“Bless you—bless you, Pathfinder!” exclaimed Mabel extending her own hand, and pressing the iron fingers of her companion, under a state of feeling that far surpassed her own consciousness of its strength. “You are all that is generous—all that is noble; God will reward you for it.”
“Ah! Mabel; I fear me if this be true, I should not covet such a wife as yourself, but would leave you to be sued for, by some gentleman of the garrison, as your desarts require!”
“We will not talk of this any more, to night—” Mabel answered in a voice so smothered, as to sound nearly choked—“We must think less of ourselves, just now, Pathfinder, and more of our friends. But I rejoice from my soul, that you believe Jasper innocent. Now, let us talk of other things—ought we not to release June?”
“I’ve been thinking about the woman, for it will not be safe to shut our eyes, and leave hers open, on this side of the block-house door. If we put her in the upper room, and take away the ladder, she’ll be a prisoner, at least.”
“I cannot treat one thus, who has saved my life. It would be better to let her depart; I think she is too much my friend to do any thing to harm me.”
“You do not know the race, Mabel; you do not know the race. It’s true she’s not full-blooded Mingo, but she consorts with the vagabonds, and must have l’arned some of their tricks. What is that?”
“It sounds like oars—some boat is passing through the channel.”
Pathfinder closed the trap that led to the lower room, to prevent June from escaping, extinguished the candle, and went hastily to a loop; Mabel looking over his shoulder, in breathless curiosity. These several movements consumed a minute or two, and by the time the eye of the scout had got a dim view of things without, two boats had swept past, and shot up to the shore, at a spot some fifty yards beyond the block, where there was a regular landing. The obscurity prevented more from being seen, and Pathfinder whispered to Mabel, that the new comers were as likely to be foes as friends, for he did not think her father could possibly have arrived so soon. A number of men were now seen to quit the boats, and then followed three hearty English cheers, leaving no further doubts of the character of the party. Pathfinder sprang to the trap, raised it, glided down the ladder, and began to unbar the door, with an earnestness that proved how critical he deemed the moment. Mabel had followed, but she rather impeded than aided his exertions, and but a single bar was turned when a heavy discharge of rifles was heard. They were still standing in breathless suspense when the war-whoop rang in all the surrounding thickets. The door now opened, and both Pathfinder and Mabel rushed into the open air. All human sounds had ceased. After listening half a minute, however, Pathfinder thought he heard a few stifled groans near the boats, but the wind blew so fresh, and the rustling of the leaves mingled so much with the murmurs of the passing air, that he was far from certain. But, Mabel was borne away by her feelings, and she rushed by him, taking the way towards the boats.
“This will not do, Mabel—” said the Scout, in an earnest but low voice, seizing her by an arm. “This will not do. Sartain death would follow, and that without sarving any one. We must return to the block.”
“Father!—My poor, dear, murdered father!” said the girl wildly, though habitual caution, even at that trying moment, induced her to speak low. “Pathfinder, if you love me, let me go to my dear father!”
“This will not do, Mabel.—It is singular that no one speaks; no one returns the fire from the boats—and I have left Killdeer in the block!—But of what use would a rifle be, when no one is to be seen!”
At that moment, the quick eye of Pathfinder, which, while he held Mabel firmly in his grasp, had never ceased to roam over the dim scene, caught an indistinct view of five or six dark, crouching forms, endeavoring to steal past him, doubtless with the intention of intercepting their retreat to the block-house. Catching up Mabel, and putting her under an arm, as if she were an infant, the sinewy frame of the woodsman was exerted to the utmost, and he succeeded in entering the building. The tramp of his pursuers seemed immediately at his heels. Dropping his burthen, he turned, closed the door, and had fastened one bar, as a rush against the solid mass threatened to force it from the hinges. To secure the other bars, was the work of an instant.
Mabel now ascended to the first floor, while Pathfinder remained as a sentinel below. Our heroine was in that state in which the body exerts itself, apparently without the control of the mind. She relighted the candle mechanically, as her companion had desired, and returned with it below, where he was waiting her reappearance. No sooner was Pathfinder in possession of the light, than he examined the place carefully, to make certain no one was concealed in the fortress, ascending to each floor, in succession, after assuring himself that he left no enemy in his rear. The result was the conviction that the block-house now contained no one but Mabel and himself, June having escaped. When perfectly convinced on this material point, Pathfinder rejoined our heroine in the principal apartment, setting down the light, and examining the priming of Killdeer, before he seated himself.
“Our worst fears are realized!” said Mabel, to whom the hurry and excitement of the last five minutes, appeared to contain the emotions of a life. “My beloved father, and all his party, are slain or captured!”
“We do’n’t know that—morning will tell us all. I do not think the affair as settled as that, or we should hear the vagabond Mingos yelling out their triumph, around the blockhouse. Of one thing we may be sartain; if the inimy has really got the better, he will not be long in calling upon us to surrender. The squaw will let him into the secret of our situation, and, as they well know the place cannot be fired by day-light, so long as Killdeer continues to desarve his ripitation, you may depend on it, that they will not be backward in making their attempt, while darkness helps them.”
“Surely, I hear a groan!”
“’Tis fancy, Mabel—When the mind gets to be skeary, especially a woman’s mind, she often concaits things that have no reality. I’ve known them that imagined there was truth in dreams—”
“Nay, I am not deceived—there is surely one below, and in pain!”
Pathfinder was compelled to own that the quick senses of Mabel had not deceived her. He cautioned her, however, to repress her feelings, and reminded her that the savages were in the practice of resorting to every artifice, to attain their ends, and that nothing was more likely than that the groans were feigned with a view to lure them from the block-house, or, at least, to induce them to open the door.
“No—no—no—” said Mabel hurriedly—“there is no artifice in those sounds, and they come from anguish of body, if not of spirit. They are fearfully natural.”
“Well, we shall soon know whether a friend is there, or not. Hide the light again, Mabel, and I will speak the person from a loop.”
Not a little precaution was necessary, according to Pathfinder’s judgment and experience, in performing even this simple act, for he had known the careless slain by their want of a proper attention to what might have seemed to the ignorant supererogatory means of safety. He did not place his mouth to the loop itself, but so near it that he could be heard without raising his voice, and the same precaution was observed as regards his ear.
“Who is below?” Pathfinder demanded when his arrangements were made to his mind—“Is any one in suffering? If a friend, speak boldly, and depend on our aid!”
“Pathfinder!” answered a voice that both Mabel and the person addressed, at once knew to be the Serjeant’s—“Pathfinder, in the name of God, tell me what has become of my daughter?”
“Father!—I am here—unhurt—safe—and oh! that I could think the same of you!”
The ejaculation of thanksgiving that followed was distinctly audible to the two, but it was clearly mingled with a groan of pain.
“My worst forebodings are realized!” said Mabel, with a sort of desperate calmness. “Pathfinder, my father must be brought within the block, though we hazard every thing to do it.”
<
br /> “This is natur’, and it is the law of God. But, Mabel, be calm, and endivor to be cool. All that can be effected for the sarjeant by human inventions, shall be done. I only ask you to be cool.”
“I am—I am—Pathfinder. Never in my life was I more calm; more collected than at this moment. But remember how precious may be every instant; for Heaven’s sake! what we do, let us do without delay.”
Pathfinder was struck with the firmness of Mabel’s tones, and perhaps he was a little deceived by the forced tranquillity and self-possession she had assumed. At all events, he did not deem any farther exhortations necessary, but descended forthwith, and began to unbar the door. This delicate process was conducted with the usual caution, but as he warily permitted the mass of timber to swing back on the hinges, he felt a pressure against it, that had nearly induced him to close it again. But catching a glimpse of the cause through the crack, the door was permitted to swing back, when the body of Serjeant Dunham, which was propped against it, fell partly within the block. To draw in the legs and secure the fastenings, occupied the Pathfinder but a moment. Then there existed no obstacle to their giving their undivided care to the wounded man.
Mabel, in this trying scene, conducted herself with the sort of unnatural energy that her sex, when aroused, is apt to manifest. She got the light, administered water to the parched lips of her father, and assisted Pathfinder in forming a bed of straw, for his body, and a pillow of clothes for his head. All this was done earnestly, and almost without speaking, nor did Mabel shed a tear, until she heard the blessings of her father murmured on her head, for this tenderness and care. All this time, Mabel had merely conjectured the condition of her parent. Pathfinder, however, showed greater attention to the physical danger of the serjeant. He ascertained that a rifle ball had passed through the body of the wounded man, and he was sufficiently familiar with injuries of this nature, to be certain that the chances of his surviving the hurt, were very trifling, if any.
Chapter XXIV
“There—drink my tears, while yet they fall—
Would that my bosom’s blood were balm,
And—well thou knowest—I’d shed it all
To give thy brow one minute’s calm.”
—Moore, Lalla Rookh, “Paradise and the Peri,” ll. 274–77.
* * *
THE EYES of Serjeant Dunham had not ceased to follow the form of his beautiful daughter, from the moment that the light appeared. He next examined the door of the block, to ascertain its security, for he was left on the ground below, there being no available means of raising him to the upper floor. Then he sought the face of Mabel, for as life wanes fast, the affections resume their force, and we begin to value that most which we feel we are about to lose forever.
“God be praised, my child, you, at least, have escaped their murderous rifles!” he said, for he spoke with strength, and, seemingly, with no additional pain. “Give me the history of this sad business, Pathfinder.”
“Ah’s! me, sarjeant, it has been sad, as you say. That there has been treachery, and the position of the island has been betrayed, is now as sartain, in my judgment, as that we still hold the block. But—”
“Major Duncan was right,” interrupted Dunham, laying a hand on the other’s arm.
“Not in the sense you mean, sarjeant—no, not in that p’int of view; never. At least, not, in my opinion. I know that natur’ is weak—human natur’ I mean—and that we should none of us vaunt of our gifts, whether red or white; but I do not think a truer-hearted lad lives on the lines, than Jasper Western.”
“Bless you—bless you for that, Pathfinder!” burst forth from Mabel’s very soul, while a flood of tears gave vent to emotions that were so varied, while they were so violent. “Oh! bless you, Pathfinder, bless you; the brave should never desert the brave; the honest should sustain the honest.”
The father’s eyes were fastened anxiously on the face of his daughter, until the latter hid her countenance in her apron to conceal her tears, and then they turned with inquiry to the hard features of the guide. The latter merely wore their usual expression of frankness, sincerity and uprightness, and the serjeant motioned to him to proceed.
“You know the spot where the Sarpent and I left you, sarjeant,” Pathfinder resumed, “and I need say nothing of all that happened afore. It is now too late to lament what is gone and passed; but I do think if I had staid with the boats, this would not have come to pass! Other men may be as good guides; I make no doubt they are; but then natur’ bestows its gifts, and some must be better than other some. I dare say, poor Gilbert who took my place has suffered for his mistake.”
“He fell at my elbow—” the serjeant answered in a low, melancholy tone—“we have, indeed, all suffered for our mistakes!”
“No—no—sarjeant, I meant no condemnation on you, for men were never better commanded than yourn, in this very expedition. I never beheld a prettier flanking, and the way in which you carried your own boat up ag’in their howitzer, might have teached Lundie, himself, a lesson.”
The eyes of the Serjeant brightened, and his face even wore an expression of military triumph, though it was of a degree that suited the humble sphere in which he had been an actor.
“’Twas not badly done, my friend,” he said, “and we carried their log breast-work by storm!”
“’Twas nobly done, sarjeant, though I fear, when all the truth comes to be known, it will be found that these vagabonds have got their howitzer back ag’in—Well, well, put a stout heart upon it, and try to forget all that is disagreeable, and to remember only the pleasant part of the matter. That is your truest philosophy, ay, and truest religion, too. If the inimy has got the howitzer, ag’in, they’ve only got what belonged to them afore, and what we could’n’t help. They hav’n’t got the block-house, yet, nor are they likely to get it, unless they fire it, in the dark. Well, sarjeant, the Sarpent and I separated about ten miles down the river, for we thought it wisest not to come upon even a friendly camp, without the usual caution. What has become of Chingachgook I cannot say, though Mabel tells me he is not far off, and I make no question, the noble hearted Delaware is doing his duty, although he is not now visible to our eyes. Mark my words, sarjeant; before this matter is over, we shall hear of him, at some critical time, and that in a discreet and creditable manner. Ah! the Sarpent is, indeed, a wise and virtuous chief, and any white man might covet his gifts, though his rifle is not quite as sure as Killdeer, it must be owned. Well, as I came near the island, I missed the smoke, and that put me on my guard, for I knew the men of the 55th, were not cunning enough to conceal that sign, notwithstanding all that has been told them of its danger. This made me more careful, until I came in sight of their mock fisherman, as I’ve just told Mabel, and then the whole of their infernal arts was as plain afore me, as if I saw it on a map. I need not tell you, sarjeant, that my first thoughts were of Mabel, and that, finding she was in the block, I came here, in order to live, or die, in her company.”
The father turned a gratified look upon his child, and Mabel felt a sinking of the heart that, at such a moment, she could not have thought possible, when she wished to believe all her concern centered in the situation of her parent. As the latter held out his hand, she took it in her own, and kissed it. Then kneeling at his side, she wept as if her heart would break.
“Mabel,” he said steadily—“the will of God must be done. It is useless to attempt deceiving either you, or myself; my time has come, and it is a consolation to me, to die like a soldier. Lundie will do me justice, for our good friend, Pathfinder, will tell him what has been done, and how all came to pass. You do not forget our last conversation.”
“Nay, father, my time has probably come too—” exclaimed Mabel, who felt, just then, as if it would be a relief to die. “I cannot hope to escape, and Pathfinder would do well to leave us, and return to the garrison, with the sad news while he can.”
“Mabel Dunham,” said Pathfinder, reproachfully, though he took her hand with ki
ndness, “I have not desarved this. I know I am wild, and uncouth, and ungainly—”
“Pathfinder!”
“Well—well—we’ll forget it; you did not mean it; you could not think it. It is useless, now, to talk of escaping, for the sarjeant cannot be moved, and the block-house must be defended, cost what it will. Maybe Lundie will get the tidings of our disaster, and send a party to raise the siege.”
“Pathfinder—Mabel—” said the serjeant, who had been writhing with pain, until the cold sweat stood on his forehead—“come both to my side. You understand each other, I hope?”
“Father, say nothing of that—it is all as you wish.”
“Thank God. Give me your hand, Mabel—here, Pathfinder, take it. I can do no more than give you the girl in this way. I know you will make her a kind husband. Do not wait, on account of my death, but there will be a chaplain in the fort, before the season closes, and let him marry you at once. My brother, if living, will wish to go back to his vessel, and then the child will have no protector. Mabel, your husband will have been my friend, and that will be some consolation to you, I hope.”
“Trust this matter to me, sarjeant,” put in Pathfinder. “Leave it all on my hands, as your dying request, and depend on it, all will go as it should.”
“I do—I do—I put all confidence in you, my trusty friend, and empower you to act as I could act, myself, in every particular—Mabel, child—hand me the water—you will never repent this night. Bless you, my daughter—God bless, and have you in his holy keeping!”
This tenderness was inexpressibly touching to one of Mabel’s feelings, and she felt, at that moment, as if her future union with Pathfinder had received a solemnization that no ceremony of the church could render more holy. Still, a weight, as that of a mountain, lay upon her heart, and she thought it would be happiness to die. Then followed a short pause, when the serjeant, in broken sentences briefly related what had passed since he parted with Pathfinder and the Delaware. The wind had come more favorable, and, instead of encamping on an island, agreeably to the original intention, he had determined to continue on, and reach the station that night. Their approach would have been unseen, and a portion of the calamity averted, he thought, had they not grounded on the point of a neighboring island, where, no doubt the noise made by the men, in getting off the boat, gave notice of their approach, and enabled the enemy to be in readiness to receive them. They had landed without the slightest suspicion of danger, though surprised at not finding any sentinel, and had actually left their arms in the boats, with the intention of first securing their knapsacks and provisions. The fire had been so close, that notwithstanding the obscurity, it was very deadly. Every man had fallen; two or three, however, subsequently arose, and disappeared. Four or five of the soldiers had been killed outright, or so nearly so, as to survive but a few minutes, though, for some unknown reason, the enemy did not make the usual rush for the scalps. Serjeant Dunham fell with the others, and he had heard the voice of Mabel as she rushed from the block-house. This frantic appeal aroused all his parental feelings, and enabled him to crawl as far as the door of the building where he had raised himself against the logs, in the manner already mentioned.
The Leatherstocking Tales II Page 45
