The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
“First tell me of the maiden, and of the youth who so bravely sought
her,” interrupted David.
“Ay, they are happily freed from the tomahawks of these varlets. But can
you put me on the scent of Uncas?”
“The young man is in bondage, and much I fear his death is decreed. I
greatly mourn that one so well disposed should die in his ignorance, and I have
sought a goodly hymn—”
“Can you lead me to him?”
“The task will not be difficult,” returned David, hesitating;
“though I greatly fear your presence would rather increase than mitigate
his unhappy fortunes.”
“No more words, but lead on,” returned Hawkeye, concealing his face
again, and setting the example in his own person, by instantly quitting the
lodge.
As they proceeded, the scout ascertained that his companion found access to
Uncas, under privilege of his imaginary infirmity, aided by the favor he had
acquired with one of the guards, who, in consequence of speaking a little
English, had been selected by David as the subject of a religious conversion.
How far the Huron comprehended the intentions of his new friend may well be
doubted; but as exclusive attention is as flattering to a savage as to a more
civilized individual, it had produced the effect we have mentioned. It is
unnecessary to repeat the shrewd manner with which the scout extracted these
particulars from the simple David; neither shall we dwell in this place on the
nature of the instruction he delivered, when completely master of all the
necessary facts; as the whole will be sufficiently explained to the reader in
the course of the narrative.
The lodge in which Uncas was confined was in the very center of the village,
and in a situation, perhaps, more difficult than any other to approach, or
leave, without observation. But it was not the policy of Hawkeye to affect the
least concealment. Presuming on his disguise, and his ability to sustain the
character he had assumed, he took the most plain and direct route to the place.
The hour, however, afforded him some little of that protection which he
appeared so much to despise. The boys were already buried in sleep, and all the
women, and most of the warriors, had retired to their lodges for the night.
Four or five of the latter only lingered about the door of the prison of Uncas,
wary but close observers of the manner of their captive.
At the sight of Gamut, accompanied by one in the well-known masquerade of their
most distinguished conjurer, they readily made way for them both. Still they
betrayed no intention to depart. On the other hand, they were evidently
disposed to remain bound to the place by an additional interest in the
mysterious mummeries that they of course expected from such a visit.
From the total inability of the scout to address the Hurons in their own
language, he was compelled to trust the conversation entirely to David.
Notwithstanding the simplicity of the latter, he did ample justice to the
instructions he had received, more than fulfilling the strongest hopes of his
teacher.
“The Delawares are women!” he exclaimed, addressing himself to the
savage who had a slight understanding of the language in which he spoke;
“the Yengeese, my foolish countrymen, have told them to take up the
tomahawk, and strike their fathers in the Canadas, and they have forgotten
their sex. Does my brother wish to hear ‘Le Cerf Agile’ ask for his
petticoats, and see him weep before the Hurons, at the stake?”
The exclamation “Hugh!” delivered in a strong tone of assent,
announced the gratification the savage would receive in witnessing such an
exhibition of weakness in an enemy so long hated and so much feared.
“Then let him step aside, and the cunning man will blow upon the dog.
Tell it to my brothers.”
The Huron explained the meaning of David to his fellows, who, in their turn,
listened to the project with that sort of satisfaction that their untamed
spirits might be expected to find in such a refinement in cruelty. They drew
back a little from the entrance and motioned to the supposed conjurer to enter.
But the bear, instead of obeying, maintained the seat it had taken, and
growled:
“The cunning man is afraid that his breath will blow upon his brothers,
and take away their courage too,” continued David, improving the hint he
received; “they must stand further off.”
The Hurons, who would have deemed such a misfortune the heaviest calamity that
could befall them, fell back in a body, taking a position where they were out
of earshot, though at the same time they could command a view of the entrance
to the lodge. Then, as if satisfied of their safety, the scout left his
position, and slowly entered the place. It was silent and gloomy, being
tenanted solely by the captive, and lighted by the dying embers of a fire,
which had been used for the purposed of cookery.
Uncas occupied a distant corner, in a reclining attitude, being rigidly bound,
both hands and feet, by strong and painful withes. When the frightful object
first presented itself to the young Mohican, he did not deign to bestow a
single glance on the animal. The scout, who had left David at the door, to
ascertain they were not observed, thought it prudent to preserve his disguise
until assured of their privacy. Instead of speaking, therefore, he exerted
himself to enact one of the antics of the animal he represented. The young
Mohican, who at first believed his enemies had sent in a real beast to torment
him, and try his nerves, detected in those performances that to Heyward had
appeared so accurate, certain blemishes, that at once betrayed the counterfeit.
Had Hawkeye been aware of the low estimation in which the skillful Uncas held
his representations, he would probably have prolonged the entertainment a
little in pique. But the scornful expression of the young man’s eye
admitted of so many constructions, that the worthy scout was spared the
mortification of such a discovery. As soon, therefore, as David gave the
preconcerted signal, a low hissing sound was heard in the lodge in place of the
fierce growlings of the bear.
His keen eye rested on the shaggy monster.
Uncas had cast his body back against the wall of the hut and closed his eyes,
as if willing to exclude so contemptible and disagreeable an object from his
sight. But the moment the noise of the serpent was heard, he arose, and cast
his looks on each side of him, bending his head low, and turning it inquiringly
in every direction, until his keen eye rested on the shaggy monster, where it
remained riveted, as though fixed by the power of a charm. Again the same
sounds were repeated, evidently proceeding from the mouth of the beast. Once
more the eyes of the youth roamed over the interior of the lodge, and returning
to the former resting place, he uttered, in a deep, suppressed voice:
“Hawkeye!”
“Cut his bands,” said Hawkeye to David, who just then approached
them.
The singer did as he was ordered, and Uncas found his limbs released. At the
same moment the dried skin of the animal rattled, and presently the scout arose
to his feet, in proper person. The Mohican appeared to comprehend the nature of
the attempt his friend had made, intuitively, neither tongue nor feature
betraying another symptom of surprise. When Hawkeye had cast his shaggy
vestment, which was done by simply loosing certain thongs of skin, he drew a
long, glittering knife, and put it in the hands of Uncas.
“The red Hurons are without,” he said; “let us be
ready.” At the same time he laid his finger significantly on another
similar weapon, both being the fruits of his prowess among their enemies during
the evening.
“We will go,” said Uncas.
“Whither?”
“To the Tortoises; they are the children of my grandfathers.”
“Ay, lad,” said the scout in English—a language he was apt to
use when a little abstracted in mind; “the same blood runs in your veins,
I believe; but time and distance has a little changed its color. What shall we
do with the Mingoes at the door? They count six, and this singer is as good as
nothing.”
“The Hurons are boasters,” said Uncas, scornfully; “their
‘totem’ is a moose, and they run like snails. The Delawares are
children of the tortoise, and they outstrip the deer.”
“Ay, lad, there is truth in what you say; and I doubt not, on a rush, you
would pass the whole nation; and, in a straight race of two miles, would be in,
and get your breath again, afore a knave of them all was within hearing of the
other village. But the gift of a white man lies more in his arms than in his
legs. As for myself, I can brain a Huron as well as a better man; but when it
comes to a race the knaves would prove too much for me.”
Uncas, who had already approached the door, in readiness to lead the way, now
recoiled, and placed himself, once more, in the bottom of the lodge. But
Hawkeye, who was too much occupied with his own thoughts to note the movement,
continued speaking more to himself than to his companion.
“After all,” he said, “it is unreasonable to keep one man in
bondage to the gifts of another. So, Uncas, you had better take the lead, while
I will put on the skin again, and trust to cunning for want of speed.”
The young Mohican made no reply, but quietly folded his arms, and leaned his
body against one of the upright posts that supported the wall of the hut.
“Well,” said the scout looking up at him, “why do you tarry?
There will be time enough for me, as the knaves will give chase to you at
first.”
“Uncas will stay,” was the calm reply.
“For what?”
“To fight with his father’s brother, and die with the friend of the
Delawares.”
“Ay, lad,” returned Hawkeye, squeezing the hand of Uncas between
his own iron fingers; “’twould have been more like a Mingo than a
Mohican had you left me. But I thought I would make the offer, seeing that
youth commonly loves life. Well, what can’t be done by main courage, in
war, must be done by circumvention. Put on the skin; I doubt not you can play
the bear nearly as well as myself.”
Whatever might have been the private opinion of Uncas of their respective
abilities in this particular, his grave countenance manifested no opinion of
his superiority. He silently and expeditiously encased himself in the covering
of the beast, and then awaited such other movements as his more aged companion
saw fit to dictate.
“Now, friend,” said Hawkeye, addressing David, “an exchange
of garments will be a great convenience to you, inasmuch as you are but little
accustomed to the make-shifts of the wilderness. Here, take my hunting shirt
and cap, and give me your blanket and hat. You must trust me with the book and
spectacles, as well as the tooter, too; if we ever meet again, in better times,
you shall have all back again, with many thanks into the bargain.”
David parted with the several articles named with a readiness that would have
done great credit to his liberality, had he not certainly profited, in many
particulars, by the exchange. Hawkeye was not long in assuming his borrowed
garments; and when his restless eyes were hid behind the glasses, and his head
was surmounted by the triangular beaver, as their statures were not dissimilar,
he might readily have passed for the singer, by starlight. As soon as these
dispositions were made, the scout turned to David, and gave him his parting
instructions.
“Are you much given to cowardice?” he bluntly asked, by way of
obtaining a suitable understanding of the whole case before he ventured a
prescription.
“My pursuits are peaceful, and my temper, I humbly trust, is greatly
given to mercy and love,” returned David, a little nettled at so direct
an attack on his manhood; “but there are none who can say that I have
ever forgotten my faith in the Lord, even in the greatest straits.”