The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757 Read online

  CHAPTER 3

  "Before these fields were shorn and till'd, Full to the brim our rivers flow'd; The melody of waters fill'd The fresh and boundless wood; And torrents dash'd, and rivulets play'd, And fountains spouted in the shade."--Bryant

  Leaving the unsuspecting Heyward and his confiding companions topenetrate still deeper into a forest that contained such treacherousinmates, we must use an author's privilege, and shift the scene a fewmiles to the westward of the place where we have last seen them.

  On that day, two men were lingering on the banks of a small but rapidstream, within an hour's journey of the encampment of Webb, like thosewho awaited the appearance of an absent person, or the approach of someexpected event. The vast canopy of woods spread itself to the margin ofthe river, overhanging the water, and shadowing its dark current with adeeper hue. The rays of the sun were beginning to grow less fierce, andthe intense heat of the day was lessened, as the cooler vapors of thesprings and fountains rose above their leafy beds, and rested inthe atmosphere. Still that breathing silence, which marks the drowsysultriness of an American landscape in July, pervaded the secluded spot,interrupted only by the low voices of the men, the occasional and lazytap of a woodpecker, the discordant cry of some gaudy jay, or a swellingon the ear, from the dull roar of a distant waterfall. These feeble andbroken sounds were, however, too familiar to the foresters to draw theirattention from the more interesting matter of their dialogue. Whileone of these loiterers showed the red skin and wild accouterments of anative of the woods, the other exhibited, through the mask of hisrude and nearly savage equipments, the brighter, though sun-burned andlong-faced complexion of one who might claim descent from a Europeanparentage. The former was seated on the end of a mossy log, in a posturethat permitted him to heighten the effect of his earnest language, bythe calm but expressive gestures of an Indian engaged in debate. Hisbody, which was nearly naked, presented a terrific emblem of death,drawn in intermingled colors of white and black. His closely-shavedhead, on which no other hair than the well-known and chivalrousscalping tuft* was preserved, was without ornament of any kind, withthe exception of a solitary eagle's plume, that crossed his crown,and depended over the left shoulder. A tomahawk and scalping knife, ofEnglish manufacture, were in his girdle; while a short military rifle,of that sort with which the policy of the whites armed their savageallies, lay carelessly across his bare and sinewy knee. The expandedchest, full formed limbs, and grave countenance of this warrior, woulddenote that he had reached the vigor of his days, though no symptoms ofdecay appeared to have yet weakened his manhood.

  * The North American warrior caused the hair to be plucked from his whole body; a small tuft was left on the crown of his head, in order that his enemy might avail himself of it, in wrenching off the scalp in the event of his fall. The scalp was the only admissible trophy of victory. Thus, it was deemed more important to obtain the scalp than to kill the man. Some tribes lay great stress on the honor of striking a dead body. These practices have nearly disappeared among the Indians of the Atlantic states.

  The frame of the white man, judging by such parts as were not concealedby his clothes, was like that of one who had known hardships andexertion from his earliest youth. His person, though muscular, wasrather attenuated than full; but every nerve and muscle appeared strungand indurated by unremitted exposure and toil. He wore a hunting shirtof forest-green, fringed with faded yellow*, and a summer cap of skinswhich had been shorn of their fur. He also bore a knife in a girdle ofwampum, like that which confined the scanty garments of the Indian, butno tomahawk. His moccasins were ornamented after the gay fashion of thenatives, while the only part of his under dress which appeared below thehunting-frock was a pair of buckskin leggings, that laced at the sides,and which were gartered above the knees, with the sinews of a deer. Apouch and horn completed his personal accouterments, though a rifle ofgreat length**, which the theory of the more ingenious whites hadtaught them was the most dangerous of all firearms, leaned against aneighboring sapling. The eye of the hunter, or scout, whichever he mightbe, was small, quick, keen, and restless, roving while he spoke, onevery side of him, as if in quest of game, or distrusting the suddenapproach of some lurking enemy. Notwithstanding the symptoms of habitualsuspicion, his countenance was not only without guile, but at the momentat which he is introduced, it was charged with an expression of sturdyhonesty.

  * The hunting-shirt is a picturesque smock-frock, being shorter, and ornamented with fringes and tassels. The colors are intended to imitate the hues of the wood, with a view to concealment. Many corps of American riflemen have been thus attired, and the dress is one of the most striking of modern times. The hunting-shirt is frequently white.

  ** The rifle of the army is short; that of the hunter is always long.

  "Even your traditions make the case in my favor, Chingachgook," he said,speaking in the tongue which was known to all the natives who formerlyinhabited the country between the Hudson and the Potomac, and ofwhich we shall give a free translation for the benefit of the reader;endeavoring, at the same time, to preserve some of the peculiarities,both of the individual and of the language. "Your fathers came from thesetting sun, crossed the big river*, fought the people of the country,and took the land; and mine came from the red sky of the morning, overthe salt lake, and did their work much after the fashion that had beenset them by yours; then let God judge the matter between us, and friendsspare their words!"

  * The Mississippi. The scout alludes to a tradition which is very popular among the tribes of the Atlantic states. Evidence of their Asiatic origin is deduced from the circumstances, though great uncertainty hangs over the whole history of the Indians.

  "My fathers fought with the naked red man!" returned the Indian,sternly, in the same language. "Is there no difference, Hawkeye, betweenthe stone-headed arrow of the warrior, and the leaden bullet with whichyou kill?"

  "There is reason in an Indian, though nature has made him with a redskin!" said the white man, shaking his head like one on whom such anappeal to his justice was not thrown away. For a moment he appeared tobe conscious of having the worst of the argument, then, rallying again,he answered the objection of his antagonist in the best manner hislimited information would allow:

  "I am no scholar, and I care not who knows it; but, judging from whatI have seen, at deer chases and squirrel hunts, of the sparks below,I should think a rifle in the hands of their grandfathers was not sodangerous as a hickory bow and a good flint-head might be, if drawn withIndian judgment, and sent by an Indian eye."

  "You have the story told by your fathers," returned the other, coldlywaving his hand. "What say your old men? Do they tell the young warriorsthat the pale faces met the red men, painted for war and armed with thestone hatchet and wooden gun?"

  "I am not a prejudiced man, nor one who vaunts himself on his naturalprivileges, though the worst enemy I have on earth, and he is anIroquois, daren't deny that I am genuine white," the scout replied,surveying, with secret satisfaction, the faded color of his bony andsinewy hand, "and I am willing to own that my people have many ways, ofwhich, as an honest man, I can't approve. It is one of their customs towrite in books what they have done and seen, instead of telling themin their villages, where the lie can be given to the face of a cowardlyboaster, and the brave soldier can call on his comrades to witness forthe truth of his words. In consequence of this bad fashion, a man, whois too conscientious to misspend his days among the women, in learningthe 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 theBumppos could shoot, for I have a natural turn with a rifle, whichmust have been handed down from generation to generation, as, our holycommandments tell us, all good and evil gifts are bestowed; though Ishould be loath to answer for other people in such a matter. But everystory 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 asolemnity that served to heighten its appearance of truth.

  "Listen, Hawkeye, and your ear shall drink no lie. 'Tis what my fathershave said, and what the Mohicans have done." He hesitated a singleinstant, and bending a cautious glance toward his companion, hecontinued, in a manner that was divided between interrogation andassertion. "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 thesematters," said the white man; "for I have been there, and have seenthem, though why water, which is so sweet in the shade, should becomebitter in the sun, is an alteration for which I have never been able toaccount."

  "And the current!" demanded the Indian, who expected his reply with thatsort of interest that a man feels in the confirmation of testimony, atwhich he marvels even while he respects it; "the fathers of Chingachgookhave not lied!"

  "The holy Bible is not more true, and that is the truest thing innature. They call this up-stream current the tide, which is a thing soonexplained, and clear enough. Six hours the waters run in, and six hoursthey run out, and the reason is this: when there is higher water in thesea 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 downwarduntil they lie like my hand," said the Indian, stretching the limbhorizontally before him, "and then they run no more."

  "No honest man will deny it," said the scout, a little nettled at theimplied distrust of his explanation of the mystery of the tides; "and Igrant 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 thesmall scale, the 'arth is level; but on the large scale it is round. Inthis manner, pools and ponds, and even the great fresh-water lakes, maybe stagnant, as you and I both know they are, having seen them; but whenyou come to spread water over a great tract, like the sea, where theearth is round, how in reason can the water be quiet? You might as wellexpect the river to lie still on the brink of those black rocks a mileabove us, though your own ears tell you that it is tumbling over them atthis very moment."

  If unsatisfied by the philosophy of his companion, the Indian was fartoo dignified to betray his unbelief. He listened like one who wasconvinced, and resumed his narrative in his former solemn manner.

  "We came from the place where the sun is hid at night, over great plainswhere the buffaloes live, until we reached the big river. There wefought the Alligewi, till the ground was red with their blood. From thebanks of the big river to the shores of the salt lake, there was none tomeet us. The Maquas followed at a distance. We said the country shouldbe 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 Maquasinto the woods with the bears. They only tasted salt at the licks; theydrew no fish from the great lake; we threw them the bones."

  "All this I have heard and believe," said the white man, observing thatthe Indian paused; "but it was long before the English came into thecountry."

  "A pine grew then where this chestnut now stands. The first pale faceswho came among us spoke no English. They came in a large canoe, whenmy fathers had buried the tomahawk with the red men around them. Then,Hawkeye," he continued, betraying his deep emotion, only by permittinghis voice to fall to those low, guttural tones, which render hislanguage, as spoken at times, so very musical; "then, Hawkeye, we wereone people, and we were happy. The salt lake gave us its fish, the woodits deer, and the air its birds. We took wives who bore us children; weworshipped the Great Spirit; and we kept the Maquas beyond the sound ofour 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 theirgifts, your fathers must have been brave warriors, and wise men at thecouncil-fire."

  "My tribe is the grandfather of nations, but I am an unmixed man. Theblood of chiefs is in my veins, where it must stay forever. The Dutchlanded, and gave my people the fire-water; they drank until the heavensand the earth seemed to meet, and they foolishly thought they had foundthe 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 aSagamore, have never seen the sun shine but through the trees, and havenever visited the graves of my fathers."

  "Graves bring solemn feelings over the mind," returned the scout, a gooddeal touched at the calm suffering of his companion; "and they often aida man in his good intentions; though, for myself, I expect to leave myown bones unburied, to bleach in the woods, or to be torn asunder by thewolves. But where are to be found those of your race who came to theirkin in the Delaware country, so many summers since?"

  "Where are the blossoms of those summers!--fallen, one by one; so allof my family departed, each in his turn, to the land of spirits. I am onthe hilltop and must go down into the valley; and when Uncas follows inmy 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 madean involuntary movement of the hand toward his rifle, at this suddeninterruption; but the Indian sat composed, and without turning his headat the unexpected sounds.

  At the next instant, a youthful warrior passed between them, with anoiseless step, and seated himself on the bank of the rapid stream. Noexclamation of surprise escaped the father, nor was any question asked,or reply given, for several minutes; each appearing to await the momentwhen he might speak, without betraying womanish curiosity or childishimpatience. The white man seemed to take counsel from their customs,and, relinquishing his grasp of the rifle, he also remained silent andreserved. At length Chingachgook turned his eyes slowly toward his son,and demanded:

  "Do the Maquas dare to leave the print of their moccasins in thesewoods?"

  "I have been on their trail," replied the young Indian, "and know thatthey number as many as the fingers of my two hands; but they lie hidlike cowards."

  "The thieves are outlying for scalps and plunder," said the white man,whom we shall call Hawkeye, after the manner of his companions. "Thatbusy Frenchman, Montcalm, will send his spies into our very camp, but hewill know what road we travel!"

  "'Tis enough," returned the father, glancing his eye toward the settingsun; "they shall be driven like deer from their bushes. Hawkeye, let useat 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 getthe game--talk of the devil and he will come; there is a pair of thebiggest antlers I have seen this season, moving the bushes below thehill! Now, Uncas," he continued, in a half whisper, and laughing with akind of inward sound, like one who had learned to be watchful, "I willbet 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 theleft."

  "It cannot be!" said the young Indian, springing to his feet withyouthful eagerness; "all but the tips of his horns are hid!"

  "He's a boy!" said the white man, shaking his head while he spoke, andaddressing the father. "Does he think when a hunter sees a part of thecreature', he can't tell where the rest of him should be!"

  Adjusting his rifle, he was about to make an exhibition of that skillon which he so much valued himself, when the warrior struck up the piecewith his hand, saying:

  "Hawkeye! will you fight the Maquas?"

  "These Indians know the nature of the woods, as it might be byinstinct!" returned the scout, dropping his rifle, and turning away likea man who was convinced of his er
ror. "I must leave the buck to yourarrow, Uncas, or we may kill a deer for them thieves, the Iroquois, toeat."

  The instant the father seconded this intimation by an expressive gestureof the hand, Uncas threw himself on the ground, and approached theanimal with wary movements. When within a few yards of the cover, hefitted an arrow to his bow with the utmost care, while the antlersmoved, as if their owner snuffed an enemy in the tainted air. In anothermoment the twang of the cord was heard, a white streak was seen glancinginto the bushes, and the wounded buck plunged from the cover, to thevery feet of his hidden enemy. Avoiding the horns of the infuriatedanimal, Uncas darted to his side, and passed his knife across thethroat, when bounding to the edge of the river it fell, dyeing thewaters with its blood.

  "'Twas done with Indian skill," said the scout laughing inwardly, butwith vast satisfaction; "and 'twas a pretty sight to behold! Though anarrow is a near shot, and needs a knife to finish the work."

  "Hugh!" ejaculated his companion, turning quickly, like a hound whoscented game.

  "By the Lord, there is a drove of them!" exclaimed the scout, whose eyesbegan to glisten with the ardor of his usual occupation; "if they comewithin range of a bullet I will drop one, though the whole Six Nationsshould be lurking within sound! What do you hear, Chingachgook? for tomy ears the woods are dumb."

  "There is but one deer, and he is dead," said the Indian, bending hisbody till his ear nearly touched the earth. "I hear the sounds of feet!"

  "Perhaps the wolves have driven the buck to shelter, and are followingon his trail."

  "No. The horses of white men are coming!" returned the other, raisinghimself with dignity, and resuming his seat on the log with his formercomposure. "Hawkeye, they are your brothers; speak to them."

  "That I will, and in English that the king needn't be ashamed toanswer," returned the hunter, speaking in the language of which heboasted; "but I see nothing, nor do I hear the sounds of man or beast;'tis strange that an Indian should understand white sounds better than aman who, his very enemies will own, has no cross in his blood, althoughhe may have lived with the red skins long enough to be suspected! Ha!there goes something like the cracking of a dry stick, too--now I hearthe bushes move--yes, yes, there is a trampling that I mistook forthe falls--and--but here they come themselves; God keep them from theIroquois!"