The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
As the voice of the speaker suddenly ceased, every face and all eyes turned, by
a common movement, toward the venerable Tamenund. From the moment that he took
his seat, until the present instant, the lips of the patriarch had not severed,
and scarcely a sign of life had escaped him. He sat bent in feebleness, and
apparently unconscious of the presence he was in, during the whole of that
opening scene, in which the skill of the scout had been so clearly established.
At the nicely graduated sound of Magua’s voice, however, he betrayed some
evidence of consciousness, and once or twice he even raised his head, as if to
listen. But when the crafty Huron spoke of his nation by name, the eyelids of
the old man raised themselves, and he looked out upon the multitude with that
sort of dull, unmeaning expression which might be supposed to belong to the
countenance of a specter. Then he made an effort to rise, and being upheld by
his supporters, he gained his feet, in a posture commanding by its dignity,
while he tottered with weakness.
“Who calls upon the children of the Lenape?” he said, in a deep,
guttural voice, that was rendered awfully audible by the breathless silence of
the multitude; “who speaks of things gone? Does not the egg become a
worm—the worm a fly, and perish? Why tell the Delawares of good that is
past? Better thank the Manitou for that which remains.”
“It is a Wyandot,” said Magua, stepping nigher to the rude platform
on which the other stood; “a friend of Tamenund.”
“A friend!” repeated the sage, on whose brow a dark frown settled,
imparting a portion of that severity which had rendered his eye so terrible in
middle age. “Are the Mingoes rulers of the earth? What brings a Huron in
here?”
“Justice. His prisoners are with his brothers, and he comes for his
own.”
Tamenund turned his head toward one of his supporters, and listened to the
short explanation the man gave.
Then, facing the applicant, he regarded him a moment with deep attention; after
which he said, in a low and reluctant voice:
“Justice is the law of the great Manitou. My children, give the stranger
food. Then, Huron, take thine own and depart.”
On the delivery of this solemn judgment, the patriarch seated himself, and
closed his eyes again, as if better pleased with the images of his own ripened
experience than with the visible objects of the world. Against such a decree
there was no Delaware sufficiently hardy to murmur, much less oppose himself.
The words were barely uttered when four or five of the younger warriors,
stepping behind Heyward and the scout, passed thongs so dexterously and rapidly
around their arms, as to hold them both in instant bondage. The former was too
much engrossed with his precious and nearly insensible burden, to be aware of
their intentions before they were executed; and the latter, who considered even
the hostile tribes of the Delawares a superior race of beings, submitted
without resistance. Perhaps, however, the manner of the scout would not have
been so passive, had he fully comprehended the language in which the preceding
dialogue had been conducted.
Magua cast a look of triumph around the whole assembly before he proceeded to
the execution of his purpose. Perceiving that the men were unable to offer any
resistance, he turned his looks on her he valued most. Cora met his gaze with
an eye so calm and firm, that his resolution wavered. Then, recollecting his
former artifice, he raised Alice from the arms of the warrior against whom she
leaned, and beckoning Heyward to follow, he motioned for the encircling crowd
to open. But Cora, instead of obeying the impulse he had expected, rushed to
the feet of the patriarch, and, raising her voice, exclaimed aloud:
“Just and venerable Delaware, on thy wisdom and power we lean for mercy!
Be deaf to yonder artful and remorseless monster, who poisons thy ears with
falsehoods to feed his thirst for blood. Thou that hast lived long, and that
hast seen the evil of the world, should know how to temper its calamities to
the miserable.”
The eyes of the old man opened heavily, and he once more looked upward at the
multitude. As the piercing tones of the suppliant swelled on his ears, they
moved slowly in the direction of her person, and finally settled there in a
steady gaze. Cora had cast herself to her knees; and, with hands clenched in
each other and pressed upon her bosom, she remained like a beauteous and
breathing model of her sex, looking up in his faded but majestic countenance,
with a species of holy reverence. Gradually the expression of Tamenund’s
features changed, and losing their vacancy in admiration, they lighted with a
portion of that intelligence which a century before had been wont to
communicate his youthful fire to the extensive bands of the Delawares. Rising
without assistance, and seemingly without an effort, he demanded, in a voice
that startled its auditors by its firmness:
“What art thou?”
“A woman. One of a hated race, if thou wilt—a Yengee. But one who
has never harmed thee, and who cannot harm thy people, if she would; who asks
for succor.”
“Tell me, my children,” continued the patriarch, hoarsely,
motioning to those around him, though his eyes still dwelt upon the kneeling
form of Cora, “where have the Delawares camped?”
“In the mountains of the Iroquois, beyond the clear springs of the
Horican.”
“Many parching summers are come and gone,” continued the sage,
“since I drank of the water of my own rivers. The children of
Minquon[1]
are the justest white men, but they were thirsty and they took it to
themselves. Do they follow us so far?”
[1]
William Penn was termed Minquon by the Delawares, and, as he never used
violence or injustice in his dealings with them, his reputation for probity
passed into a proverb. The American is justly proud of the origin of his
nation, which is perhaps unequaled in the history of the world; but the
Pennsylvanian and Jerseyman have more reason to value themselves in their
ancestors than the natives of any other state, since no wrong was done the
original owners of the soil.
“We follow none, we covet nothing,” answered Cora. “Captives
against our wills, have we been brought amongst you; and we ask but permission
to depart to our own in peace. Art thou not Tamenund—the father, the
judge, I had almost said, the prophet—of this people?”
“I am Tamenund of many days.”
“’Tis now some seven years that one of thy people was at the mercy
of a white chief on the borders of this province. He claimed to be of the blood
of the good and just Tamenund. ‘Go’, said the white man, ‘for
thy parent’s sake thou art free.’ Dost thou remember the name of
that English warrior?”
“I remember, that when a laughing boy,” returned the patriarch,
with the peculiar recollection of vast age, “I stood upon the sands of
the sea shore, and saw a big canoe, with wings whiter than the swan’s,
and wider than many eagles, come from the rising sun.”
“Nay, nay; I speak not of a time so very distant, but of favor shown to
thy kindred by one of mine, within the memory of thy youngest warrior.”
“Was it when the Yengeese and the Dutchmanne fought for the
hunting-grounds of the Delawares? Then Tamenund was a chief, and first laid
aside the bow for the lightning of the pale faces—”
“Not yet then,” interrupted Cora, “by many ages; I speak of a
thing of yesterday. Surely, surely, you forget it not.”
“It was but yesterday,” rejoined the aged man, with touching
pathos, “that the children of the Lenape were masters of the world. The
fishes of the salt lake, the birds, the beasts, and the Mengee of the woods,
owned them for Sagamores.”
Cora bowed her head in disappointment, and, for a bitter moment struggled with
her chagrin. Then, elevating her rich features and beaming eyes, she continued,
in tones scarcely less penetrating than the unearthly voice of the patriarch
himself:
“Tell me, is Tamenund a father?”
The old man looked down upon her from his elevated stand, with a benignant
smile on his wasted countenance, and then casting his eyes slowly over the
whole assemblage, he answered:
“Of a nation.”
“For myself I ask nothing. Like thee and thine, venerable chief,”
she continued, pressing her hands convulsively on her heart, and suffering her
head to droop until her burning cheeks were nearly concealed in the maze of
dark, glossy tresses that fell in disorder upon her shoulders, “the curse
of my ancestors has fallen heavily on their child. But yonder is one who has
never known the weight of Heaven’s displeasure until now. She is the
daughter of an old and failing man, whose days are near their close. She has
many, very many, to love her, and delight in her; and she is too good, much too
precious, to become the victim of that villain.”
“I know that the pale faces are a proud and hungry race. I know that they
claim not only to have the earth, but that the meanest of their color is better
than the Sachems of the red man. The dogs and crows of their tribes,”
continued the earnest old chieftain, without heeding the wounded spirit of his
listener, whose head was nearly crushed to the earth in shame, as he proceeded,
“would bark and caw before they would take a woman to their wigwams whose
blood was not of the color of snow. But let them not boast before the face of
the Manitou too loud. They entered the land at the rising, and may yet go off
at the setting sun. I have often seen the locusts strip the leaves from the
trees, but the season of blossoms has always come again.”
“It is so,” said Cora, drawing a long breath, as if reviving from a
trance, raising her face, and shaking back her shining veil, with a kindling
eye, that contradicted the death-like paleness of her countenance; “but
why—it is not permitted us to inquire. There is yet one of thine own
people who has not been brought before thee; before thou lettest the Huron
depart in triumph, hear him speak.”
Observing Tamenund to look about him doubtingly, one of his companions said:
“It is a snake—a red-skin in the pay of the Yengeese. We keep him
for the torture.”
“Let him come,” returned the sage.
Then Tamenund once more sank into his seat, and a silence so deep prevailed
while the young man prepared to obey his simple mandate, that the leaves, which
fluttered in the draught of the light morning air, were distinctly heard
rustling in the surrounding forest.
CHAPTER XXX.
“If you deny me, fie upon your law!
There is no force in the decrees of Venice:
I stand for judgment: answer, shall I have it?”
—Merchant of Venice
The silence continued unbroken by human sounds for many anxious minutes. Then
the waving multitude opened and shut again, and Uncas stood in the living
circle. All those eyes, which had been curiously studying the lineaments of the
sage, as the source of their own intelligence, turned on the instant, and were
now bent in secret admiration on the erect, agile, and faultless person of the
captive. But neither the presence in which he found himself, nor the exclusive
attention that he attracted, in any manner disturbed the self-possession of the
young Mohican. He cast a deliberate and observing look on every side of him,
meeting the settled expression of hostility that lowered in the visages of the
chiefs with the same calmness as the curious gaze of the attentive children.
But when, last in this haughty scrutiny, the person of Tamenund came under his
glance, his eye became fixed, as though all other objects were already
forgotten. Then, advancing with a slow and noiseless step up the area, he
placed himself immediately before the footstool of the sage. Here he stood
unnoted, though keenly observant himself, until one of the chiefs apprised the
latter of his presence.