The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757
and regulated steps, chanting, as they proceeded, another wailing song in
praise of the deceased. Gamut, who had been a close observer of rites he deemed
so heathenish, now bent his head over the shoulder of the unconscious father,
whispering:
“They move with the remains of thy child; shall we not follow, and see
them interred with Christian burial?”
Munro started, as if the last trumpet had sounded in his ear, and bestowing one
anxious and hurried glance around him, he arose and followed in the simple
train, with the mien of a soldier, but bearing the full burden of a
parent’s suffering. His friends pressed around him with a sorrow that was
too strong to be termed sympathy—even the young Frenchman joining in the
procession, with the air of a man who was sensibly touched at the early and
melancholy fate of one so lovely. But when the last and humblest female of the
tribe had joined in the wild and yet ordered array, the men of the Lenape
contracted their circle, and formed again around the person of Uncas, as
silent, as grave, and as motionless as before.
The place which had been chosen for the grave of Cora was a little knoll, where
a cluster of young and healthful pines had taken root, forming of themselves a
melancholy and appropriate shade over the spot. On reaching it the girls
deposited their burden, and continued for many minutes waiting, with
characteristic patience, and native timidity, for some evidence that they whose
feelings were most concerned were content with the arrangement. At length the
scout, who alone understood their habits, said, in their own language:
“My daughters have done well; the white men thank them.”
Satisfied with this testimony in their favor, the girls proceeded to deposit
the body in a shell, ingeniously, and not inelegantly, fabricated of the bark
of the birch; after which they lowered it into its dark and final abode. The
ceremony of covering the remains, and concealing the marks of the fresh earth,
by leaves and other natural and customary objects, was conducted with the same
simple and silent forms. But when the labors of the kind beings who had
performed these sad and friendly offices were so far completed, they hesitated,
in a way to show that they knew not how much further they might proceed. It was
in this stage of the rites that the scout again addressed them:
“My young women have done enough,” he said: “the spirit of
the pale face has no need of food or raiment, their gifts being according to
the heaven of their color. I see,” he added, glancing an eye at David,
who was preparing his book in a manner that indicated an intention to lead the
way in sacred song, “that one who better knows the Christian fashions is
about to speak.”
The females stood modestly aside, and, from having been the principal actors in
the scene, they now became the meek and attentive observers of that which
followed. During the time David occupied in pouring out the pious feelings of
his spirit in this manner, not a sign of surprise, nor a look of impatience,
escaped them. They listened like those who knew the meaning of the strange
words, and appeared as if they felt the mingled emotions of sorrow, hope, and
resignation, they were intended to convey.
Excited by the scene he had just witnessed, and perhaps influenced by his own
secret emotions, the master of song exceeded his usual efforts. His full rich
voice was not found to suffer by a comparison with the soft tones of the girls;
and his more modulated strains possessed, at least for the ears of those to
whom they were peculiarly addressed, the additional power of intelligence. He
ended the anthem, as he had commenced it, in the midst of a grave and solemn
stillness.
When, however, the closing cadence had fallen on the ears of his auditors, the
secret, timorous glances of the eyes, and the general and yet subdued movement
of the assemblage, betrayed that something was expected from the father of the
deceased. Munro seemed sensible that the time was come for him to exert what
is, perhaps, the greatest effort of which human nature is capable. He bared his
gray locks, and looked around the timid and quiet throng by which he was
encircled, with a firm and collected countenance. Then, motioning with his hand
for the scout to listen, he said:
“Say to these kind and gentle females, that a heart-broken and failing
man returns them his thanks. Tell them, that the Being we all worship, under
different names, will be mindful of their charity; and that the time shall not
be distant when we may assemble around His throne without distinction of sex,
or rank, or color.”
The scout listened to the tremulous voice in which the veteran delivered these
words, and shook his head slowly when they were ended, as one who doubted their
efficacy.
“To tell them this,” he said, “would be to tell them that the
snows come not in the winter, or that the sun shines fiercest when the trees
are stripped of their leaves.”
Then turning to the women, he made such a communication of the other’s
gratitude as he deemed most suited to the capacities of his listeners. The head
of Munro had already sunk upon his chest, and he was again fast relapsing into
melancholy, when the young Frenchman before named ventured to touch him lightly
on the elbow. As soon as he had gained the attention of the mourning old man,
he pointed toward a group of young Indians, who approached with a light but
closely covered litter, and then pointed upward toward the sun.
“I understand you, sir,” returned Munro, with a voice of forced
firmness; “I understand you. It is the will of Heaven, and I submit.
Cora, my child! if the prayers of a heart-broken father could avail thee now,
how blessed shouldst thou be! Come, gentlemen,” he added, looking about
him with an air of lofty composure, though the anguish that quivered in his
faded countenance was far too powerful to be concealed, “our duty here is
ended; let us depart.”
Heyward gladly obeyed a summons that took them from a spot where, each instant,
he felt his self-control was about to desert him. While his companions were
mounting, however, he found time to press the hand of the scout, and to repeat
the terms of an engagement they had made to meet again within the posts of the
British army. Then, gladly throwing himself into the saddle, he spurred his
charger to the side of the litter, whence low and stifled sobs alone announced
the presence of Alice. In this manner, the head of Munro again drooping on his
bosom, with Heyward and David following in sorrowing silence, and attended by
the aide of Montcalm with his guard, all the white men, with the exception of
Hawkeye, passed from before the eyes of the Delawares, and were buried in the
vast forests of that region.
But the tie which, through their common calamity, had united the feelings of
these simple dwellers in the woods with the strangers who had thus transiently
visited them, was not so easily broken. Years passed away before the
traditionary tale of the white maiden, and of the young warrior of the Mohicans
ceased to beguile the long nights and tedious marches, or to animate their
youthful and brave with a desire for vengeance. Neither were the secondary
actors in these momentous incidents forgotten. Through the medium of the scout,
who served for years afterward as a link between them and civilized life, they
learned, in answer to their inquiries, that the “Gray Head” was
speedily gathered to his fathers—borne down, as was erroneously believed,
by his military misfortunes; and that the “Open Hand” had conveyed
his surviving daughter far into the settlements of the pale faces, where her
tears had at last ceased to flow, and had been succeeded by the bright smiles
which were better suited to her joyous nature.
But these were events of a time later than that which concerns our tale.
Deserted by all of his color, Hawkeye returned to the spot where his sympathies
led him, with a force that no ideal bond of union could destroy. He was just in
time to catch a parting look of the features of Uncas, whom the Delawares were
already inclosing in his last vestment of skins. They paused to permit the
longing and lingering gaze of the sturdy woodsman, and when it was ended, the
body was enveloped, never to be unclosed again. Then came a procession like the
other, and the whole nation was collected about the temporary grave of the
chief—temporary, because it was proper that, at some future day, his
bones should rest among those of his own people.
The movement, like the feeling, had been simultaneous and general. The same
grave expression of grief, the same rigid silence, and the same deference to
the principal mourner, were observed around the place of interment as have been
already described. The body was deposited in an attitude of repose, facing the
rising sun, with the implements of war and of the chase at hand, in readiness
for the final journey. An opening was left in the shell, by which it was
protected from the soil, for the spirit to communicate with its earthly
tenement, when necessary; and the whole was concealed from the instinct, and
protected from the ravages of the beasts of prey, with an ingenuity peculiar to
the natives. The manual rites then ceased and all present reverted to the more
spiritual part of the ceremonies.
Chingachgook became once more the object of the common attention. He had not
yet spoken, and something consolatory and instructive was expected from so
renowned a chief on an occasion of such interest. Conscious of the wishes of
the people, the stern and self-restrained warrior raised his face, which had
latterly been buried in his robe, and looked about him with a steady eye. His
firmly compressed and expressive lips then severed, and for the first time
during the long ceremonies his voice was distinctly audible. “Why do my
brothers mourn?” he said, regarding the dark race of dejected warriors by
whom he was environed; “why do my daughters weep? that a young man has
gone to the happy hunting-grounds; that a chief has filled his time with honor?
He was good; he was dutiful; he was brave. Who can deny it? The Manitou had
need of such a warrior, and He has called him away. As for me, the son and the
father of Uncas, I am a blazed pine, in a clearing of the pale faces. My race
has gone from the shores of the salt lake and the hills of the Delawares. But
who can say that the serpent of his tribe has forgotten his wisdom? I am
alone—”
“No, no,” cried Hawkeye, who had been gazing with a yearning look
at the rigid features of his friend, with something like his own self-command,
but whose philosophy could endure no longer; “no, Sagamore, not alone.
The gifts of our colors may be different, but God has so placed us as to
journey in the same path. I have no kin, and I may also say, like you, no
people. He was your son, and a red-skin by nature; and it may be that your
blood was nearer—but, if ever I forget the lad who has so often
fou’t at my side in war, and slept at my side in peace, may He who made
us all, whatever may be our color or our gifts, forget me! The boy has left us
for a time; but, Sagamore, you are not alone.”
Chingachgook grasped the hand that, in the warmth of feeling, the scout had
stretched across the fresh earth, and in an attitude of friendship these two
sturdy and intrepid woodsmen bowed their heads together, while scalding tears
fell to their feet, watering the grave of Uncas like drops of falling rain.
In the midst of the awful stillness with which such a burst of feeling, coming
as it did, from the two most renowned warriors of that region, was received,
Tamenund lifted his voice to disperse the multitude.
“It is enough,” he said. “Go, children of the Lenape, the