
a flourish of the music; and send out a messenger to let them know who is
coming. We will follow with a small guard, for such respect is due to one who
holds the honor of his king in keeping; and hark’ee, Duncan,” he
added, in a half whisper, though they were alone, “it may be prudent to
have some aid at hand, in case there should be treachery at the bottom of it
all.”
The young man availed himself of this order to quit the apartment; and, as the
day was fast coming to a close, he hastened without delay, to make the
necessary arrangements. A very few minutes only were necessary to parade a few
files, and to dispatch an orderly with a flag to announce the approach of the
commandant of the fort. When Duncan had done both these, he led the guard to
the sally-port, near which he found his superior ready, waiting his appearance.
As soon as the usual ceremonials of a military departure were observed, the
veteran and his more youthful companion left the fortress, attended by the
escort.
They had proceeded only a hundred yards from the works, when the little array
which attended the French general to the conference was seen issuing from the
hollow way which formed the bed of a brook that ran between the batteries of
the besiegers and the fort. From the moment that Munro left his own works to
appear in front of his enemy’s, his air had been grand, and his step and
countenance highly military. The instant he caught a glimpse of the white plume
that waved in the hat of Montcalm, his eye lighted, and age no longer appeared
to possess any influence over his vast and still muscular person.
“Speak to the boys to be watchful, sir,” he said, in an undertone,
to Duncan; “and to look well to their flints and steel, for one is never
safe with a servant of these Louis’s; at the same time, we shall show
them the front of men in deep security. Ye’ll understand me, Major
Heyward!”
He was interrupted by the clamor of a drum from the approaching Frenchmen,
which was immediately answered, when each party pushed an orderly in advance,
bearing a white flag, and the wary Scotsman halted with his guard close at his
back. As soon as this slight salutation had passed, Montcalm moved toward them
with a quick but graceful step, baring his head to the veteran, and dropping
his spotless plume nearly to the earth in courtesy. If the air of Munro was
more commanding and manly, it wanted both the ease and insinuating polish of
that of the Frenchman. Neither spoke for a few moments, each regarding the
other with curious and interested eyes. Then, as became his superior rank and
the nature of the interview, Montcalm broke the silence. After uttering the
usual words of greeting, he turned to Duncan, and continued, with a smile of
recognition, speaking always in French:
“I am rejoiced, monsieur, that you have given us the pleasure of your
company on this occasion. There will be no necessity to employ an ordinary
interpreter; for, in your hands, I feel the same security as if I spoke your
language myself.”
Duncan acknowledged the compliment, when Montcalm, turning to his guard, which
in imitation of that of their enemies, pressed close upon him, continued:
“En arriere, mes enfants—il fait chaud—-retirez-vous un
peu.”
Before Major Heyward would imitate this proof of confidence, he glanced his
eyes around the plain, and beheld with uneasiness the numerous dusky groups of
savages, who looked out from the margin of the surrounding woods, curious
spectators of the interview.
“Monsieur de Montcalm will readily acknowledge the difference in our
situation,” he said, with some embarrassment, pointing at the same time
toward those dangerous foes, who were to be seen in almost every direction.
“Were we to dismiss our guard, we should stand here at the mercy of our
enemies.”
“Monsieur, you have the plighted faith of ‘un gentilhomme
Français’, for your safety,” returned Montcalm, laying his hand
impressively on his heart; “it should suffice.”
“It shall. Fall back,” Duncan added to the officer who led the
escort; “fall back, sir, beyond hearing, and wait for orders.”
Munro witnessed this movement with manifest uneasiness; nor did he fail to
demand an instant explanation.
“Is it not our interest, sir, to betray no distrust?” retorted
Duncan. “Monsieur de Montcalm pledges his word for our safety, and I have
ordered the men to withdraw a little, in order to prove how much we depend on
his assurance.”
“It may be all right, sir, but I have no overweening reliance on the
faith of these marquesses, or marquis, as they call themselves. Their patents
of nobility are too common to be certain that they bear the seal of true
honor.”
“You forget, dear sir, that we confer with an officer, distinguished
alike in Europe and America for his deeds. From a soldier of his reputation we
can have nothing to apprehend.”
The old man made a gesture of resignation, though his rigid features still
betrayed his obstinate adherence to a distrust, which he derived from a sort of
hereditary contempt of his enemy, rather than from any present signs which
might warrant so uncharitable a feeling. Montcalm waited patiently until this
little dialogue in demi-voice was ended, when he drew nigher, and opened the
subject of their conference.
“I have solicited this interview from your superior, monsieur,” he
said, “because I believe he will allow himself to be persuaded that he
has already done everything which is necessary for the honor of his prince, and
will now listen to the admonitions of humanity. I will forever bear testimony
that his resistance has been gallant, and was continued as long as there was
hope.”
When this opening was translated to Munro, he answered with dignity, but with
sufficient courtesy:
“However I may prize such testimony from Monsieur Montcalm, it will be
more valuable when it shall be better merited.”
The French general smiled, as Duncan gave him the purport of this reply, and
observed:
“What is now so freely accorded to approved courage, may be refused to