The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
make a suitable answer to the declaration their guests had just given, another
warrior arose, and placed himself in an attitude to speak. While his lips were
yet in the act of parting, a low but fearful sound arose from the forest, and
was immediately succeeded by a high, shrill yell, that was drawn out, until it
equaled the longest and most plaintive howl of the wolf. The sudden and
terrible interruption caused Duncan to start from his seat, unconscious of
everything but the effect produced by so frightful a cry. At the same moment,
the warriors glided in a body from the lodge, and the outer air was filled with
loud shouts, that nearly drowned those awful sounds, which were still ringing
beneath the arches of the woods. Unable to command himself any longer, the
youth broke from the place, and presently stood in the center of a disorderly
throng, that included nearly everything having life, within the limits of the
encampment. Men, women, and children; the aged, the inform, the active, and the
strong, were alike abroad, some exclaiming aloud, others clapping their hands
with a joy that seemed frantic, and all expressing their savage pleasure in
some unexpected event. Though astounded, at first, by the uproar, Heyward was
soon enabled to find its solution by the scene that followed.
There yet lingered sufficient light in the heavens to exhibit those bright
openings among the tree-tops, where different paths left the clearing to enter
the depths of the wilderness. Beneath one of them, a line of warriors issued
from the woods, and advanced slowly toward the dwellings. One in front bore a
short pole, on which, as it afterwards appeared, were suspended several human
scalps. The startling sounds that Duncan had heard were what the whites have
not inappropriately called the “death-hallo”; and each repetition
of the cry was intended to announce to the tribe the fate of an enemy. Thus far
the knowledge of Heyward assisted him in the explanation; and as he now knew
that the interruption was caused by the unlooked-for return of a successful
war-party, every disagreeable sensation was quieted in inward congratulation,
for the opportune relief and insignificance it conferred on himself.
When at the distance of a few hundred feet from the lodges the newly arrived
warriors halted. Their plaintive and terrific cry, which was intended to
represent equally the wailings of the dead and the triumph to the victors, had
entirely ceased. One of their number now called aloud, in words that were far
from appalling, though not more intelligible to those for whose ears they were
intended, than their expressive yells. It would be difficult to convey a
suitable idea of the savage ecstasy with which the news thus imparted was
received. The whole encampment, in a moment, became a scene of the most violent
bustle and commotion. The warriors drew their knives, and flourishing them,
they arranged themselves in two lines, forming a lane that extended from the
war-party to the lodges. The squaws seized clubs, axes, or whatever weapon of
offense first offered itself to their hands, and rushed eagerly to act their
part in the cruel game that was at hand. Even the children would not be
excluded; but boys, little able to wield the instruments, tore the tomahawks
from the belts of their fathers, and stole into the ranks, apt imitators of the
savage traits exhibited by their parents.
Large piles of brush lay scattered about the clearing, and a wary and aged
squaw was occupied in firing as many as might serve to light the coming
exhibition. As the flame arose, its power exceeded that of the parting day, and
assisted to render objects at the same time more distinct and more hideous. The
whole scene formed a striking picture, whose frame was composed of the dark and
tall border of pines. The warriors just arrived were the most distant figures.
A little in advance stood two men, who were apparently selected from the rest,
as the principal actors in what was to follow. The light was not strong enough
to render their features distinct, though it was quite evident that they were
governed by very different emotions. While one stood erect and firm, prepared
to meet his fate like a hero, the other bowed his head, as if palsied by terror
or stricken with shame. The high-spirited Duncan felt a powerful impulse of
admiration and pity toward the former, though no opportunity could offer to
exhibit his generous emotions. He watched his slightest movement, however, with
eager eyes; and, as he traced the fine outline of his admirably proportioned
and active frame, he endeavored to persuade himself, that, if the powers of
man, seconded by such noble resolution, could bear one harmless through so
severe a trial, the youthful captive before him might hope for success in the
hazardous race he was about to run. Insensibly the young man drew nigher to the
swarthy lines of the Hurons, and scarcely breathed, so intense became his
interest in the spectacle. Just then the signal yell was given, and the
momentary quiet which had preceded it was broken by a burst of cries, that far
exceeded any before heard. The more abject of the two victims continued
motionless; but the other bounded from the place at the cry, with the activity
and swiftness of a deer. Instead of rushing through the hostile lines, as had
been expected, he just entered the dangerous defile, and before time was given
for a single blow, turned short, and leaping the heads of a row of children, he
gained at once the exterior and safer side of the formidable array. The
artifice was answered by a hundred voices raised in imprecations; and the whole
of the excited multitude broke from their order, and spread themselves about
the place in wild confusion.
A dozen blazing piles now shed their lurid brightness on the place, which
resembled some unhallowed and supernatural arena, in which malicious demons had
assembled to act their bloody and lawless rites. The forms in the background
looked like unearthly beings, gliding before the eye, and cleaving the air with
frantic and unmeaning gestures; while the savage passions of such as passed the
flames were rendered fearfully distinct by the gleams that shot athwart their
inflamed visages.
It will easily be understood that, amid such a concourse of vindictive enemies,
no breathing time was allowed the fugitive. There was a single moment when it
seemed as if he would have reached the forest, but the whole body of his
captors threw themselves before him, and drove him back into the center of his
relentless persecutors. Turning like a headed deer, he shot, with the swiftness
of an arrow, through a pillar of forked flame, and passing the whole multitude
harmless, he appeared on the opposite side of the clearing. Here, too, he was
met and turned by a few of the older and more subtle of the Hurons. Once more
he tried the throng, as if seeking safety in its blindness, and then several
moments succeeded, during which Duncan believed the active and courageous young
stranger was lost.
Nothing could be distinguished but a dark mass of human forms tossed and
involved in inexplicable confusion. Arms, gleaming knives, and formidable
clubs, appeared above them, but the blows were evidently given at random. The
awful effect was heightened by the piercing shrieks of the women and the fierce
yells of the warriors. Now and then Duncan caught a glimpse of a light form
cleaving the air in some desperate bound, and he rather hoped than believed
that the captive yet retained the command of his astonishing powers of
activity. Suddenly the multitude rolled backward, and approached the spot where
he himself stood. The heavy body in the rear pressed upon the women and
children in front, and bore them to the earth. The stranger reappeared in the
confusion. Human power could not, however, much longer endure so severe a
trial. Of this the captive seemed conscious. Profiting by the momentary
opening, he darted from among the warriors, and made a desperate, and what
seemed to Duncan a final effort to gain the wood. As if aware that no danger
was to be apprehended from the young soldier, the fugitive nearly brushed his
person in his flight. A tall and powerful Huron, who had husbanded his forces,
pressed close upon his heels, and with an uplifted arm menaced a fatal blow.
Duncan thrust forth a foot, and the shock precipitated the eager savage
headlong, many feet in advance of his intended victim. Thought itself is not
quicker than was the motion with which the latter profited by the advantage; he
turned, gleamed like a meteor again before the eyes of Duncan, and, at the next
moment, when the latter recovered his recollection, and gazed around in quest
of the captive, he saw him quietly leaning against a small painted post, which
stood before the door of the principal lodge.
Apprehensive that the part he had taken in the escape might prove fatal to
himself, Duncan left the place without delay. He followed the crowd, which drew
nigh the lodges, gloomy and sullen, like any other multitude that had been
disappointed in an execution. Curiosity, or perhaps a better feeling, induced
him to approach the stranger. He found him, standing with one arm cast about
the protecting post, and breathing thick and hard, after his exertions, but
disdaining to permit a single sign of suffering to escape. His person was now
protected by immemorial and sacred usage, until the tribe in council had
deliberated and determined on his fate. It was not difficult, however, to
foretell the result, if any presage could be drawn from the feelings of those
who crowded the place.
There was no term of abuse known to the Huron vocabulary that the disappointed
women did not lavishly expend on the successful stranger. They flouted at his
efforts, and told him, with bitter scoffs, that his feet were better than his
hands; and that he merited wings, while he knew not the use of an arrow or a
knife. To all this the captive made no reply; but was content to preserve an
attitude in which dignity was singularly blended with disdain. Exasperated as
much by his composure as by his good-fortune, their words became
unintelligible, and were succeeded by shrill, piercing yells. Just then the
crafty squaw, who had taken the necessary precaution to fire the piles, made
her way through the throng, and cleared a place for herself in front of the
captive. The squalid and withered person of this hag might well have obtained
for her the character of possessing more than human cunning. Throwing back her
light vestment, she stretched forth her long, skinny arm, in derision, and
using the language of the Lenape, as more intelligible to the subject of her
gibes, she commenced aloud:
“Look you, Delaware,” she said, snapping her fingers in his face;
“your nation is a race of women, and the hoe is better fitted to your
hands than the gun. Your squaws are the mothers of deer; but if a bear, or a
wildcat, or a serpent were born among you, ye would flee. The Huron girls shall
make you petticoats, and we will find you a husband.”
A burst of savage laughter succeeded this attack, during which the soft and
musical merriment of the younger females strangely chimed with the cracked
voice of their older and more malignant companion. But the stranger was
superior to all their efforts. His head was immovable; nor did he betray the
slightest consciousness that any were present, except when his haughty eye
rolled toward the dusky forms of the warriors, who stalked in the background
silent and sullen observers of the scene.
Infuriated at the self-command of the captive, the woman placed her arms
akimbo; and, throwing herself into a posture of defiance, she broke out anew,
in a torrent of words that no art of ours could commit successfully to paper.