The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
Indeed, many a maimed and feeble soldier was compelled to drag his exhausted
limbs in the rear of the columns, for the want of the necessary means of
conveyance in that wilderness. The whole, however, was in motion; the weak and
wounded, groaning and in suffering; their comrades silent and sullen; and the
women and children in terror, they knew not of what.
As the confused and timid throng left the protecting mounds of the fort, and
issued on the open plain, the whole scene was at once presented to their eyes.
At a little distance on the right, and somewhat in the rear, the French army
stood to their arms, Montcalm having collected his parties, so soon as his
guards had possession of the works. They were attentive but silent observers of
the proceedings of the vanquished, failing in none of the stipulated military
honors, and offering no taunt or insult, in their success, to their less
fortunate foes. Living masses of the English, to the amount, in the whole, of
near three thousand, were moving slowly across the plain, toward the common
center, and gradually approached each other, as they converged to the point of
their march, a vista cut through the lofty trees, where the road to the Hudson
entered the forest. Along the sweeping borders of the woods hung a dark cloud
of savages, eyeing the passage of their enemies, and hovering at a distance,
like vultures who were only kept from swooping on their prey by the presence
and restraint of a superior army. A few had straggled among the conquered
columns, where they stalked in sullen discontent; attentive, though, as yet,
passive observers of the moving multitude.
The advance, with Heyward at its head, had already reached the defile, and was
slowly disappearing, when the attention of Cora was drawn to a collection of
stragglers by the sounds of contention. A truant provincial was paying the
forfeit of his disobedience, by being plundered of those very effects which had
caused him to desert his place in the ranks. The man was of powerful frame, and
too avaricious to part with his goods without a struggle. Individuals from
either party interfered; the one side to prevent and the other to aid in the
robbery. Voices grew loud and angry, and a hundred savages appeared, as it
were, by magic, where a dozen only had been seen a minute before. It was then
that Cora saw the form of Magua gliding among his countrymen, and speaking with
his fatal and artful eloquence. The mass of women and children stopped, and
hovered together like alarmed and fluttering birds. But the cupidity of the
Indian was soon gratified, and the different bodies again moved slowly onward.
The savages now fell back, and seemed content to let their enemies advance
without further molestation. But, as the female crowd approached them, the
gaudy colors of a shawl attracted the eyes of a wild and untutored Huron. He
advanced to seize it without the least hesitation. The woman, more in terror
than through love of the ornament, wrapped her child in the coveted article,
and folded both more closely to her bosom. Cora was in the act of speaking,
with an intent to advise the woman to abandon the trifle, when the savage
relinquished his hold of the shawl, and tore the screaming infant from her
arms. Abandoning everything to the greedy grasp of those around her, the mother
darted, with distraction in her mien, to reclaim her child. The Indian smiled
grimly, and extended one hand, in sign of a willingness to exchange, while,
with the other, he flourished the babe over his head, holding it by the feet as
if to enhance the value of the ransom.
“Here—here—there—all—any—everything!”
exclaimed the breathless woman, tearing the lighter articles of dress from her
person with ill-directed and trembling fingers; “take all, but give me my
babe!”
The savage spurned the worthless rags, and perceiving that the shawl had
already become a prize to another, his bantering but sullen smile changing to a
gleam of ferocity, he dashed the head of the infant against a rock, and cast
its quivering remains to her very feet. For an instant the mother stood, like a
statue of despair, looking wildly down at the unseemly object, which had so
lately nestled in her bosom and smiled in her face; and then she raised her
eyes and countenance toward heaven, as if calling on God to curse the
perpetrator of the foul deed. She was spared the sin of such a prayer for,
maddened at his disappointment, and excited at the sight of blood, the Huron
mercifully drove his tomahawk into her own brain. The mother sank under the
blow, and fell, grasping at her child, in death, with the same engrossing love
that had caused her to cherish it when living.
At that dangerous moment, Magua placed his hands to his mouth, and raised the
fatal and appalling whoop. The scattered Indians started at the well-known cry,
as coursers bound at the signal to quit the goal; and directly there arose such
a yell along the plain, and through the arches of the wood, as seldom burst
from human lips before. They who heard it listened with a curdling horror at
the heart, little inferior to that dread which may be expected to attend the
blasts of the final summons.
More than two thousand raving savages broke from the forest at the signal, and
threw themselves across the fatal plain with instinctive alacrity. We shall not
dwell on the revolting horrors that succeeded. Death was everywhere, and in his
most terrific and disgusting aspects. Resistance only served to inflame the
murderers, who inflicted their furious blows long after their victims were
beyond the power of their resentment. The flow of blood might be likened to the
outbreaking of a torrent; and as the natives became heated and maddened by the
sight, many among them even kneeled to the earth, and drank freely, exultingly,
hellishly, of the crimson tide.
The trained bodies of the troops threw themselves quickly into solid masses,
endeavoring to awe their assailants by the imposing appearance of a military
front. The experiment in some measure succeeded, though far too many suffered
their unloaded muskets to be torn from their hands, in the vain hope of
appeasing the savages.
In such a scene none had leisure to note the fleeting moments. It might have
been ten minutes (it seemed an age) that the sisters had stood riveted to one
spot, horror-stricken and nearly helpless. When the first blow was struck,
their screaming companions had pressed upon them in a body, rendering flight
impossible; and now that fear or death had scattered most, if not all, from
around them, they saw no avenue open, but such as conducted to the tomahawks of
their foes. On every side arose shrieks, groans, exhortations and curses. At
this moment, Alice caught a glimpse of the vast form of her father, moving
rapidly across the plain, in the direction of the French army. He was, in
truth, proceeding to Montcalm, fearless of every danger, to claim the tardy
escort for which he had before conditioned. Fifty glittering axes and barbed
spears were offered unheeded at his life, but the savages respected his rank
and calmness, even in their fury. The dangerous weapons were brushed aside by
the still nervous arm of the veteran, or fell of themselves, after menacing an
act that it would seem no one had courage to perform. Fortunately, the
vindictive Magua was searching for his victim in the very band the veteran had
just quitted.
“Father—father—we are here!” shrieked Alice, as he
passed, at no great distance, without appearing to heed them. “Come to
us, father, or we die!”
The cry was repeated, and in terms and tones that might have melted a heart of
stone, but it was unanswered. Once, indeed, the old man appeared to catch the
sound, for he paused and listened; but Alice had dropped senseless on the
earth, and Cora had sunk at her side, hovering in untiring tenderness over her
lifeless form. Munro shook his head in disappointment, and proceeded, bent on
the high duty of his station.
“Lady,” said Gamut, who, helpless and useless as he was, had not
yet dreamed of deserting his trust, “it is the jubilee of the devils, and
this is not a meet place for Christians to tarry in. Let us up and fly.”
“Go,” said Cora, still gazing at her unconscious sister;
“save thyself. To me thou canst not be of further use.”
David comprehended the unyielding character of her resolution, by the simple
but expressive gesture that accompanied her words. He gazed for a moment at the
dusky forms that were acting their hellish rites on every side of him, and his
tall person grew more erect while his chest heaved, and every feature swelled,
and seemed to speak with the power of the feelings by which he was governed.
“If the Jewish boy might tame the great spirit of Saul by the sound of
his harp, and the words of sacred song, it may not be amiss,” he said,
“to try the potency of music here.”
Then raising his voice to its highest tone, he poured out a strain so powerful
as to be heard even amid the din of that bloody field. More than one savage
rushed toward them, thinking to rifle the unprotected sisters of their attire,
and bear away their scalps; but when they found this strange and unmoved figure
riveted to his post, they paused to listen. Astonishment soon changed to
admiration, and they passed on to other and less courageous victims, openly
expressing their satisfaction at the firmness with which the white warrior sang
his death song. Encouraged and deluded by his success, David exerted all his
powers to extend what he believed so holy an influence. The unwonted sounds
caught the ears of a distant savage, who flew raging from group to group, like
one who, scorning to touch the vulgar herd, hunted for some victim more worthy
of his renown. It was Magua, who uttered a yell of pleasure when he beheld his
ancient prisoners again at his mercy.
“Come,” he said, laying his soiled hands on the dress of Cora,
“the wigwam of the Huron is still open. Is it not better than this
place?”
“Away!” cried Cora, veiling her eyes from his revolting aspect.
The Indian laughed tauntingly, as he held up his reeking hand, and answered:
“It is red, but it comes from white veins!”
“Monster! there is blood, oceans of blood, upon thy soul; thy spirit has
moved this scene.”
“Magua is a great chief!” returned the exulting savage, “will
the dark-hair go to his tribe?”
“Never! strike if thou wilt, and complete thy revenge.” He
hesitated a moment, and then catching the light and senseless form of Alice in
his arms, the subtle Indian moved swiftly across the plain toward the woods.
“Hold!” shrieked Cora, following wildly on his footsteps;
“release the child! wretch! what is’t you do?”
But Magua was deaf to her voice; or, rather, he knew his power, and was
determined to maintain it.
“Stay—lady—stay,” called Gamut, after the unconscious
Cora. “The holy charm is beginning to be felt, and soon shalt thou see
this horrid tumult stilled.”
Perceiving that, in his turn, he was unheeded, the faithful David followed the
distracted sister, raising his voice again in sacred song, and sweeping the air
to the measure, with his long arm, in diligent accompaniment. In this manner
they traversed the plain, through the flying, the wounded and the dead. The
fierce Huron was, at any time, sufficient for himself and the victim that he
bore; though Cora would have fallen more than once under the blows of her
savage enemies, but for the extraordinary being who stalked in her rear, and
who now appeared to the astonished natives gifted with the protecting spirit of
madness.
Magua, who knew how to avoid the more pressing dangers, and also to elude
pursuit, entered the woods through a low ravine, where he quickly found the