 | CHAPTER VI. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
“It is but a shadow vanished—a bubble broke, a dreame
finish't—Eternitie willpay for all.”
Roger Williams.
Scarcely had the invaders disappeared, and
the sound of their footsteps died away, when
Digby and Hutton came in view of the dwelling.
“Ah!” said Hutton, reining in his horse, “I
thought all this fluster was for nothing—the blast
a boy's prank. A pretty piece of work we've
made of it; you'll have Mistress Grafton about
your ears for tossing away her Lon'on gimcracks.
All is as quiet here as a Saturday night;
nothing to be seen but the smoke from the kitchen-chimney,
and that's a pleasant sight to me, for
I went off without my dinner, and methinks it
will now taste as savoury as Jacob's pottage.”
Digby lent no attention to his companion's
chattering, but pressed on; his fears were allayed,
but not removed. As he approached the house,
he felt that the silence which pervaded it, boded
no good; but the horrors of the reality far surpassed
the worst suggestions of his vague apprehensions.
screamed, when the havoc of death burst upon his
sight. “My good mistress—and her girls!—and
the baby too! Oh, God—have mercy on my
master!” and he bent over the bodies and wrung
his hands: “not one—not one spared!”
“Yes, one,” spoke a trembling whining voice,
which proved to be Jennet's, who had just emerged
from her hiding-place covered with soot; “by
the blessing of a kind Providence, I have been
preserved for some wise end, but,” she continued,
panting, “the fright has taken my breath away,
besides being squeezed as flat as a pancake in
the bed-room chimney.”
“Stop—for Heaven's sake, stop, Jennet, and
tell me, if you can, if Mr. Everell was here.”
Jennet did not know; she remembered having
seen the family in general assembled, just before
she heard the yell of the savages.
“How long,” Digby inquired, “have they been
gone? how long since you heard the last sound?”
“That's more than mortal man, or woman
either, in my case, could tell, Mr. Digby. Do
you think, when a body seems to feel a scalping
knife in their heads, they can reckon time? No;
hours are minutes, and minutes hours, in such a
case.”
“Oh fool! fool!” cried Digby, and turning
disgusted away, his eye fell on his musket.
“Thank the Lord!” he exclaimed, “Mr. Everell
has poured one shot into the fiends; he alone
him; he has a strong arm, and a stout soul—bless
him. They have taken him off—we'll after him,
Hutton. Jennet, bring my hunting pouch. Look
to your fire-lock, Hutton. Magawisca!—Oneco!
Faith Leslie, all gone!” he continued, his first
amazement dissipating, and thought after thought
flashing the truth on his mind. “I remember last
night—Oh, Mr. Everell, how the girl deceived
you—she knew it all.”
“Ah, Magawisca! so I thought,” said Jennet.
“She knows every thing evil that happens in
earth, sea, or air; she and that mother-witch,
Nelema. I always told Mrs. Fletcher she was
warming a viper in her bosom, poor dear lady;
but I suppose it was for wise ends she was left to
her blindness.”
“Are you ready, Hutton?” asked Digby, impatiently.
“Ready!—yes, I am ready, but what is the use,
Digby? what are we two against a host? and,
besides, you know not how long they have been
gone.”
“Not very long,” said Digby, shuddering and
pointing to blood that was trickling, drop by drop,
from the edge of the flooring to the step. How
long the faithful fellow might have urged, we know
not, for cowardice hath ever ready and abundant
arguments, and Hutton was not a man to be persuaded
into danger; but the arrival of Mr. Pynchon
and his men, put an end to the debate.
Mr. Pynchon was the faithful, paternal guardian
death, not only the present overwhelming misery
of the family at Bethel, but the fearful fate to
which all were exposed who had perilled their
lives in the wilderness; but he could give but
brief space to bitter reflections, and the lamentings
of nature. Instant care and service were
necessary for the dead and the living. The bodies
of the mother and children were removed to one
of the apartments, and decently disposed, and
then, after a fervent prayer, a duty never omitted
in any emergency by the pilgrims, whose faith in
the minute superintendence of Providence was
practical, he directed the necessary arrangements
for the pursuit of the enemy.
Little could be gathered from Jennet. She was
mainly occupied with her own remarkable preservation,
not doubting that Providence had specially
interposed to save the only life utterly insignificant
in any eyes but her own. She recollected
to have heard Magawisca exclaim, `My
father!' at the first onset of the savages. The
necessary conclusion was, that the party had been
led by the Pequod chief. It was obviously probable
that he would return, with his children and
captives, to the Mohawks, where, it was well
known, he had found refuge; of course the pursuers
were to take a westerly direction. Jennet
was of opinion that the party was not numerous;
and encumbered as they must be with their prisoners,
the one a child whom it would be necessary,
sanguine expectations that they might be overtaken.
The fugitives, obliged to avoid the cleared meadows,
had, as Mr. Pynchon believed, taken an indirect
path through the forest to the Connecticut;
which, in pursuance of their probable route, they
would, of course cross, as soon as they could, with
safety. He selected five of his men, whom he
deemed fittest for the expedition, and recommending
it to them to be guided by the counsel of
Digby, whose impatient zeal was apparent, he directed
them to take a direct course to the river.
He was to return to the village, and despatch a
boat to them, with which they were to ply up the
river, in the hope of intercepting the passage of
the Indians.
The men departed, led by Digby, to whose agitated
spirit every moment's delay had appeared
unnecessary and fatal; and Mr. Pynchon was
mounting his horse, when he saw Mr. Fletcher,
who had avoided the circuitous road through the
village, emerge from the forest, and come in full
view of his dwelling. Mr. Pynchon called to Jennet,
“yonder is your master—he must not come
hither while this precious blood is on the threshold
—I shall take him to my house, and assistance
shall be sent to you. In the mean time, watch
those bodies faithfully.”
“Oh! I can't stay here alone,” whimpered
Jennet, running after Mr. Pynchon—“I would
not stay for all the promised land.”
“Back, woman,” cried Mr. Pynchon, in a voice
of thunder; and Jennet retreated, the danger of
advancing appearing, for the moment, the greater
of the two.
Mr. Fletcher was attended by two Indians, who
followed him, bearing on a litter, his favourite,
Hope Leslie. When they came within sight of
Bethel, they shouted the chorus of a native song.
Hope inquired its meaning. They told her, and
raising herself, and tossing back the bright curls
that shaded her eyes, she clapped her hands, and
accompanied them with the English words,
—`The home!—the home!—the chieftain's home!'
—“And my home too, is it not?” she said.
Mr. Fletcher was touched with the joy with
which this bright little creature, who had left a
palace in England, hailed his rustic dwelling in
the wilderness. He turned on her a smile of delight—he
could not speak; the sight of his home
had opened the flood-gates of his heart. “Oh
now,” she continued, with growing animation,
“I shall see my sister. But why does not she
come to meet us?—Where is your Everell? and
the girls? There is no one looking out for us.”
The stillness of the place, and the absence of all
living objects, struck Mr. Fletcher with fearful apprehensions,
heightened by the sight of his friend,
who was coming, at full gallop, towards him. To
an accurate observer, the effects of joy and sorrow,
on the human figure, are easily discriminated
—misery depresses, contracts, and paralyses the
body, as it does the spirit.
“Remain here for a few moments,” said Mr.
Fletcher to his attendants, and he put spurs to his
horse, and galloped forward.
“Put down the litter,” said Hope Leslie to her
bearers. “I cannot stand stock-still, here, in
sight of the house where my sister is.” The Indians
knew their duty, and determined to abide
by the letter of their employer's orders, did not
depress the litter.
“There, take that for your sulkiness,” she said,
giving each a tap on his ear, and half impatient,
half sportive, she leaped from the litter, and
bounded forward.
The friends met. Mr. Pynchon covered his face,
and groaned aloud. “What has happened to my
family?” demanded Mr. Fletcher. “My wife?—
my son?—my little ones?—Oh! speak—God
give me grace to hear thee!”
In vain Mr. Pynchon essayed to speak—he
could find no words to soften the frightful truth.
Mr. Fletcher turned his horse's head towards Bethel,
and was proceeding to end, himself, the insupportable
suspense, when his friend, seizing his
arm, cried—“Stop, stop—go not thither—thy
house is desolate”—and then, half-choked with
groans and sobs, he unfolded the dismal story.
Not a sound, nor a sigh, escaped the blasted
man. He seemed to be turned into stone, till he
was roused by the wild shrieks of the little girl,
who, unobserved, had listened to the communication
of Mr. Pynchon.
“Take the child with you,” he said—“I shall
go to my house. If—if my boy returns, send
a messenger instantly; otherwise, suffer me to
remain alone till to-morrow.”
He passed on, without appearing to hear the
cries and entreaties of Hope Leslie, who, forcibly
detained by Mr. Pynchon, screamed, “Oh! take
me—take me with you—there are but us two
left—I will not go away from you!” but at last,
finding resistance useless, she yielded, and was
conveyed to the village, where she was received
by her aunt Grafton, whose grief was as noisy
and communicative, as Mr. Fletcher's had been
silent, and unexpressed by any of the forms of
sorrow.
Early on the following morning, Mr. Pynchon,
attended by several others, men and women, went
to Bethel to offer their sympathy and service.
They met Jennet at the door, who, greatly relieved
by the sight of human faces, and ears willing to
listen, informed them, that immediately after her
master's arrival, he had retired to the apartment
that contained the bodies of the deceased, charging
her not to intrude on him.
A murmur of apprehension ran around the circle.
“It was misjudged to leave him here alone,”
whispered one. “It is not every man, though his
faith stand as a mountain in his prosperity, that
can bear to have the Lord put forth his hand, and
touch his bone and his flesh.”
“Ah!” said another, “my heart misgave me
such a calm as that is like the still dead waters
that cover the lost cities—quiet is not the nature
of the creature, and you may be sure that unseen
havoc and ruin are underneath.”
“The poor dear gentleman should have taken
something to eat or drink,” said a little plump,
full-fed lady; “there is nothing so feeding to grief
as an empty stomach. Madam Holioke, do not
you think it would be prudent for us to guard
with a little cordial and a bit of spiced cake—if
this good girl can give it to us,” looking at Jennet.
“The dear lady that's gone was ever thrifty
in her housewifery, and I doubt not she hath left
such witnesses behind.”
Mrs. Holioke shook her head, and a man of a
most solemn and owl aspect, who sat between the
ladies, turned to the last speaker and said, in a
deep guttural tone, “Judy, thou shouldst not bring
thy carnal propensities to this house of mourning
—and perchance of sin. Where the Lord works,
Satan worketh also, tempting the wounded. I
doubt our brother Fletcher hath done violence to
himself. He was ever of a proud—that is to say,
a peculiar and silent make—and what won't bend,
will break.”
The suggestion in this speech communicated
alarm to all present. Several persons gathered
about Mr. Pynchon. Some advised him to knock
at the door of the adjoining apartment; others
counselled forcing it if necessary. While each
from within, and Mr. Fletcher came among them.
“Do you bring me any news of my son?” he
asked Mr. Pynchon.
“None, my friend—the scouts have not yet returned.”
Till this question was put and answered, there
was a tremulousness of voice, a knitting of the
brow, and a variation of colour, that indicated the
agitation of the sufferer's soul; but then a sublime
composure overspread his countenance and
figure. He noticed every one present with more
than his usual attention, and to a superficial observer,
one who knew not how to interpret his
mortal paleness, the wild melancholy of his glazed
eye and his rigid muscles, which had the inflexibility
and fixedness of marble, he might have appeared
to be suffering less than any person present.
Some cried outright—some stared with
undisguised and irrepressible curiosity—some
were voluble in the expression of their sympathy,
while a few were pale, silent, and awe-struck.
All these many coloured feelings fell on Mr.
Fletcher like light on a black surface—producing
no change—meeting no return. He stood leaning
on the mantel-piece, till the first burst of
feeling was over—till all, insensibly yielding to
his example, became quiet, and the apartment
was as still as that in which death held his silent
dominion.
Mr. Pynchon then whispered to him. “My
seasonable word, showing that you are not amazed
at your calamity—that you counted the cost
before you undertook to build the Lord's building
in the wilderness. It is suitable that you should
turn your affliction to the profit of the Lord's
people.”
Mr. Fletcher felt himself stretched on a rack,
that he must endure with a martyr's patience; he
lifted up his head and with much effort spoke
one brief sentence—a sentence which contains all
that a christian could feel, or the stores of language
could express—he uttered, “God's will be
done!” and then hurried away, to hide his struggles
in solitude.
Relieved from the restraint of his presence, the
company poured forth such moral, consoling, and
pious reflections as usually flow spontaneously
from the lips of the spectators of suffering; and
which would seem to indicate that each individual
has a spare stock of wisdom and patience
for his neighbour's occasions, though, through
some strange fatality, they are never applied to
his own use.
We hope our readers will not think we have
wantonly sported with their feelings, by drawing
a picture of calamity that only exists in the fictitious
tale. No—such events, as we have feebly related,
were common in our early annals, and attended
by horrors that it would be impossible for
the imagination to exaggerate. Not only families
all foes—the ruthless, vengeful savage.
In the quiet possession of the blessings transmitted,
we are, perhaps, in danger of forgetting,
or undervaluing the sufferings by which they were
obtained. We forget that the noble pilgrims
lived and endured for us—that when they came
to the wilderness, they said truly, though it may
be somewhat quaintly, that they turned their
backs on Egypt—they did virtually renounce all
dependence on earthly supports—they left the
land of their birth—of their homes—of their father's
sepulchres—they sacrificed ease and preferment,
and all the delights of sense—and for
what?—to open for themselves an earthly paradise?—to
dress their bowers of pleasure and rejoice
with their wives and children? No—they
came not for themselves—they lived not to themselves.
An exiled and suffering people, they came
forth in the dignity of the chosen servants of the
Lord, to open the forests to the sun-beam, and to
the light of the Sun of Righteousness—to restore
man—man oppressed and trampled on by his
fellow; to religious and civil liberty, and equal
rights—to replace the creatures of God on their
natural level—to bring down the hills, and make
smooth the rough places, which the pride and cruelty
of man had wrought on the fair creation of
the Father of all.
What was their reward? Fortune?—distinctions?—the
sweet charities of home? No—but
and they saw, with sublime joy, a multitude of
people where the solitary savage roamed the forest—the
forest vanished, and pleasant villages and
busy cities appeared—the tangled foot-path expanded
to the thronged high-way—the consecrated
church planted on the rock of heathen sacrifice.
And that we might realize this vision—enter
into this promised land of faith—they endured
hardship, and braved death—deeming, as said
one of their company, that “he is not worthy to
live at all, who, for fear or danger of death, shunneth
his country's service, or his own honour—
since death is inevitable and the fame of virtue
immortal.”
If these were the fervors of enthusiasm, it was
an enthusiasm kindled and fed by the holy flame
that glows on the altar of God—an enthusiasm
that never abates, but gathers life and strength
as the immortal soul expands in the image of its
Creator.
We shall now leave the little community, assembled
at Bethel, to perform the last offices for
one who had been among them an example of
all the most attractive virtues of woman. The
funeral ceremony was then, as it still is, among the
descendants of the pilgrims, a simple affectionate
service; a gathering of the people—men, women,
and children, as one family, to the house of
mourning.
Mononotto and his party in their flight had less
than an hour's advantage of their pursuers; and,
retarded by their captives, they would have been
compelled to despatch them, or have been overtaken,
but for their sagacity in traversing the forest;
they knew how to wind around morasses,
to shape their course to the margin of the rivulets,
and to penetrate defiles, while their pursuers,
unpractised in that accurate observation of nature,
by which the savage was guided, were clambering
over mountains, arrested by precipices, or
half buried in swamps.
After an hour's silent and rapid flight, the Indians
halted to make such arrangements as would
best accelerate their retreat. They placed the
little Leslie on the back of one of the Mohawks,
and attached her there by a happis, or strong
wide band, passed several times over her, and
around the body of her bearer. She screamed at
her separation from Oneco, but being permitted
to stretch out her hand and place it in his, she
became quiet and satisfied.
The Mohawk auxiliaries, who so lately had
seemed two insatiate bloodhounds, now appeared
to regard the reciprocal devotion of the children
with complacency; but their amity was not extended
to Everell; and Saco in particular, the Indian
whom he had wounded, and whose arm was
irritated and smarting, eyed him with glances of
brooding malignity. Magawisca perceived this,
and dreading lest the savage should give way to a
him, and Everell. This movement awakened
Mononotto from a sullen reverie, and striking
his hands together, angrily, he bade Magawisca
remove from the English boy.
She obeyed, and mournfully resumed her place
beside her father, saying, as she did so, in a low
thrilling tone, “my father—my father!—where is
my father's look, and voice?—Mononotto has
found his daughter, but I have not found my
father.”
Mononotto felt her reproach—his features relaxed,
and he laid his hand on her head.
“My father's soul awakes!” she cried, exultingly.
“Oh, listen to me—listen to me!”—she
waived her hand to the Mohawks to stop, and they
obeyed. “Why,” she continued in an impassioned
voice—“why hath my father's soul stooped
from its ever upward flight? Till this day his
knife was never stained with innocent blood. Yonder
roof,” and she pointed towards Bethel, “has
sheltered thy children—the wing of the mother-bird
was spread over us—we ate of the children's
bread; then, why hast thou shed their blood?—
why art thou leading the son into captivity? Oh,
spare him!—send him back—leave one light in
the darkened habitation!”
“One,” echoed Mononotto; “did they leave
me one? No;—my people, my children, were
swept away like withered leaves before the wind—
and there where our pleasant homes were clustered,
sprung up around our hearth-stones, and grass has
overgrown our path-ways. Magawisca, has thy
brother vanished from thy memory? I tell thee,
that as Samoset died, that boy shall die. My soul
rejoiced when he fought at his mother's side, to
see him thus make himself a worthy victim to
offer to thy lion-hearted brother—even so fought
Samoset.”
Magawisca felt that her father's purpose was
not to be shaken. She looked at Everell, and
already felt the horrors of the captive's fate—the
scorching fires, and the torturing knives; and
when her father commanded the party to move
onward, she uttered a piercing shriek.
“Be silent, girl,” said Mononotto, sternly;
“cries and screams are for children and cowards.”
“And I am a coward,” replied Magawisca, reverting
to her habitually calm tone, “if to fear
my father should do a wrong, even to an enemy,
is cowardice.” Again her father's brow softened,
and she ventured to add, “send back the boy,
and our path will be all smooth before us—and
light will be upon it, for my mother often said,
`the sun never sets on the soul of the man that
doeth good.' ”
Magawisca had unwittingly touched the spring
of her father's vindictive passions. “Dost thou
use thy mother's words,” he said, “to plead for
one of the race of her murderers? Is not her
grave among my enemies? Say no more, I command
but sharpens my revenge.”
There was no alternative. Magawisca must
feel, or feign submission; and she laid her hand
on her heart, and bowed her head, in token of
obedience. Everell had observed, and understood
her intercession, for, though her words were uttered
in her own tongue, there was no mistaking
her significant manner; but he was indifferent to
the success of her appeal. He still felt the dying
grasp of his mother—still heard his slaughtered
sisters cry to him for help—and, in the agony
of his mind, he was incapable of an emotion of
hope, or fear.
The party resumed their march, and suddenly
changing their direction, they came to the shore
of the Connecticut. They had chosen a point
for their passage where the windings of the river
prevented their being exposed to view for any distance;
but still they cautiously lingered till the
twilight had faded into night. While they were
taking their bark canoe from the thicket of underwood,
in which they had hidden it, Magawisca
said, unobserved, to Everell, “keep an eagle-eye
on our path-way—our journey is always towards
the setting sun—every turn we make is marked
by a dead tree, a lopped branch, or an arrow's
head carved in the bark of a tree; be watchful—
the hour of escape may come.” She spoke in
the lowest audible tone, and without changing her
posture or raising her eyes; and though her last
to chide her he suppressed his rebuke, for she sat
motionless, and silent as a statue.
The party were swiftly conveyed to the opposite
shore. The canoe was then again taken
from the river and plunged into the wood; and
believing they had eluded pursuit, they prepared
to encamp for the night. They selected for this
purpose a smooth grassy area, where they were
screened and defended on the river-side by a natural
rampart, formed of intersecting branches of
willows, sycamores, and elms.
Oneco collected dead leaves from the little
hollows, into which they had been swept by eddies
of wind, and, with the addition of some soft
ferns, he made a bed and pillow for his little favourite,
fit for the repose of a wood nymph. The
Mohawks regarded this labour of love with favour,
and one of them took from his hollow girdle
some pounded corn, and mixing grains of
maple-sugar with it, gave it to Oneco, and the
little girl received it from him as passively as the
young bird takes food from its mother. He then
made a sylvan cup of broad leaves, threaded together
with delicate twigs, and brought her a
draught of water from a fountain that swelled
over the green turf and trickled into the river,
drop by drop, as clear and bright as crystal.
When she had finished her primitive repast, he
laid her on her leafy bed, covered her with skins,
and sang her to sleep.
The Indians refreshed themselves with pounded
maize, and dried fish. A boyish appetite
is not fastidious, and, with a mind at ease, Everell
might have relished this coarse fare; but
now, though repeatedly solicited, he would not
even rise from the ground where he had thrown
himself in listless despair. No excess of misery
can enable a boy of fifteen for any length of time
to resist the cravings of nature for sleep. Everell,
it may be remembered, had watched the previous
night, and he soon sunk into oblivion of his
griefs. One after another, the whole party fell
asleep, with the exception of Magawisca, who sat
apart from the rest, her mantle wrapped closely
around her, her head leaning against a tree, and
apparently lost in deep meditation. The Mohawks,
by way of precaution, had taken a position
on each side of Everell, so as to render it next
to impossible for their prisoner to move without
awakening them. But love, mercy, and hope,
count nothing impossible, and all were at work
in the breast of Magawisca. She warily waited
till the depth of the night, when sleep is most profound,
and then, with a step as noiseless as the
falling dew, she moved round to Everell's head,
stooped down, and putting her lips close to his
ear, pronounced his name distinctly. Most persons
have experienced the power of a name thus
pronounced. Everell awakened instantly and perfectly—and
at once understood from Magawisca's
gestures, for speak again she dared not, that she
urged his departure.
The love of life and safety is too strong to be
paralyzed for any length of time. Hope was kindled;
extrication and escape seemed possible;
quickening thoughts rushed through his mind.
He might be restored to his father; Springfield
could not be far distant; his captors would not
dare to remain in that vicinity after the dawn of
day; one half hour and he was beyond their pursuit.
He rose slowly and cautiously to his feet.
All was yet profoundly still. He glanced his
eye on Faith Leslie, whom he would gladly have
rescued; but Magawisca shook her head, and he
felt that to attempt it, would be to ensure his own
failure.
The moon shone through the branches of the
trees, and shed a faint and quivering light on the
wild groupe. Everell looked cautiously about
him, to see where he should plant his first footstep.
`If I should tread on those skins,' he
thought, `that are about them; or on those dead
rustling leaves, it were a gone case with me.'—
During this instant of deliberation, one of the Indians
murmured something of his dreaming
thoughts, turned himself over, and grasped Everell's
ankle. The boy bit his quivering lip, and
suppressed an instinctive cry, for he perceived it
was but the movement of sleep, and he felt the
hold gradually relaxing. He exchanged a glance
of joy with Magawisca, when a new source of
alarm startled them—they heard the dashing of
oars. Breathless—immoveable—they listened.
rapidly approached, and a voice spoke—“not
there boys—not there, a little higher up.”
Joy and hope shot through Everell's heart as he
sprang, like a startled deer, but the Mohawk,
awakened too by the noise, grasped his leg with
one hand, and with the other drawing his knife
from his girdle, he pointed it at Everell's heart, in
the act to strike if he should make the least movement,
or sound.
Caution is the instinct of the weaker animals;
the Indian cannot be surprised out of his wariness.
Mononotto and his companions, thus suddenly
awakened, remained as fixed and silent as the
trees about them.
The men in the canoes suspended their oars
for a moment, and seemed at a loss how to proceed,
or whether to proceed at all. “It is a risky
business, I can tell you, Digby,” said one of them,
“to plunge into those woods—`it is ill fighting
with wild beasts in their own den'—they may start
out upon us from their holes when we are least
looking for them.”
“And if they should,” replied Digby, in the
voice of one who would fain enforce reason with
persuasion, “if they should, Lawrence, are we
not six stout christian men, with bold hearts, and
the Lord on our side, to boot?”
“I grant ye, that's fighting at odds; but I mistrust
we have no command from the Lord to come
out on this wild-goose chase.”
“I take a known duty,” replied Digby, “always
to be a command from the Lord, and you,
Lawrence, I am sure, will be as ready as another
man to serve under such an order.”
Lawrence was silenced for a moment, and another
voice spoke—“Yes, so should we all, Master
Digby, if you could make out the order; but I
can't see the sense of risking all our lives, and
getting but a `thank ye for nothing' when we get
back, if, indeed, we ever get out of the bowels of
the forest again, into a clearing. To be sure,
we've tracked them thus far, but now, on the river,
we lose scent. You know they thread the
forest as handily as my good woman threads her
needle; and for us to pursue them, is as vain a
thing as for my old chimney-corner cat to chase a
catamount through the woods. Come, come—
let's head about, and give it up for a bad job.”
“Stop, stop, my friends,” cried Digby, as they
were about to put the boat around; “ye surely
have not all faint hearts. Feare-naught, you will not
so belie your christian-name, as to turn your back
on danger. And you, John Wilkin, who cut down
the Pequods, as you were wont to mow the swarth
in Suffolk, will you have it thrown up to you,
that you wanted courage to pursue the caitiffs?
Go home, Lawrence, and take your curly-pated
boy on your knee, and thank God with what heart
you may, for his spared life; and all, all of you
go to that childless man, at Bethel, and say, `we
could not brave the terrors of the forest to save
and children.' For myself, the Lord helping,
while I've life, I'll not turn back without the boy;
and if there's one among you, that hopes for
God's pity, let him go with me.”
“Why, I'm sure it was not I that proposed going
back,” said Lawrence.
“And I'm sure,” said the second speaker, “that
I'm willing, if the rest are, to try our luck further.”
“Now, God above reward ye, my good fellows,”
cried Digby, with renewed life; “I knew
it was but trying your metal, to find it true. It is
not reasonable that you should feel as I do, who
have seen my master's home looking like a slaughter-house.
My mistress—the gentlest and the
best!—Oh! it's too much to think of. And then
that boy, that's worth a legion of such men as we
are—of such as I, I mean. But come, let's pull
away; a little further up the stream—there's no
landing here, where the bank is so steep.”
“Stay—row a little closer,” cried one of the
men; “I see something like a track on the very
edge of the bank; its being seemingly impossible,
is the very reason why the savages would have
chosen it.”
They now approached so near the shore that
Everell knew they might hear a whisper, and yet
to move his lips was certain death. Those who
have experienced the agony of a night-mare, when
life seemed to depend on a single word, and that
word could not be pronounced, may conceive his
rescue so near, and so unavailing!
“Ye are mistaken,” said another of the pursuing
party, after a moment's investigation, “it's but
a heron's track,” which it truly was; for the savages
had been careful not to leave the slightest
trace of their footsteps where they landed.
“There's a cove a little higher up,” continued
the speaker; “we'll put in there, and then if we
dont get on their trail, Master Digby must tell us
what to do.”
“It's plain what we must do then,” said Digby,
“go strait on westerly. I have a compass, you
know; there is not, as the hunters tell us, a single
smoke between this and the vallies of the Housatonick.
There the tribes are friendly, and if we
reach them without falling in with our enemy, we
will not pursue them further.”
“Agreed, agreed,” cried all the men, and they
again dashed in their oars and made for the cove.
Everell's heart sunk within him as the sounds receded;
but hope once admitted, will not be again
excluded, and with the sanguine temperament of
youth, he was already mentally calculating the
chances of escape. Not so Magawisca; she knew
the dangers that beset him; she was aware of her
father's determined purpose. Her heart had again
been rent by a divided duty; one word from her
would have rescued Everell, but that word would
have condemned her father; and when the boat
the conflict of her feelings.
It may seem strange that the Indians did not
avail themselves of the advantage of their ambush
to attack their pursuers; but it will be remembered,
the latter were double their number,
and besides, Mononotto's object now was, to
make good his retreat with his children; and to
effect this, it was essential he should avoid any encounter
with his pursuers. After a short consultation
with his associates, they determined to remain
in their present position till the morning.
They were confident they should be able to detect
and avoid the track of the enemy, and soon to
get in advance of them.
| CHAPTER VI. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts | |