The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
beyond that period to which the oldest present had reached; but one in the
center, who leaned on his companions for support, had numbered an amount of
years to which the human race is seldom permitted to attain. His frame, which
had once been tall and erect, like the cedar, was now bending under the
pressure of more than a century. The elastic, light step of an Indian was gone,
and in its place he was compelled to toil his tardy way over the ground, inch
by inch. His dark, wrinkled countenance was in singular and wild contrast with
the long white locks which floated on his shoulders, in such thickness, as to
announce that generations had probably passed away since they had last been
shorn.
The dress of this patriarch—for such, considering his vast age, in
conjunction with his affinity and influence with his people, he might very
properly be termed—was rich and imposing, though strictly after the
simple fashions of the tribe. His robe was of the finest skins, which had been
deprived of their fur, in order to admit of a hieroglyphical representation of
various deeds in arms, done in former ages. His bosom was loaded with medals,
some in massive silver, and one or two even in gold, the gifts of various
Christian potentates during the long period of his life. He also wore armlets,
and cinctures above the ankles, of the latter precious metal. His head, on the
whole of which the hair had been permitted to grow, the pursuits of war having
so long been abandoned, was encircled by a sort of plated diadem, which, in its
turn, bore lesser and more glittering ornaments, that sparkled amid the glossy
hues of three drooping ostrich feathers, dyed a deep black, in touching
contrast to the color of his snow-white locks. His tomahawk was nearly hid in
silver, and the handle of his knife shone like a horn of solid gold.
So soon as the first hum of emotion and pleasure, which the sudden appearance
of this venerated individual created, had a little subsided, the name of
“Tamenund” was whispered from mouth to mouth. Magua had often heard
the fame of this wise and just Delaware; a reputation that even proceeded so
far as to bestow on him the rare gift of holding secret communion with the
Great Spirit, and which has since transmitted his name, with some slight
alteration, to the white usurpers of his ancient territory, as the imaginary
tutelar saint[2]
of a vast empire. The Huron chief, therefore, stepped eagerly out a little from
the throng, to a spot whence he might catch a nearer glimpse of the features of
the man, whose decision was likely to produce so deep an influence on his own
fortunes.
[2]
The Americans sometimes called their tutelar saint Tamenay, a corruption of
the name of the renowned chief here introduced. There are many traditions which
speak of the character and power of Tamenund.
The eyes of the old man were closed, as though the organs were wearied with
having so long witnessed the selfish workings of the human passions. The color
of his skin differed from that of most around him, being richer and darker, the
latter having been produced by certain delicate and mazy lines of complicated
and yet beautiful figures, which had been traced over most of his person by the
operation of tattooing. Notwithstanding the position of the Huron, he passed
the observant and silent Magua without notice, and leaning on his two venerable
supporters proceeded to the high place of the multitude, where he seated
himself in the center of his nation, with the dignity of a monarch and the air
of a father.
Nothing could surpass the reverence and affection with which this unexpected
visit from one who belongs rather to another world than to this, was received
by his people. After a suitable and decent pause, the principal chiefs arose,
and, approaching the patriarch, they placed his hands reverently on their
heads, seeming to entreat a blessing. The younger men were content with
touching his robe, or even drawing nigh his person, in order to breathe in the
atmosphere of one so aged, so just, and so valiant. None but the most
distinguished among the youthful warriors even presumed so far as to perform
the latter ceremony, the great mass of the multitude deeming it a sufficient
happiness to look upon a form so deeply venerated, and so well beloved. When
these acts of affection and respect were performed, the chiefs drew back again
to their several places, and silence reigned in the whole encampment.
After a short delay, a few of the young men, to whom instructions had been
whispered by one of the aged attendants of Tamenund, arose, left the crowd, and
entered the lodge which has already been noted as the object of so much
attention throughout that morning. In a few minutes they reappeared, escorting
the individuals who had caused all these solemn preparations toward the seat of
judgment. The crowd opened in a lane; and when the party had re-entered, it
closed in again, forming a large and dense belt of human bodies, arranged in an
open circle.
CHAPTER XXIX.
“The assembly seated, rising o’er the rest,
Achilles thus the king of men addressed.”
—Pope’s Illiad
Cora stood foremost among the prisoners, entwining her arms in those of Alice,
in the tenderness of sisterly love. Notwithstanding the fearful and menacing
array of savages on every side of her, no apprehension on her own account could
prevent the nobler-minded maiden from keeping her eyes fastened on the pale and
anxious features of the trembling Alice. Close at their side stood Heyward,
with an interest in both, that, at such a moment of intense uncertainty,
scarcely knew a preponderance in favor of her whom he most loved. Hawkeye had
placed himself a little in the rear, with a deference to the superior rank of
his companions, that no similarity in the state of their present fortunes could
induce him to forget. Uncas was not there.
When perfect silence was again restored, and after the usual long, impressive
pause, one of the two aged chiefs who sat at the side of the patriarch arose,
and demanded aloud, in very intelligible English:
“Which of my prisoners is La Longue Carabine?”
Neither Duncan nor the scout answered. The former, however, glanced his eyes
around the dark and silent assembly, and recoiled a pace, when they fell on the
malignant visage of Magua. He saw, at once, that this wily savage had some
secret agency in their present arraignment before the nation, and determined to
throw every possible impediment in the way of the execution of his sinister
plans. He had witnessed one instance of the summary punishments of the Indians,
and now dreaded that his companion was to be selected for a second. In this
dilemma, with little or no time for reflection, he suddenly determined to cloak
his invaluable friend, at any or every hazard to himself. Before he had time,
however, to speak, the question was repeated in a louder voice, and with a
clearer utterance.
“Give us arms,” the young man haughtily replied, “and place
us in yonder woods. Our deeds shall speak for us!”
“This is the warrior whose name has filled our ears!” returned the
chief, regarding Heyward with that sort of curious interest which seems
inseparable from man, when first beholding one of his fellows to whom merit or
accident, virtue or crime, has given notoriety. “What has brought the
white man into the camp of the Delawares?”
“My necessities. I come for food, shelter, and friends.”
“It cannot be. The woods are full of game. The head of a warrior needs no
other shelter than a sky without clouds; and the Delawares are the enemies, and
not the friends of the Yengeese. Go, the mouth has spoken, while the heart said
nothing.”
Duncan, a little at a loss in what manner to proceed, remained silent; but the
scout, who had listened attentively to all that passed, now advanced steadily
to the front.
“That I did not answer to the call for La Longue Carabine, was not owing
either to shame or fear,” he said, “for neither one nor the other
is the gift of an honest man. But I do not admit the right of the Mingoes to
bestow a name on one whose friends have been mindful of his gifts, in this
particular; especially as their title is a lie, ‘killdeer’ being a
grooved barrel and no carabyne. I am the man, however, that got the name of
Nathaniel from my kin; the compliment of Hawkeye from the Delawares, who live
on their own river; and whom the Iroquois have presumed to style the
‘Long Rifle’, without any warranty from him who is most concerned
in the matter.”
The eyes of all present, which had hitherto been gravely scanning the person of
Duncan, were now turned, on the instant, toward the upright iron frame of this
new pretender to the distinguished appellation. It was in no degree remarkable
that there should be found two who were willing to claim so great an honor, for
impostors, though rare, were not unknown among the natives; but it was
altogether material to the just and severe intentions of the Delawares, that
there should be no mistake in the matter. Some of their old men consulted
together in private, and then, as it would seem, they determined to interrogate
their visitor on the subject.
“My brother has said that a snake crept into my camp,” said the
chief to Magua; “which is he?”
The Huron pointed to the scout.
“Will a wise Delaware believe the barking of a wolf?” exclaimed
Duncan, still more confirmed in the evil intentions of his ancient enemy:
“a dog never lies, but when was a wolf known to speak the truth?”
The eyes of Magua flashed fire; but suddenly recollecting the necessity of
maintaining his presence of mind, he turned away in silent disdain, well
assured that the sagacity of the Indians would not fail to extract the real
merits of the point in controversy. He was not deceived; for, after another
short consultation, the wary Delaware turned to him again, and expressed the
determination of the chiefs, though in the most considerate language.
“My brother has been called a liar,” he said, “and his
friends are angry. They will show that he has spoken the truth. Give my
prisoners guns, and let them prove which is the man.”
Magua affected to consider the expedient, which he well knew proceeded from
distrust of himself, as a compliment, and made a gesture of acquiescence, well
content that his veracity should be supported by so skillful a marksman as the
scout. The weapons were instantly placed in the hands of the friendly
opponents, and they were bid to fire, over the heads of the seated multitude,
at an earthen vessel, which lay, by accident, on a stump, some fifty yards from
the place where they stood.
Heyward smiled to himself at the idea of a competition with the scout, though
he determined to persevere in the deception, until apprised of the real designs
of Magua.
Raising his rifle with the utmost care, and renewing his aim three several
times, he fired. The bullet cut the wood within a few inches of the vessel; and
a general exclamation of satisfaction announced that the shot was considered a
proof of great skill in the use of a weapon. Even Hawkeye nodded his head, as
if he would say, it was better than he expected. But, instead of manifesting an
intention to contend with the successful marksman, he stood leaning on his
rifle for more than a minute, like a man who was completely buried in thought.
From this reverie, he was, however, awakened by one of the young Indians who
had furnished the arms, and who now touched his shoulder, saying in exceedingly
broken English:
“Can the pale face beat it?”
“Yes, Huron!” exclaimed the scout, raising the short rifle in his
right hand, and shaking it at Magua, with as much apparent ease as if it were a
reed; “yes, Huron, I could strike you now, and no power on earth could