“I did’n’t wish your life, red-skin,” he said, “but you left me no choice atween killing, or being killed. Each party acted according to his gifts, I suppose, and blame can light on neither. You were treacherous, according to your natur’ in war, and I was a little oversightful, as I’m apt to be in trusting others. Well, this is my first battle with a human mortal, though it’s not likely to be the last. I have fou’t most of the creatur’s of the forest, such as bears, wolves, painters and catamounts, but this is the beginning with red-skins. If I was Injin born, now, I might tell of this, or carry in the scalp, and boast of the expl’ite afore the whole tribe; or, if my inimy had only been even a bear, ’twould have been nat’ral and proper to let every body know what had happened; but I do’n’t well see how I’m to let even Chingachgook into this secret, so long as it can be done only by boasting with a white tongue. And why should I wish to boast of it, a’ter all? It’s slaying a human, although he was a savage; and how do I know that he was a just Injin; and that he has not been taken away suddenly, to any thing but happy hunting grounds. When it’s onsartain whether good, or evil, has been done, the wisest way is not to be boastful—still, I should like Chingachgook to know that I have’n’t discredited the Delawares, or my training!”
Part of this was uttered aloud, while part was merely muttered between the speaker’s teeth; his more confident opinions enjoying the first advantage, while his doubts were expressed in the latter mode. Soliloquy and reflections received a startling interruption, however, by the sudden appearance of a second Indian on the lake shore, a few hundred yards from the point. This man, evidently another scout, who had probably been drawn to the place by the reports of the rifles, broke out of the forest with so little caution that Deerslayer caught a view of his person, before he was himself discovered. When the latter event did occur, as was the case a moment later, the savage gave a loud yell, which was answered by a dozen voices from different parts of the mountain-side. There was no longer any time for delay, and, in another minute the boat was quitting the shore under long and steady sweeps of the paddle.
As soon as Deerslayer believed himself to be at a safe distance, he ceased his efforts, permitting the little bark to drift, while he leisurely took a survey of the state of things. The canoe first sent adrift was floating before the air, quite a quarter of a mile above him, and a little nearer to the shore than he wished, now that he knew more of the savages were so near at hand. The canoe shoved from the point was within a few yards of him, he having directed his own course towards it, on quitting the land. The dead Indian lay in grim quiet, where he had left him, the warrior who had shown himself from the forest had already vanished, and the woods themselves were as silent, and seemingly as deserted, as the day they came fresh from the hands of their great creator. This profound stillness, however, lasted but a moment. When time had been given to the scouts of the enemy to reconnoitre, they burst out of the thicket, upon the naked point, filling the air with yells of fury, at discovering the death of their companion. These cries were immediately succeeded by shouts of delight, when they reached the body, and clustered eagerly around it. Deerslayer was a sufficient adept in the usages of the natives, to understand the reason of the change. The yell was the customary lamentation at the loss of a warrior, the shout a sign of rejoicing that the conqueror had not been able to secure the scalp; the trophy, without which a victory was never considered complete. The distance at which the canoes lay, probably prevented any attempts to injure the conqueror, the American Indian, like the panther of his own woods, seldom making any effort against his foe, unless tolerably certain it is under circumstances that may be expected to prove effective.
As the young man had no longer any motive to remain near the point, he prepared to collect his canoes, in order to tow them off to the castle. That nearest was soon in tow, when he proceeded in quest of the other, which was, all this time, floating up the lake. The eye of Deerslayer was no sooner fastened on this last boat, than it struck him that it was nearer to the shore than it would have been, had it merely followed the course of the gentle current of air. He began to suspect the influence of some unseen current in the water, and he quickened his exertions, in order to regain possession of it, before it could drift in to a dangerous proximity to the woods. On getting nearer, he thought that the canoe had a perceptible motion through the water, and, as it lay broadside to the air, that this motion was taking it towards the land. A few vigorous strokes of the paddle carried him still nearer, when the mystery was explained. Something was evidently in motion on the off side of the canoe, or that which was furthest from himself, and closer scrutiny, showed that it was a naked human arm. An Indian was lying in the bottom of the canoe, and was propelling it slowly, but certainly, to the shore, using his hand as a paddle. Deerslayer understood the whole artifice at a glance. A savage had swam off to the boat, while he was occupied with his enemy on the point, got possession, and was using these means to urge it to the shore.
Satisfied that the man in the canoe could have no arms, Deerslayer did not hesitate to dash close along side of the retiring boat, without deeming it necessary to raise his own rifle. As soon as the wash of the water, which he made in approaching, became audible to the prostrate savage, the latter sprang to his feet, and uttered an exclamation that proved how completely he was taken by surprise.
“If you’ve enj’yed yourself enough in that canoe, red-skin,” Deerslayer coolly observed, stopping his own career in sufficient time to prevent an absolute collision between the two boats—“if you’ve enj’yed yourself enough in that canoe, you’ll do a prudent act by taking to the lake ag’in. I’m reasonable in these matters, and do’n’t crave your blood, though there’s them about, that would look upon you more as a due-bill for the bounty, than a human mortal. Take to the lake, this minute, afore we get to hot words.”
The savage was one of those who did not understand a word of English, and he was indebted to the gestures of Deerslayer, and to the expression of an eye that did not often deceive, for an imperfect comprehension of his meaning. Perhaps, too, the sight of the rifle that lay so near the hand of the white man quickened his decision. At all events, he crouched like a tiger about to take his leap, uttered a yell, and the next instant his naked body disappeared in the water. When he rose to take breath, it was at a distance of several yards from the canoe, and the hasty glance he threw behind him, denoted how much he feared the arrival of a fatal messenger from the rifle of his foe. But the young man made no indication of any hostile intention. Deliberately securing the canoe to the others, he began to paddle from the shore, and by the time the Indian reached the land, and had shaken himself, like a spaniel on quitting the water, his dreaded enemy was already beyond rifle shot, on his way to the castle. As was so much his practice, Deerslayer did not fail to soliloquize on what had just occurred while steadily pursuing his course, towards the point of destination.
“Well—well—” he commenced, “ ’twould have been wrong to kill a human mortal without an object. Scalps are of no account with me, and life is sweet, and ought not to be taken marcilessly, by them that have white gifts. The savage was a Mingo, it’s true, and I make no doubt he is, and will be, as long as he lives, a ra’al riptyle and vagabond, but that’s no reason I should forget my gifts and colour. No—no—let him go; if ever we meet ag’in, rifle in hand, why then t’will be seen which has the stoutest heart and the quickest eye.—Hawkeye! That’s not a bad name for a warrior, sounding much more manful and valiant than Deerslayer! ’Twould’n’t be a bad title to begin with, and it has been fairly ’arned. If ’twas Chingachgook, now, he might go home and boast of his deeds, and the chiefs would name him Hawkeye, in a minute, but it do’n’t become white blood to brag and ’tis’n’t easy to see how the matter can be known, unless I do. Well—well—every thing is in the hands of Providence; this affair as well as another; and I’ll trust to that for getting my desarts in all things.”
Having thus betrayed what might be t
ermed his weak spot, the young man continued to paddle in silence, making his way diligently, and as fast as his tows would allow him, towards the castle. By this time the sun had not only risen, but it had appeared over the eastern mountains, and was shedding a flood of glorious light on this, as yet, unchristened sheet of water. The whole scene was radiant with beauty, and no one unaccustomed to the ordinary history of the woods, would fancy it had so lately witnessed incidents so ruthless and barbarous. As he approached the building of old Hutter, Deerslayer thought, or rather felt, that its appearance was in singular harmony with all the rest of the scene. Although nothing had been consulted but strength and security, the rude massive logs, covered with their rough bark, the projecting roof, and the form would contribute to render the building picturesque in almost any situation, while its actual position added novelty and piquancy to its other points of interest.
When Deerslayer drew nearer to the castle, however, objects of interest presented themselves, that at once eclipsed any beauties that might have distinguished the scenery of the lake, and the site of the singular edifice. Judith and Hetty stood on the platform, awaiting his approach with manifest anxiety, the former, from time to time, taking a survey of his person and of the canoes, through the old ship’s spy glass that has been already mentioned. Never probably did this girl seem more brilliantly beautiful than at that moment; the flush of anxiety and alarm increasing her colour to its richest tints, while the softness of her eyes, a charm that even poor Hetty shared with her, was deepened by intense concern. Such at least, without pausing, or pretending, to analyze motives, or to draw any other very nice distinctions between cause and effect, were the opinions of the young man as his canoes reached the side of the Ark, where he carefully fastened all three, before he put his foot on the platform.
Chapter VIII
“His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles;
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart;
His heart as far from fraud, as heaven from earth.”
—Two Gentlemen of Verona, II.vii.75–78.
* * *
NEITHER OF the girls spoke, as Deerslayer stood before them alone, his countenance betraying all the apprehension he felt on account of the two absent members of their party.
“Father!” Judith at length exclaimed, succeeding in uttering the word, as it might be, by a desperate effort.
“He’s met with misfortune, and there’s no use in concealing it,” answered Deerslayer, in his direct and simple-minded manner. “He and Hurry are in Mingo hands, and Heaven only knows what’s to be the tarmination. I’ve got all the canoes safe, and that’s a consolation, since the vagabonds will have to swim for it, or raft off, to come near this place. At sunset we’ll be reinforced by Chingachgook, if I can manage to get him into a canoe, and then, I think, we two can answer for the ark and the castle, ’till some of the officers in the garrisons, hear of this war-path, which sooner or later must be the case, when we may look for succour, from that quarter, if from no other.”
“The officers!” exclaimed Judith, impatiently, her colour deepening, and her eye expressing a lively but passing emotion. “Who thinks, or speaks of the heartless gallants, now?—We are sufficient of ourselves, to defend the castle;—but what of my father—and of poor Hurry Harry?”
“’Tis natural you should feel this consarn for your own parent, Judith, and I suppose it’s equally so that you should feel it for Hurry Harry too.”
Deerslayer, then, commenced a succinct but clear narrative of all that occurred during the night, in no manner concealing what had befallen his two companions, or his own opinion of what might prove to be the consequences. The girls listened with profound attention, but neither betrayed that feminine apprehension and concern, which would have followed such a communication, when made to those who were less accustomed to the hazards and incidents of a frontier life. To the surprise of Deerslayer, Judith seemed the most distressed, Hetty listening eagerly, but appearing to brood over the facts in melancholy silence, rather than betraying any outward signs of feeling. The former’s agitation, the young man did not fail to attribute to the interest she felt in Hurry, quite as much as to her filial love, while Hetty’s apparent indifference was ascribed to that mental darkness which, in a measure, obscured her intellect, and which possibly prevented her from foreseeing all the consequences. Little was said, however, by either, Judith and her sister busying themselves in making their preparations for the morning meal, as they who habitually attend to such matters, toil on mechanically even in the midst of suffering and sorrow. The plain but nutritious breakfast was taken by all three, in sombre silence. The girls ate little, but Deerslayer gave proof of possessing one material requisite of a good soldier, that of preserving his appetite in the midst of the most alarming and embarrassing circumstances. The meal was nearly ended before a syllable was uttered; then, however, Judith spoke in the convulsive and hurried manner in which feeling breaks through restraint, after the latter has become more painful than even the betrayal of emotions.
“Father would have relished this fish!” she exclaimed; “he says the salmon of the lakes is almost as good as the salmon of the sea.”
“Your father has been acquainted with the sea, they tell me, Judith,” returned the young man, who could not forbear throwing a glance of inquiry at the girl, for, in common with all who knew Hutter he had some curiosity on the subject of his early history. “Hurry Harry tells he was once a sailor.”
Judith first looked perplexed; then influenced by feelings that were novel to her, in more ways than one, she became suddenly communicative, and seemingly much interested in the discourse.
“If Hurry knows any thing of father’s history, I would he had told it to me!” she cried. “Sometimes I think too, he was once a sailor, and then again I think he was not. If that chest were open, or if it could speak, it might let us into his whole history. But its fastenings are too strong to be broken like pack-thread.”
Deerslayer turned to the chest in question, and for the first time examined it closely. Although discolored, and bearing proofs of having received much ill treatment, he saw that it was of materials and workmanship altogether superior to any thing of the same sort he had ever before beheld. The wood was dark, rich, and had once been highly polished, though the treatment it had received left little gloss on its surface, and various scratches and indentations proved the rough collisions that it had encountered with substances still harder than itself. The corners were firmly bound with steel, elaborately and richly wrought, while the locks, of which it had no less than three, and the hinges were of a fashion and workmanship that would have attracted attention even in a warehouse of curious furniture. This chest was quite large, and when Deerslayer arose, and endeavored to raise an end by its massive handle, he found that the weight fully corresponded with the external appearance.
“Did you never see that chest opened, Judith,” the young man demanded with frontier freedom, for delicacy on such subjects was little felt among the people on the verge of civilization, in that age, even if it be to-day.
“Never. Father has never opened it in my presence, if he ever opens it at all. No one here, has ever seen its lid raised, unless it be father; nor do I even know that he has ever seen it.”
“Now, you’re wrong, Judith,” Hetty quietly answered. “Father has raised the lid, and I’ve seen him do it.”
A feeling of manliness kept the mouth of Deerslayer shut, for, while he would not have hesitated about going far beyond what would be thought the bounds of propriety, in questioning the elder sister, he had just scruples about taking what might be thought, an advantage of the feeble intellect of the younger. Judith, being under no such restraint, however turned quickly to the last speaker, and continued the discourse.
“When and where did you ever see that chest opened, Hetty?”
“Here, and, again and again. Father often opens it, when you are away, though
he do’n’t in the least mind my being by, and seeing all he does, as well as hearing all he says.”
“And what is it that he does, and what does he say?”
“That I cannot tell you, Judith—” returned the other in a low, but resolute voice—“Father’s secrets, are not my secrets.”
“Secrets!—This is stranger still, Deerslayer; that father should tell them to Hetty, and not tell them to me!”
“There’s good reason for that, Judith, though you’re not to know it. Father’s not here to answer for himself, and I’ll say no more about it.”
Judith and Deerslayer looked surprised, and, for a minute, the first seemed pained. But, suddenly recollecting herself, she turned away from her sister, as if in pity for her weakness, and addressed the young man.
“You’ve told but half your story,” she said, “breaking off at the place where you went to sleep in the canoe—or, rather, where you rose to listen to the cry of the loon. We heard the call of the loons too, and thought their cries might bring a storm, though we are little used to tempests on this lake, at this season of the year.”
“The winds blow, and the tempests howl as God pleases; sometimes at one season, and sometimes at another,” answered Deerslayer; “and the loons speak accordin’ to their natur’. Better would it be, if men were as honest and frank. After I rose to listen to the birds, finding it could not be Hurry’s signal, I lay down and slept. When the day dawned, I was up and stirring as usual, and then I went in chase of the two canoes, lest the Mingos should lay hands on ’em.”
The Leatherstocking Tales II Page 69
