The Black Eagle; or, Ticonderoga
Page 22
CHAPTER XXII.
In a small room, under a roof which slanted not in one straight line,but made an obtuse angle in the midst of its descent, lighted alone bya horn lantern, such as was used on board the river-boats at night,sat the stout man whom we have described under the name of Woodchuck.The furniture of the chamber was of the meanest kind; a smallhalf-tester bed, with its dull curtains of a broad red and whitechecked stuff; a little table jammed close against the wall; asolitary chair; a wash-stand, with the basin and its ewer bothsomewhat maimed; and a little looking-glass, hanging from a naildriven into the wall, with its narrow, badly-gilt frame, and its plateso distorted that, when one looked in it, the reflection seemed to bemaking faces at the original. Dull, with imbibing many a year's loadedatmosphere, were those faded walls; and many a guest had written uponthem in pencil his own name, or the name of his sweetheart--permanentmemorials of transitory tenants, like the long-cherished memories ofaffections gone to the grave. There were two or three rude distiches,too, and a quatrain somewhat more polished.
But the man who sat there noted none of these things. The dim light,the gloomy aspect of the apartment, might sink in upon his spirit, andrender the darkness within more dark: the strange, ill-looking, doubleslant of the ceiling--the obtrusive two straight lines instead of one,with the blunt, unmeaning angle between them, giving an aspect ofbrokenness to the roof, as if it were ready to bulge out, and thencrash down--might irritate without his knowing why. Still he notedthem not with anything like observation. His mind was busy withthings of its own--things in which feeling took a share as well asthought--and he was, if not dead, sleeping to the external world. Evenhis beloved woods, and streams, and fresh air, and open skies, wereforgotten for the time.
He argued with himself a case of conscience hard to solve.
He was as brave a man as ever lived--had been habituated all his lifeto perils of many kinds, and had met them all fearlessly. Wake him inthe woods at midnight, you would find him ready. Deafen his ear withthe drum or the war-whoop, you could not make him start. He blinkednot at the cannon's flash or the blaze of the lightning, and wouldhave faced the fiery-mouthed platoon without a wavering step.
And yet the love of life was strong in him. He had so many joys in thebright treasury of nature; to his simple--nay, wild--tastes, therewere so many pleasures in the wide world, that to part with them washard, very hard.
He had never known how valuable earthly existence was to him till thathour, or how different a thing it is to hazard it in bold daring, orto contemplate the throwing it away in reckless passion, ordisappointment, or despair, to calmly and deliberately laying it downas a sacrifice, whatever be the end, the inducement, or the duty.
What was the case of conscience he proposed to himself? Simply this:Whether he should suffer another to die for his act, or place himselfnot only in the peril from which he had lately escaped, but in theactual grasp of death.
Some men, of enthusiastic spirit and great constitutionalfearlessness, might have decided the matter at a dash, and, with thefirst impulse of a furious nature, have cast themselves under theuplifted tomahawk to save their innocent friend. But he was not such;and I do not intend so to represent him. He was not a man to doanything without deliberation--without calculating all things--thoughhe was generous as most men, as this world goes. All his habits--thevery course of his previous life--disposed him to careful forethought.Every day had had its watchfulness, every hour its precaution. Thelife of the woods in those days was a life of peril and preparation,where forethought might be very rapid, but was always needful.
And now he debated the question with himself:--
"Could he live on and suffer Walter Prevost to die in his place?"
There were strenuous advocates on both sides. But the love of life wasthe most subtle, if generosity was the most eloquent.
"Poor boy!" he thought, "why should he die for what I have done? Whyshould he be cut off so soon from all life's hopes and blessings? Whyshould his father's eyes be drowned in tears, and his sister's heartwrung with grief, when I can save them all? And he so frank and noble,too--so full of every kindly feeling and generous quality--sobrave--so honest--so frank--so true-hearted! Innocent, too--innocentof every offence--quite innocent in this case!"
But then spoke self, and he reflected,--
"Am not I innocent, too?--as innocent as he is? Did I ever harm theman? Did I provoke the savage? Did I not slay him in pureself-defence? And shall I lay down the life I then justly protected atthe cost of that of another human being, because a race of fierceIndians, unreasoning, blood-thirsty savages, choose to offer a cruelsacrifice to their God of revenge, and have found a victim?
"Still," he continued, taking the other side, "it is for my act thesacrifice is offered, and, if there must be a sacrifice, ought not thevictim to be myself? Besides, were it that any worthless life was injeopardy--were it that of some desperate rover--some criminal--someman without ties, or friendships, or affections--one might leave himto his fate, perhaps, without remorse. But this poor lad, how manyhopes are centred in him? what will not his family lose--what will notthe world? And I--what am I, that my life should be weighed againsthis? Is he not my friend, too, and the son of my friend--one who hasalways overflowed with kindness and regard towards me?"
His resolution was almost taken; but then the cunning pleader,vanquished in direct argument, suggested a self-deceit.
"It is strange," he thought, "that these Indians, and especiallytheir chief, should fix upon one with whom they have ever been sofriendly--should choose a youth whom they have looked upon as abrother, when they might surely have found some other victim. Can thisbe a piece of their savage cunning? They know how well I love the lad,and how much friendship has been shown me by his father. Can they havetaken him only as a bait to their trap, without any real intention ofsacrificing him, and only in the hope of luring me into their power?"
At first sight the supposition seemed reasonable; and he was inclinedto congratulate himself that he had not precipitately fallen into thesnare.
"How they would have yelled with triumph," he thought "when they foundme bringing my head to the hatchet!"
But speedily his knowledge of the Indian character and habitsundeceived him. He knew that in such cases they always made sure ofsome victim, and that the more near and dear he was to the offender,the better for their purpose--the offender himself first--a relationnext--a friend next; and he cast the self-fraud away from him.
But the love of life had not yet done, though obliged to take anothercourse, and suggest modifications. Was there no middle course to betaken? Was it absolutely necessary that he should sacrifice his ownlife to save that of Walter Prevost? Could not the object be effectedwithout his giving himself up to the savages? Might not some one elsefall into their hands? Might not the lad be rescued by some daringeffort? This was the most plausible suggestion of all; but it was theone that troubled him most. He had detected so many attempts in hisown heart to cheat himself, that he suspected he might be deceivinghimself still; and his mind got puzzled and confused with doubts.
He went to the bed, and lay down in his clothes; but he could notsleep without taking some resolution; and, rising again, he pressedhis hands upon his aching temples, and determined to cast away selffrom the question altogether--to look upon it as if it affected someother person than Walter Prevost, and to judge accordingly.
This plan succeeded. He separated the truth from the falsehood, andcame to the conclusion that it would be folly to go and give himselfup to certain death, so long as there was a chance of saving his youngfriend by other means; but that it was right to do so if other meansfailed; and that neither by delay nor by rash and uncertain effortsmust he risk the chance of saving him, even by the ultimate sacrifice.
He accordingly made up his mind to re-enter the Indian territory inspite of every peril; to conceal himself as best he could; to watchthe Indians as he would watch a wild beast; and to be ready for anyopportunity, or for any de
cision.
Now that his resolution was finally taken, he lay down and sleptprofoundly.