The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
daren’t deny that I am genuine white,” the scout replied,
surveying, with secret satisfaction, the faded color of his bony and sinewy
hand, “and I am willing to own that my people have many ways, of which,
as an honest man, I can’t approve. It is one of their customs to write in
books what they have done and seen, instead of telling them in their villages,
where the lie can be given to the face of a cowardly boaster, and the brave
soldier can call on his comrades to witness for the truth of his words. In
consequence of this bad fashion, a man, who is too conscientious to misspend
his days among the women, in learning the names of black marks, may never hear
of the deeds of his fathers, nor feel a pride in striving to outdo them. For
myself, I conclude the Bumppos could shoot, for I have a natural turn with a
rifle, which must have been handed down from generation to generation, as, our
holy commandments tell us, all good and evil gifts are bestowed; though I
should be loath to answer for other people in such a matter. But every story
has its two sides; so I ask you, Chingachgook, what passed, according to the
traditions of the red men, when our fathers first met?”
A silence of a minute succeeded, during which the Indian sat mute; then, full
of the dignity of his office, he commenced his brief tale, with a solemnity
that served to heighten its appearance of truth.
“Listen, Hawkeye, and your ear shall drink no lie. ’Tis what my
fathers have said, and what the Mohicans have done.” He hesitated a
single instant, and bending a cautious glance toward his companion, he
continued, in a manner that was divided between interrogation and assertion.
“Does not this stream at our feet run toward the summer, until its waters
grow salt, and the current flows upward?”
“It can’t be denied that your traditions tell you true in both
these matters,” said the white man; “for I have been there, and
have seen them, though why water, which is so sweet in the shade, should become
bitter in the sun, is an alteration for which I have never been able to
account.”
“And the current!” demanded the Indian, who expected his reply with
that sort of interest that a man feels in the confirmation of testimony, at
which he marvels even while he respects it; “the fathers of Chingachgook
have not lied!”
“The holy Bible is not more true, and that is the truest thing in nature.
They call this up-stream current the tide, which is a thing soon explained, and
clear enough. Six hours the waters run in, and six hours they run out, and the
reason is this: when there is higher water in the sea than in the river, they
run in until the river gets to be highest, and then it runs out again.”
“The waters in the woods, and on the great lakes, run downward until they
lie like my hand,” said the Indian, stretching the limb horizontally
before him, “and then they run no more.”
“No honest man will deny it,” said the scout, a little nettled at
the implied distrust of his explanation of the mystery of the tides; “and
I grant that it is true on the small scale, and where the land is level. But
everything depends on what scale you look at things. Now, on the small scale,
the ’arth is level; but on the large scale it is round. In this manner,
pools and ponds, and even the great fresh-water lakes, may be stagnant, as you
and I both know they are, having seen them; but when you come to spread water
over a great tract, like the sea, where the earth is round, how in reason can
the water be quiet? You might as well expect the river to lie still on the
brink of those black rocks a mile above us, though your own ears tell you that
it is tumbling over them at this very moment.”
If unsatisfied by the philosophy of his companion, the Indian was far too
dignified to betray his unbelief. He listened like one who was convinced, and
resumed his narrative in his former solemn manner.
“We came from the place where the sun is hid at night, over great plains
where the buffaloes live, until we reached the big river. There we fought the
Alligewi, till the ground was red with their blood. From the banks of the big
river to the shores of the salt lake, there was none to meet us. The Maquas
followed at a distance. We said the country should be ours from the place where
the water runs up no longer on this stream, to a river twenty sun’s
journey toward the summer. We drove the Maquas into the woods with the bears.
They only tasted salt at the licks; they drew no fish from the great lake; we
threw them the bones.”
“All this I have heard and believe,” said the white man, observing
that the Indian paused; “but it was long before the English came into the
country.”
“A pine grew then where this chestnut now stands. The first pale faces
who came among us spoke no English. They came in a large canoe, when my fathers
had buried the tomahawk with the red men around them. Then, Hawkeye,” he
continued, betraying his deep emotion, only by permitting his voice to fall to
those low, guttural tones, which render his language, as spoken at times, so
very musical; “then, Hawkeye, we were one people, and we were happy. The
salt lake gave us its fish, the wood its deer, and the air its birds. We took
wives who bore us children; we worshipped the Great Spirit; and we kept the
Maquas beyond the sound of our songs of triumph.”
“Know you anything of your own family at that time?” demanded the
white. “But you are just a man, for an Indian; and as I suppose you hold
their gifts, your fathers must have been brave warriors, and wise men at the
council-fire.”
“My tribe is the grandfather of nations, but I am an unmixed man. The
blood of chiefs is in my veins, where it must stay forever. The Dutch landed,
and gave my people the fire-water; they drank until the heavens and the earth
seemed to meet, and they foolishly thought they had found the Great Spirit.
Then they parted with their land. Foot by foot, they were driven back from the
shores, until I, that am a chief and a Sagamore, have never seen the sun shine
but through the trees, and have never visited the graves of my fathers.”
“Graves bring solemn feelings over the mind,” returned the scout, a
good deal touched at the calm suffering of his companion; “and they often
aid a man in his good intentions; though, for myself, I expect to leave my own
bones unburied, to bleach in the woods, or to be torn asunder by the wolves.
But where are to be found those of your race who came to their kin in the
Delaware country, so many summers since?”
“Where are the blossoms of those summers!—fallen, one by one; so
all of my family departed, each in his turn, to the land of spirits. I am on
the hilltop and must go down into the valley; and when Uncas follows in my
footsteps there will no longer be any of the blood of the Sagamores, for my boy
is the last of the Mohicans.”
“Uncas is here,” said another voice, in the same soft, guttural
tones, near his elbow; “who speaks to Uncas?”
The white man loosened his knife in his leathern sheath, and made an
involuntary movement of the hand toward his rifle, at this sudden interruption;
but the Indian sat composed, and without turning his head at the unexpected
sounds.
At the next instant, a youthful warrior passed between them, with a noiseless
step, and seated himself on the bank of the rapid stream. No exclamation of
surprise escaped the father, nor was any question asked, or reply given, for
several minutes; each appearing to await the moment when he might speak,
without betraying womanish curiosity or childish impatience. The white man
seemed to take counsel from their customs, and, relinquishing his grasp of the
rifle, he also remained silent and reserved. At length Chingachgook turned his
eyes slowly toward his son, and demanded:
“Do the Maquas dare to leave the print of their moccasins in these
woods?”
“I have been on their trail,” replied the young Indian, “and
know that they number as many as the fingers of my two hands; but they lie hid
like cowards.”
“The thieves are outlying for scalps and plunder,” said the white
man, whom we shall call Hawkeye, after the manner of his companions.
“That busy Frenchman, Montcalm, will send his spies into our very camp,
but he will know what road we travel!”
“’Tis enough,” returned the father, glancing his eye toward
the setting sun; “they shall be driven like deer from their bushes.
Hawkeye, let us eat to-night, and show the Maquas that we are men
to-morrow.”
“I am as ready to do the one as the other; but to fight the Iroquois
’tis necessary to find the skulkers; and to eat, ’tis necessary to
get the game—talk of the devil and he will come; there is a pair of the
biggest antlers I have seen this season, moving the bushes below the hill! Now,
Uncas,” he continued, in a half whisper, and laughing with a kind of
inward sound, like one who had learned to be watchful, “I will bet my
charger three times full of powder, against a foot of wampum, that I take him
atwixt the eyes, and nearer to the right than to the left.”
“It cannot be!” said the young Indian, springing to his feet with
youthful eagerness; “all but the tips of his horns are hid!”
“He’s a boy!” said the white man, shaking his head while he
spoke, and addressing the father. “Does he think when a hunter sees a
part of the creature’, he can’t tell where the rest of him should
be!”
Adjusting his rifle, he was about to make an exhibition of that skill on which
he so much valued himself, when the warrior struck up the piece with his hand,
saying:
“Hawkeye! will you fight the Maquas?”
“These Indians know the nature of the woods, as it might be by
instinct!” returned the scout, dropping his rifle, and turning away like
a man who was convinced of his error. “I must leave the buck to your
arrow, Uncas, or we may kill a deer for them thieves, the Iroquois, to
eat.”
The instant the father seconded this intimation by an expressive gesture of the
hand, Uncas threw himself on the ground, and approached the animal with wary
movements. When within a few yards of the cover, he fitted an arrow to his bow
with the utmost care, while the antlers moved, as if their owner snuffed an
enemy in the tainted air. In another moment the twang of the cord was heard, a
white streak was seen glancing into the bushes, and the wounded buck plunged
from the cover, to the very feet of his hidden enemy. Avoiding the horns of the
infuriated animal, Uncas darted to his side, and passed his knife across the
throat, when bounding to the edge of the river it fell, dyeing the waters with
its blood.
“’Twas done with Indian skill,” said the scout laughing
inwardly, but with vast satisfaction; “and ’twas a pretty sight to
behold! Though an arrow is a near shot, and needs a knife to finish the
work.”
“Hugh!” ejaculated his companion, turning quickly, like a hound who
scented game.
“By the Lord, there is a drove of them!” exclaimed the scout, whose
eyes began to glisten with the ardor of his usual occupation; “if they
come within range of a bullet I will drop one, though the whole Six Nations
should be lurking within sound! What do you hear, Chingachgook? for to my ears
the woods are dumb.”
“There is but one deer, and he is dead,” said the Indian, bending
his body till his ear nearly touched the earth. “I hear the sounds of
feet!”
“Perhaps the wolves have driven the buck to shelter, and are following on
his trail.”
“No. The horses of white men are coming!” returned the other,
raising himself with dignity, and resuming his seat on the log with his former
composure. “Hawkeye, they are your brothers; speak to them.”
“That I will, and in English that the king needn’t be ashamed to
answer,” returned the hunter, speaking in the language of which he