The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
“Not a warrior has a scalp, and the pale faces make friends!”
“Ha, Le Renard Subtil! Methinks this is an excess of zeal for a friend
who was so late an enemy! How many suns have set since Le Renard struck the
war-post of the English?”
“Where is that sun?” demanded the sullen savage. “Behind the
hill; and it is dark and cold. But when he comes again, it will be bright and
warm. Le Subtil is the sun of his tribe. There have been clouds, and many
mountains between him and his nation; but now he shines and it is a clear
sky!”
“That Le Renard has power with his people, I well know,” said
Montcalm; “for yesterday he hunted for their scalps, and to-day they hear
him at the council-fire.”
“Magua is a great chief.”
“Let him prove it, by teaching his nation how to conduct themselves
toward our new friends.”
“Why did the chief of the Canadas bring his young men into the woods, and
fire his cannon at the earthen house?” demanded the subtle Indian.
“To subdue it. My master owns the land, and your father was ordered to
drive off these English squatters. They have consented to go, and now he calls
them enemies no longer.”
“’Tis well. Magua took the hatchet to color it with blood. It is
now bright; when it is red, it shall be buried.”
“But Magua is pledged not to sully the lilies of France. The enemies of
the great king across the salt lake are his enemies; his friends, the friends
of the Hurons.”
“Friends!” repeated the Indian in scorn. “Let his father give
Magua a hand.”
Montcalm, who felt that his influence over the warlike tribes he had gathered
was to be maintained by concession rather than by power, complied reluctantly
with the other’s request. The savage placed the fingers of the French
commander on a deep scar in his bosom, and then exultingly demanded:
“Does my father know that?”
“What warrior does not? ’Tis where a leaden bullet has cut.”
“And this?” continued the Indian, who had turned his naked back to
the other, his body being without its usual calico mantle.
“This!—my son has been sadly injured here; who has done
this?”
“Magua slept hard in the English wigwams, and the sticks have left their
mark,” returned the savage, with a hollow laugh, which did not conceal
the fierce temper that nearly choked him. Then, recollecting himself, with
sudden and native dignity, he added: “Go; teach your young men it is
peace. Le Renard Subtil knows how to speak to a Huron warrior.”
Without deigning to bestow further words, or to wait for any answer, the savage
cast his rifle into the hollow of his arm, and moved silently through the
encampment toward the woods where his own tribe was known to lie. Every few
yards as he proceeded he was challenged by the sentinels; but he stalked
sullenly onward, utterly disregarding the summons of the soldiers, who only
spared his life because they knew the air and tread no less than the obstinate
daring of an Indian.
Montcalm lingered long and melancholy on the strand where he had been left by
his companion, brooding deeply on the temper which his ungovernable ally had
just discovered. Already had his fair fame been tarnished by one horrid scene,
and in circumstances fearfully resembling those under which he now found
himself. As he mused he became keenly sensible of the deep responsibility they
assume who disregard the means to attain the end, and of all the danger of
setting in motion an engine which it exceeds human power to control. Then
shaking off a train of reflections that he accounted a weakness in such a
moment of triumph, he retraced his steps toward his tent, giving the order as
he passed to make the signal that should arouse the army from its slumbers.
The first tap of the French drums was echoed from the bosom of the fort, and
presently the valley was filled with the strains of martial music, rising long,
thrilling and lively above the rattling accompaniment. The horns of the victors
sounded merry and cheerful flourishes, until the last laggard of the camp was
at his post; but the instant the British fifes had blown their shrill signal,
they became mute. In the meantime the day had dawned, and when the line of the
French army was ready to receive its general, the rays of a brilliant sun were
glancing along the glittering array. Then that success, which was already so
well known, was officially announced; the favored band who were selected to
guard the gates of the fort were detailed, and defiled before their chief; the
signal of their approach was given, and all the usual preparations for a change
of masters were ordered and executed directly under the guns of the contested
works.
A very different scene presented itself within the lines of the Anglo-American
army. As soon as the warning signal was given, it exhibited all the signs of a
hurried and forced departure. The sullen soldiers shouldered their empty tubes
and fell into their places, like men whose blood had been heated by the past
contest, and who only desired the opportunity to revenge an indignity which was
still wounding to their pride, concealed as it was under the observances of
military etiquette.
Women and children ran from place to place, some bearing the scanty remnants of
their baggage, and others searching in the ranks for those countenances they
looked up to for protection.
Munro appeared among his silent troops firm but dejected. It was evident that
the unexpected blow had struck deep into his heart, though he struggled to
sustain his misfortune with the port of a man.
Duncan was touched at the quiet and impressive exhibition of his grief. He had
discharged his own duty, and he now pressed to the side of the old man, to know
in what particular he might serve him.
“My daughters,” was the brief but expressive reply.
“Good heavens! are not arrangements already made for their
convenience?”
“To-day I am only a soldier, Major Heyward,” said the veteran.
“All that you see here, claim alike to be my children.”
Duncan had heard enough. Without losing one of those moments which had now
become so precious, he flew toward the quarters of Munro, in quest of the
sisters. He found them on the threshold of the low edifice, already prepared to
depart, and surrounded by a clamorous and weeping assemblage of their own sex,
that had gathered about the place, with a sort of instinctive consciousness
that it was the point most likely to be protected. Though the cheeks of Cora
were pale and her countenance anxious, she had lost none of her firmness; but
the eyes of Alice were inflamed, and betrayed how long and bitterly she had
wept. They both, however, received the young man with undisguised pleasure; the
former, for a novelty, being the first to speak.
“The fort is lost,” she said, with a melancholy smile;
“though our good name, I trust, remains.”
“’Tis brighter than ever. But, dearest Miss Munro, it is time to
think less of others, and to make some provision for yourself. Military
usage—pride—that pride on which you so much value yourself, demands
that your father and I should for a little while continue with the troops. Then
where to seek a proper protector for you against the confusion and chances of
such a scene?”
“None is necessary,” returned Cora; “who will dare to injure
or insult the daughter of such a father, at a time like this?”
“I would not leave you alone,” continued the youth, looking about
him in a hurried manner, “for the command of the best regiment in the pay
of the king. Remember, our Alice is not gifted with all your firmness, and God
only knows the terror she might endure.”
“You may be right,” Cora replied, smiling again, but far more sadly
than before. “Listen! chance has already sent us a friend when he is most
needed.”
Duncan did listen, and on the instant comprehended her meaning. The low and
serious sounds of the sacred music, so well known to the eastern provinces,
caught his ear, and instantly drew him to an apartment in an adjacent building,
which had already been deserted by its customary tenants. There he found David,
pouring out his pious feelings through the only medium in which he ever
indulged. Duncan waited, until, by the cessation of the movement of the hand,
he believed the strain was ended, when, by touching his shoulder, he drew the
attention of the other to himself, and in a few words explained his wishes.
“Even so,” replied the single-minded disciple of the King of
Israel, when the young man had ended; “I have found much that is comely
and melodious in the maidens, and it is fitting that we who have consorted in
so much peril, should abide together in peace. I will attend them, when I have
completed my morning praise, to which nothing is now wanting but the doxology.
Wilt thou bear a part, friend? The meter is common, and the tune
‘Southwell’.”
Then, extending the little volume, and giving the pitch of the air anew with
considerate attention, David recommenced and finished his strains, with a
fixedness of manner that it was not easy to interrupt. Heyward was fain to wait
until the verse was ended; when, seeing David relieving himself from the
spectacles, and replacing the book, he continued.
“It will be your duty to see that none dare to approach the ladies with
any rude intention, or to offer insult or taunt at the misfortune of their
brave father. In this task you will be seconded by the domestics of their
household.”
“Even so.”
“It is possible that the Indians and stragglers of the enemy may intrude,
in which case you will remind them of the terms of the capitulation, and
threaten to report their conduct to Montcalm. A word will suffice.”
“If not, I have that here which shall,” returned David, exhibiting
his book, with an air in which meekness and confidence were singularly blended.
Here are words which, uttered, or rather thundered, with proper emphasis, and
in measured time, shall quiet the most unruly temper:
“‘Why rage the heathen furiously’?”
“Enough,” said Heyward, interrupting the burst of his musical
invocation; “we understand each other; it is time that we should now
assume our respective duties.”
Gamut cheerfully assented, and together they sought the females. Cora received
her new and somewhat extraordinary protector courteously, at least; and even
the pallid features of Alice lighted again with some of their native archness
as she thanked Heyward for his care. Duncan took occasion to assure them he had
done the best that circumstances permitted, and, as he believed, quite enough
for the security of their feelings; of danger there was none. He then spoke
gladly of his intention to rejoin them the moment he had led the advance a few
miles toward the Hudson, and immediately took his leave.
By this time the signal for departure had been given, and the head of the
English column was in motion. The sisters started at the sound, and glancing
their eyes around, they saw the white uniforms of the French grenadiers, who
had already taken possession of the gates of the fort. At that moment an
enormous cloud seemed to pass suddenly above their heads, and, looking upward,
they discovered that they stood beneath the wide folds of the standard of
France.
“Let us go,” said Cora; “this is no longer a fit place for
the children of an English officer.”
Alice clung to the arm of her sister, and together they left the parade,
accompanied by the moving throng that surrounded them.
As they passed the gates, the French officers, who had learned their rank,
bowed often and low, forbearing, however, to intrude those attentions which
they saw, with peculiar tact, might not be agreeable. As every vehicle and each
beast of burden was occupied by the sick and wounded, Cora had decided to
endure the fatigues of a foot march, rather than interfere with their comforts.