The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
natures and swept away every trace of resistance by the fury of the onset.
The combat endured only for an instant, hand to hand, and then the assailed
yielded ground rapidly, until they reached the opposite margin of the thicket,
where they clung to the cover, with the sort of obstinacy that is so often
witnessed in hunted brutes. At this critical moment, when the success of the
struggle was again becoming doubtful, the crack of a rifle was heard behind the
Hurons, and a bullet came whizzing from among some beaver lodges, which were
situated in the clearing, in their rear, and was followed by the fierce and
appalling yell of the war-whoop.
“There speaks the Sagamore!” shouted Hawkeye, answering the cry
with his own stentorian voice; “we have them now in face and back!”
The effect on the Hurons was instantaneous. Discouraged by an assault from a
quarter that left them no opportunity for cover, the warriors uttered a common
yell of disappointment, and breaking off in a body, they spread themselves
across the opening, heedless of every consideration but flight. Many fell, in
making the experiment, under the bullets and the blows of the pursuing
Delawares.
We shall not pause to detail the meeting between the scout and Chingachgook, or
the more touching interview that Duncan held with Munro. A few brief and
hurried words served to explain the state of things to both parties; and then
Hawkeye, pointing out the Sagamore to his band, resigned the chief authority
into the hands of the Mohican chief. Chingachgook assumed the station to which
his birth and experience gave him so distinguished a claim, with the grave
dignity that always gives force to the mandates of a native warrior. Following
the footsteps of the scout, he led the party back through the thicket, his men
scalping the fallen Hurons and secreting the bodies of their own dead as they
proceeded, until they gained a point where the former was content to make a
halt.
The warriors, who had breathed themselves freely in the preceding struggle,
were now posted on a bit of level ground, sprinkled with trees in sufficient
numbers to conceal them. The land fell away rather precipitately in front, and
beneath their eyes stretched, for several miles, a narrow, dark, and wooded
vale. It was through this dense and dark forest that Uncas was still contending
with the main body of the Hurons.
The Mohican and his friends advanced to the brow of the hill, and listened,
with practised ears, to the sounds of the combat. A few birds hovered over the
leafy bosom of the valley, frightened from their secluded nests; and here and
there a light vapory cloud, which seemed already blending with the atmosphere,
arose above the trees, and indicated some spot where the struggle had been
fierce and stationary.
“The fight is coming up the ascent,” said Duncan, pointing in the
direction of a new explosion of firearms; “we are too much in the center
of their line to be effective.”
“They will incline into the hollow, where the cover is thicker,”
said the scout, “and that will leave us well on their flank. Go,
Sagamore; you will hardly be in time to give the whoop, and lead on the young
men. I will fight this scrimmage with warriors of my own color. You know me,
Mohican; not a Huron of them all shall cross the swell, into your rear, without
the notice of ‘killdeer’.”
The Indian chief paused another moment to consider the signs of the contest,
which was now rolling rapidly up the ascent, a certain evidence that the
Delawares triumphed; nor did he actually quit the place until admonished of the
proximity of his friends, as well as enemies, by the bullets of the former,
which began to patter among the dried leaves on the ground, like the bits of
falling hail which precede the bursting of the tempest. Hawkeye and his three
companions withdrew a few paces to a shelter, and awaited the issue with
calmness that nothing but great practise could impart in such a scene.
It was not long before the reports of the rifles began to lose the echoes of
the woods, and to sound like weapons discharged in the open air. Then a warrior
appeared, here and there, driven to the skirts of the forest, and rallying as
he entered the clearing, as at the place where the final stand was to be made.
These were soon joined by others, until a long line of swarthy figures was to
be seen clinging to the cover with the obstinacy of desperation. Heyward began
to grow impatient, and turned his eyes anxiously in the direction of
Chingachgook. The chief was seated on a rock, with nothing visible but his calm
visage, considering the spectacle with an eye as deliberate as if he were
posted there merely to view the struggle.
“The time has come for the Delaware to strike!” said Duncan.
“Not so, not so,” returned the scout; “when he scents his
friends, he will let them know that he is here. See, see; the knaves are
getting in that clump of pines, like bees settling after their flight. By the
Lord, a squaw might put a bullet into the center of such a knot of dark
skins!”
At that instant the whoop was given, and a dozen Hurons fell by a discharge
from Chingachgook and his band. The shout that followed was answered by a
single war-cry from the forest, and a yell passed through the air that sounded
as if a thousand throats were united in a common effort. The Hurons staggered,
deserting the center of their line, and Uncas issued from the forest through
the opening they left, at the head of a hundred warriors.
Waving his hands right and left, the young chief pointed out the enemy to his
followers, who separated in pursuit. The war now divided, both wings of the
broken Hurons seeking protection in the woods again, hotly pressed by the
victorious warriors of the Lenape. A minute might have passed, but the sounds
were already receding in different directions, and gradually losing their
distinctness beneath the echoing arches of the woods. One little knot of
Hurons, however, had disdained to seek a cover, and were retiring, like lions
at bay, slowly and sullenly up the acclivity which Chingachgook and his band
had just deserted, to mingle more closely in the fray. Magua was conspicuous in
this party, both by his fierce and savage mien, and by the air of haughty
authority he yet maintained.
In his eagerness to expedite the pursuit, Uncas had left himself nearly alone;
but the moment his eye caught the figure of Le Subtil, every other
consideration was forgotten. Raising his cry of battle, which recalled some six
or seven warriors, and reckless of the disparity of their numbers, he rushed
upon his enemy. Le Renard, who watched the movement, paused to receive him with
secret joy. But at the moment when he thought the rashness of his impetuous
young assailant had left him at his mercy, another shout was given, and La
Longue Carabine was seen rushing to the rescue, attended by all his white
associates. The Huron instantly turned, and commenced a rapid retreat up the
ascent.
There was no time for greetings or congratulations; for Uncas, though
unconscious of the presence of his friends, continued the pursuit with the
velocity of the wind. In vain Hawkeye called to him to respect the covers; the
young Mohican braved the dangerous fire of his enemies, and soon compelled them
to a flight as swift as his own headlong speed. It was fortunate that the race
was of short continuance, and that the white men were much favored by their
position, or the Delaware would soon have outstripped all his companions, and
fallen a victim to his own temerity. But, ere such a calamity could happen, the
pursuers and pursued entered the Wyandot village, within striking distance of
each other.
Excited by the presence of their dwellings, and tired of the chase, the Hurons
now made a stand, and fought around their council-lodge with the fury of
despair. The onset and the issue were like the passage and destruction of a
whirlwind. The tomahawk of Uncas, the blows of Hawkeye, and even the still
nervous arm of Munro were all busy for that passing moment, and the ground was
quickly strewed with their enemies. Still Magua, though daring and much
exposed, escaped from every effort against his life, with that sort of fabled
protection that was made to overlook the fortunes of favored heroes in the
legends of ancient poetry. Raising a yell that spoke volumes of anger and
disappointment, the subtle chief, when he saw his comrades fallen, darted away
from the place, attended by his two only surviving friends, leaving the
Delawares engaged in stripping the dead of the bloody trophies of their
victory.
But Uncas, who had vainly sought him in the melee, bounded forward in pursuit;
Hawkeye, Heyward and David still pressing on his footsteps. The utmost that the
scout could effect, was to keep the muzzle of his rifle a little in advance of
his friend, to whom, however, it answered every purpose of a charmed shield.
Once Magua appeared disposed to make another and a final effort to revenge his
losses; but, abandoning his intention as soon as demonstrated, he leaped into a
thicket of bushes, through which he was followed by his enemies, and suddenly
entered the mouth of the cave already known to the reader. Hawkeye, who had
only forborne to fire in tenderness to Uncas, raised a shout of success, and
proclaimed aloud that now they were certain of their game. The pursuers dashed
into the long and narrow entrance, in time to catch a glimpse of the retreating
forms of the Hurons. Their passage through the natural galleries and
subterraneous apartments of the cavern was preceded by the shrieks and cries of
hundreds of women and children. The place, seen by its dim and uncertain light,
appeared like the shades of the infernal regions, across which unhappy ghosts
and savage demons were flitting in multitudes.
Still Uncas kept his eye on Magua, as if life to him possessed but a single
object. Heyward and the scout still pressed on his rear, actuated, though
possibly in a less degree, by a common feeling. But their way was becoming
intricate, in those dark and gloomy passages, and the glimpses of the retiring
warriors less distinct and frequent; and for a moment the trace was believed to
be lost, when a white robe was seen fluttering in the further extremity of a
passage that seemed to lead up the mountain.
“’Tis Cora!” exclaimed Heyward, in a voice in which horror
and delight were wildly mingled.
“Cora! Cora!” echoed Uncas, bounding forward like a deer.
“’Tis the maiden!” shouted the scout. “Courage, lady;
we come! we come!”
The chase was renewed with a diligence rendered tenfold encouraging by this
glimpse of the captive. But the way was rugged, broken, and in spots nearly
impassable. Uncas abandoned his rifle, and leaped forward with headlong
precipitation. Heyward rashly imitated his example, though both were, a moment
afterward, admonished of his madness by hearing the bellowing of a piece, that
the Hurons found time to discharge down the passage in the rocks, the bullet
from which even gave the young Mohican a slight wound.
“We must close!” said the scout, passing his friends by a desperate
leap; “the knaves will pick us all off at this distance; and see, they
hold the maiden so as to shield themselves!”
Though his words were unheeded, or rather unheard, his example was followed by
his companions, who, by incredible exertions, got near enough to the fugitives
to perceive that Cora was borne along between the two warriors while Magua
prescribed the direction and manner of their flight. At this moment the forms
of all four were strongly drawn against an opening in the sky, and they
disappeared. Nearly frantic with disappointment, Uncas and Heyward increased
efforts that already seemed superhuman, and they issued from the cavern on the