The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
little attention to neatness or beauty. Indeed, so very inferior were they in
the two latter particulars to the village Duncan had just seen, that he began
to expect a second surprise, no less astonishing that the former. This
expectation was in no degree diminished, when, by the doubtful twilight, he
beheld twenty or thirty forms rising alternately from the cover of the tall,
coarse grass, in front of the lodges, and then sinking again from the sight, as
it were to burrow in the earth. By the sudden and hasty glimpses that he caught
of these figures, they seemed more like dark, glancing specters, or some other
unearthly beings, than creatures fashioned with the ordinary and vulgar
materials of flesh and blood. A gaunt, naked form was seen, for a single
instant, tossing its arms wildly in the air, and then the spot it had filled
was vacant; the figure appearing suddenly in some other and distant place, or
being succeeded by another, possessing the same mysterious character. David,
observing that his companion lingered, pursued the direction of his gaze, and
in some measure recalled the recollection of Heyward, by speaking.
“There is much fruitful soil uncultivated here,” he said;
“and, I may add, without the sinful leaven of self-commendation, that,
since my short sojourn in these heathenish abodes, much good seed has been
scattered by the wayside.”
“The tribes are fonder of the chase than of the arts of men of
labor,” returned the unconscious Duncan, still gazing at the objects of
his wonder.
“It is rather joy than labor to the spirit, to lift up the voice in
praise; but sadly do these boys abuse their gifts. Rarely have I found any of
their age, on whom nature has so freely bestowed the elements of psalmody; and
surely, surely, there are none who neglect them more. Three nights have I now
tarried here, and three several times have I assembled the urchins to join in
sacred song; and as often have they responded to my efforts with whoopings and
howlings that have chilled my soul!”
“Of whom speak you?”
“Of those children of the devil, who waste the precious moments in yonder
idle antics. Ah! the wholesome restraint of discipline is but little known
among this self-abandoned people. In a country of birches, a rod is never seen,
and it ought not to appear a marvel in my eyes, that the choicest blessings of
Providence are wasted in such cries as these.”
David closed his ears against the juvenile pack, whose yell just then rang
shrilly through the forest; and Duncan, suffering his lip to curl, as in
mockery of his own superstition, said firmly:
“We will proceed.”
Without removing the safeguards form his ears, the master of song complied, and
together they pursued their way toward what David was sometimes wont to call
the “tents of the Philistines.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
“But though the beast of game
The privilege of chase may claim;
Though space and law the stag we lend
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend;
Whoever recked, where, how, or when
The prowling fox was trapped or slain?”
—Lady of the Lake.
It is unusual to find an encampment of the natives, like those of the more
instructed whites, guarded by the presence of armed men. Well informed of the
approach of every danger, while it is yet at a distance, the Indian generally
rests secure under his knowledge of the signs of the forest, and the long and
difficult paths that separate him from those he has most reason to dread. But
the enemy who, by any lucky concurrence of accidents, has found means to elude
the vigilance of the scouts, will seldom meet with sentinels nearer home to
sound the alarm. In addition to this general usage, the tribes friendly to the
French knew too well the weight of the blow that had just been struck, to
apprehend any immediate danger from the hostile nations that were tributary to
the crown of Britain.
When Duncan and David, therefore, found themselves in the center of the
children, who played the antics already mentioned, it was without the least
previous intimation of their approach. But so soon as they were observed the
whole of the juvenile pack raised, by common consent, a shrill and warning
whoop; and then sank, as it were, by magic, from before the sight of their
visitors. The naked, tawny bodies of the crouching urchins blended so nicely at
that hour, with the withered herbage, that at first it seemed as if the earth
had, in truth, swallowed up their forms; though when surprise permitted Duncan
to bend his look more curiously about the spot, he found it everywhere met by
dark, quick, and rolling eyeballs.
Gathering no encouragement from this startling presage of the nature of the
scrutiny he was likely to undergo from the more mature judgments of the men,
there was an instant when the young soldier would have retreated. It was,
however, too late to appear to hesitate. The cry of the children had drawn a
dozen warriors to the door of the nearest lodge, where they stood clustered in
a dark and savage group, gravely awaiting the nearer approach of those who had
unexpectedly come among them.
David, in some measure familiarized to the scene, led the way with a steadiness
that no slight obstacle was likely to disconcert, into this very building. It
was the principal edifice of the village, though roughly constructed of the
bark and branches of trees; being the lodge in which the tribe held its
councils and public meetings during their temporary residence on the borders of
the English province. Duncan found it difficult to assume the necessary
appearance of unconcern, as he brushed the dark and powerful frames of the
savages who thronged its threshold; but, conscious that his existence depended
on his presence of mind, he trusted to the discretion of his companion, whose
footsteps he closely followed, endeavoring, as he proceeded, to rally his
thoughts for the occasion. His blood curdled when he found himself in absolute
contact with such fierce and implacable enemies; but he so far mastered his
feelings as to pursue his way into the center of the lodge, with an exterior
that did not betray the weakness. Imitating the example of the deliberate
Gamut, he drew a bundle of fragrant brush from beneath a pile that filled the
corner of the hut, and seated himself in silence.
So soon as their visitor had passed, the observant warriors fell back from the
entrance, and arranging themselves about him, they seemed patiently to await
the moment when it might comport with the dignity of the stranger to speak. By
far the greater number stood leaning, in lazy, lounging attitudes, against the
upright posts that supported the crazy building, while three or four of the
oldest and most distinguished of the chiefs placed themselves on the earth a
little more in advance.
A flaring torch was burning in the place, and set its red glare from face to
face and figure to figure, as it waved in the currents of air. Duncan profited
by its light to read the probable character of his reception, in the
countenances of his hosts. But his ingenuity availed him little, against the
cold artifices of the people he had encountered. The chiefs in front scarce
cast a glance at his person, keeping their eyes on the ground, with an air that
might have been intended for respect, but which it was quite easy to construe
into distrust. The men in the shadow were less reserved. Duncan soon detected
their searching, but stolen, looks which, in truth, scanned his person and
attire inch by inch; leaving no emotion of the countenance, no gesture, no line
of the paint, nor even the fashion of a garment, unheeded, and without comment.
At length one whose hair was beginning to be sprinkled with gray, but whose
sinewy limbs and firm tread announced that he was still equal to the duties of
manhood, advanced out of the gloom of a corner, whither he had probably posted
himself to make his observations unseen, and spoke. He used the language of the
Wyandots, or Hurons; his words were, consequently, unintelligible to Heyward,
though they seemed, by the gestures that accompanied them, to be uttered more
in courtesy than anger. The latter shook his head, and made a gesture
indicative of his inability to reply.
“Do none of my brothers speak the French or the English?” he said,
in the former language, looking about him from countenance to countenance, in
hopes of finding a nod of assent.
Though more than one had turned, as if to catch the meaning of his words, they
remained unanswered.
“I should be grieved to think,” continued Duncan, speaking slowly,
and using the simplest French of which he was the master, “to believe
that none of this wise and brave nation understand the language that the
‘Grand Monarque’ uses when he talks to his children. His heart
would be heavy did he believe his red warriors paid him so little
respect!”
A long and grave pause succeeded, during which no movement of a limb, nor any
expression of an eye, betrayed the expression produced by his remark. Duncan,
who knew that silence was a virtue among his hosts, gladly had recourse to the
custom, in order to arrange his ideas. At length the same warrior who had
before addressed him replied, by dryly demanding, in the language of the
Canadas:
“When our Great Father speaks to his people, is it with the tongue of a
Huron?”
“He knows no difference in his children, whether the color of the skin be
red, or black, or white,” returned Duncan, evasively; “though
chiefly is he satisfied with the brave Hurons.”
“In what manner will he speak,” demanded the wary chief,
“when the runners count to him the scalps which five nights ago grew on
the heads of the Yengeese?”
“They were his enemies,” said Duncan, shuddering involuntarily;
“and doubtless, he will say, it is good; my Hurons are very
gallant.”
“Our Canada father does not think it. Instead of looking forward to
reward his Indians, his eyes are turned backward. He sees the dead Yengeese,
but no Huron. What can this mean?”
“A great chief, like him, has more thoughts than tongues. He looks to see
that no enemies are on his trail.”
“The canoe of a dead warrior will not float on the Horican,”
returned the savage, gloomily. “His ears are open to the Delawares, who
are not our friends, and they fill them with lies.”
“It cannot be. See; he has bid me, who am a man that knows the art of
healing, to go to his children, the red Hurons of the great lakes, and ask if
any are sick!”
Another silence succeeded this annunciation of the character Duncan had
assumed. Every eye was simultaneously bent on his person, as if to inquire into
the truth or falsehood of the declaration, with an intelligence and keenness
that caused the subject of their scrutiny to tremble for the result. He was,
however, relieved again by the former speaker.
“Do the cunning men of the Canadas paint their skins?” the Huron
coldly continued; “we have heard them boast that their faces were
pale.”
“When an Indian chief comes among his white fathers,” returned
Duncan, with great steadiness, “he lays aside his buffalo robe, to carry
the shirt that is offered him. My brothers have given me paint and I wear
it.”
A low murmur of applause announced that the compliment of the tribe was
favorably received. The elderly chief made a gesture of commendation, which was
answered by most of his companions, who each threw forth a hand and uttered a
brief exclamation of pleasure. Duncan began to breathe more freely, believing
that the weight of his examination was past; and, as he had already prepared a
simple and probable tale to support his pretended occupation, his hopes of
ultimate success grew brighter.
After a silence of a few moments, as if adjusting his thoughts, in order to