University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Midsummer-Night's Dream.

On quitting the hill, Philip had summoned his
Wampanoags, and, supported by the obedient and
fierce Annawon, a savage that might, under better
auspices, have proved a worthy lieutenant to Cæ
sar, he left the fields of Wish-Ton-Wish. Accustomed
to see these sudden outbreakings of temper
in their leaders, the followers of Conanchet, who
would have preserved their air of composure under
far more trying circumstances, saw him depart.
equally without question and without alarm. But
when their own Sachem appeared on the ground
which was still red with the blood of the combatants,
and made known his intention to abandon a
conquest that seemed more than half achieved, he
was not heard without murmuring. The authority
of an Indian Chief is far from despotic, and though
there is reason to think it is often aided, if not
generated, by the accidental causes of birth and
descent, it receives its main support in the personal
qualities of him who rules. Happily for the Narragansett
leader, even his renowned father, the hapless
Miantonimoh, had not purchased a higher name for
wisdom, or for daring, than that which had been
fairly won by his still youthful son. The savage
humors and the rankling desire for vengeance in
the boldest of his subalterns, were made to quail
before the menacing glances of an eye that seldom
threatened without performance; nor was there

one of them all, when challenged to come forth to
brave the anger or to oppose the eloquence of his
chief, who did not shrink from a contest which habitual
respect had taught them to believe would
be far too unequal for success. Within less than an
hour after Ruth had clasped her child to her bosom,
the invaders had altogether disappeared. The dead
of their party were withdrawn and concealed, with
all the usual care, in order that no scalp of a warrior
might be left in the hands of his enemies.

It was not unusual for the Indians to retire satisfied
with the results of their first blow. So much
of their military success was dependent on surprise,
that it oftener happened the retreat commenced
with its failure, than that victory was obtained by
perseverance.

So long as the battle raged, their courage was
equal to all its dangers; but among people who
made so great a merit of artifice, it is not at all
surprising that they seldom put more to the hazard
than was justified by the most severe discretion.
When it was known, therefore, that the foe had
disappeared in the forest, the inhabitants of the
village were more ready to believe the movement
was the result of their own manful resistance, than
to seek motives that might not prove so soothing to
their self-esteem. The retreat was thought to be
quite in rule, and though prudence forbade pursuit,
able and well-limbed scouts were sent on their trail,
as well to prevent a renewal of the surprise, as to
enable the forces of the Colony to know the tribe
of their enemies, and the direction which they had
taken.

Then came a scene of solemn ceremonies and of
deep affliction. Though the parties led by Dudley
and the Lieutenant had been so fortunate as to
escape with a few immaterial wounds, the soldiers
headed by Content, with the exception of those

already named, had fallen to a man. Death had
struck, at a blow, twenty of the most efficient individuals,
out of that isolated and simple community-Under
circumstances in which victory was so barren
and so dearly bought, sorrow was a feeling far
stronger than rejoicing. Exultation took the aspect
of humility, and while men were conscious of their
well-deserving, they were the more sensible of their
dependence on a power they could neither influence
nor comprehend. The characteristic opinions of the
religionists became still more exalted, and the close
of the day was quite as remarkable for an exhibition
of the peculiarly exaggerated impressions of
the Colonists, as its opening had been frightful in
violence and blood.

When one of the more active of the runners returned
with the news that the Indians had retired
through the forest with a broad trail, a sure sign
that they meditated no further concealment near
the valley, and that they had already been traced
many miles on their retreat, the villagers returned
to their usual habitations. The dead were then distributed
among those who claimed the nearest right
to the performance of the last duties of affection;
and it might have been truly said, that mourning
had taken up its abode in nearly every dwelling.
The ties of blood were so general in a society thus
limited, and, where they failed, the charities of life
were so intimate and so natural, that not an individual
of them all escaped, without feeling that
the events of the day had robbed him, for ever, of
some one on whom he was partially dependent for
comfort or happiness.

As the day drew towards its close, the little bell
again summoned the congregation to the church.
On this solemn occasion, but few of those who still
lived to hear its sounds were absent. The moment
when Meek arose for prayer was one of general

and intense feeling. The places so lately occupied
by those who had fallen were now empty, and they
resembled so many eloquent blanks in the description
of what had passed, expressing far more than
any language could impart. The appeal of the divine
was in his usual strain of sublimated piety,
mysterious insights into the hidden purposes of
Providence being strangely blended with the more
intelligible wants and passions of man. While he
gave Heaven the glory of the victory, he spoke
with a lofty and pretending humility of the instruments
of its power; and although seemingly willing
to acknowledge that his people abundantly deserved
the heavy blow which had alighted on them, there
was an evident impatience of the agents by which
it had been inflicted. The principles of the sectarian
were so singularly qualified by the feelings of
the borderer, that one subtle in argument would
have found little difficulty in detecting flaws in the
reasoning of this zealot; but as so much was obscured
by metaphysical mists, and so much was left
for the generalities of doctrine, his hearers, without
an exception, made such an application of what he
uttered, as apparently rendered every mind satisfied.

The sermon was as extemporaneous as the prayer,
if any thing can come extempore from a mind so
drilled and fortified in opinion. It contained much
the same matter, delivered a little less in the form
of an apostrophe. The stricken congregation, while
they were encouraged with the belief that they
were vessels set apart for some great and glorious
end of Providence, were plainly told that they merited
far heavier affliction than this which had now befallen;
and they were reminded that it was their
duty to desire even condemnation, that he who
framed the heavens and the earth might be glorified!
Then they heard comfortable conclusions, which
might reasonably teach them to expect, that though

in the abstract such were the obligations of the real
Christian, there was good reason to think that all
who listened to doctrines so pure would be remembered
with an especial favor.

So useful a servant of the temple as Meek Wolfe
did not forget the practical application of his subject.
It is true, that no visible emblem of the
cross was shown to excite his hearers, nor were
they stimulated to loosen blood-hounds on the trail
of their enemies; but the former was kept sufficiently
before the mind's eye by constant allusions
to its merits, and the Indians were pointed at as the
instruments by which the great father of evil hoped
to prevent `the wilderness from blossoming like the
rose,' and `yielding the sweet savors of godliness.'
Philip and Conanchet were openly denounced, by
name; some dark insinuations being made, that the
person of the former was no more than the favorite
tenement of Moloch; while the hearer was left to
devise a suitable spirit for the government of the
physical powers of the other, from among any of
the more evil agencies that were named in the Bible.
Any doubts of the lawfulness of the contest,
that might assail tender consciences, were brushed
away by a bold and decided hand. There was no
attempt at justification, however; for all difficulties
of this nature were resolved by the imperative obligations
of duty. A few ingenious allusions to the
manner in which the Israelites dispossessed the occupants
of Judea, were of great service in this particular
part of the subject, since it was not difficult
to convince men, who so strongly felt the impulses
of religious excitement, that they were stimulated
rightfully. Fortified by this advantage, Mr. Wolfe
manifested no desire to avoid the main question.
He affirmed that if the empire of the true faith
could be established by no other means, a circumstance
which he assumed it was sufficiently apparent

to all understandings could not be done, he pronounced
it the duty of young and old, the weak and
the strong, to unite in assisting to visit the former
possessors of the country with what he termed the
wrath of an offended Deity. He spoke of the fearful
slaughter of the preceding winter, in which neither
years nor sex had been spared, as a triumph
of the righteous cause, and as an encouragement to
persevere. Then, by a transition that was not extraordinary
in an age so remarkable for religious
subtleties, Meek returned to the more mild and
obvious truths which pervade the doctrines of him
whose church he professed to uphold. His hearers
were admonished to observe lives of humility and
charity, and were piously dismissed, with his benediction,
to their several homes.

The congregation quitted the building with the
feelings of men who thought themselves favored by
peculiar and extraordinary intelligences with the
author of all truth, while the army of Mahomet itself
was scarcely less influenced by fanaticism than
these blinded zealots. There was something so
grateful to human frailty in reconciling their resentments
and their temporal interests to their religious
duties, that it should excite little wonder
when we add that most of them were fully prepared
to become ministers of vengeance in the hands
of any bold leader. While the inhabitants of the
settlement were thus struggling between passions
so contradictory, the shades of evening gradually
fell upon their village, and then came darkness, with
the rapid strides with which it follows the setting
of the sun in a low latitude.

Some time before the shadows of the trees were
getting the grotesque and exaggerated forms which
precede the last rays of the luminary, and while
the people were still listening to their pastor, a solitary
individual was placed on a giddy eyrie, whence

he might note the movements of those who dwelt
in the hamlet, without being the subject of observation
himself. A short spur of the mountain projected
into the valley, on the side nearest to the
dwelling of the Heathcotes. A little tumbling
brook, which the melting of the snows and the occasionally
heavy rains of the climate periodically
increased into a torrent, had worn a deep ravine in
its rocky bosom. Time, and the constant action of
water, aided by the driving storms of winter and
autumn, had converted many of the different faces
of this ravine into wild-looking pictures of the residences
of men. There was however one spot, in
particular, around which a closer inspection than
that which the distance of the houses in the settlement
offered, might have detected far more plausible
signs of the agency of human hands, than any
that were afforded by the fancied resemblances of
fantastic angles and accidental formations.

Precisely at that point where a sweep of the
mountain permitted the best view of the valley, did
the rocks assume the wildest, the most confused, and
consequently the most favorable appearance for the
construction of any residence which it was desirable
should escape the curious eyes of the settlers, at
the same time that it possessed the advantage of
overlooking their proceedings. A hermit would
have chosen the place as a spot suited to distant
and calm observation of the world, while it was
every way adapted to solitary reflection and ascetic
devotion. All who have journeyed through the narrow
and water-worn vineyards and meadows which
are washed by the Rhone, ere that river pours its
tribute into the Lake of Leman, have seen some
such site, occupied by one who has devoted his life
to seclusion and the altar, overhanging the village
of St. Maurice, in the Canton of le Valais. But
there is an air of obtrusiveness in the Swiss hermitage

that did not belong to the place of which we
write, since the one is perched upon its high and
narrow ledge, as if to show the world in what dangerous
and circumscribed limits God may be worshipped;
while the other sought exemption from
absolute solitude, while it courted secrecy with the
most jealous caution. A small hut had been erected
against the side of the rock, in a manner that presented
an oblique angle. Care had been taken to
surround it with such natural objects as left little
reason to apprehend that its real character could
be known by any who did not absolutely mount to
the difficult shelf on which it stood. Light entered
into this primitive and humble abode by a window
that looked into the ravine, and a low door opened
on the side next the valley. The construction was
partly of stone and partly of logs, with a roof of
bark and a chimney of mud and sticks.

One who, by his severe and gloomy brow, was a
fit possessor of so secluded a tenement, was, at the
hour named, seated on a stone at the most salient
angle of the mountain, and at the place where the
eye commanded the widest and least-obstructed view
of the abodes of man in the distance. Stones had
been rolled together in a manner to form a little
breastwork in his front, so that, had there been any
wandering gaze sweeping over the face of the mountain,
it was far from probable that it would have
detected the presence of a man whose whole form,
with the exception of the superior parts, was so
effectually concealed.

It would have been difficult to say, whether this
secluded being had thus placed himself in order to
indulge in some habitual and fancied communication
with the little world of the valley, or whether he
sat at his post in watchfulness. There was an appearance
of each of these occupations in his air;
for at times his eye was melancholy and softened,

as if his spirit found pleasure in the charities natural
to the species; and at others, the brows contracted
with sternness, while the lips became more
than usually compressed, like those of a man who
threw himself on his own innate resolution for support.

The solitude of the place, the air of universal
quiet which reigned above, the boundless leafy
carpet over which the eye looked from that elevated
point, and the breathing stillness of the bosom of
the woods, united to give grandeur to the scene.
The figure of the tenant of the ravine was as immovable
as any other object of the view. It seemed,
in all but color and expression, of stone. An elbow
was leaning on the little screen in front, and the
head was supported by a hand. At the distance of
an arrow's flight, the eye might readily have supposed
it no more than another of the accidental
imitations which had been worn in the rock by the
changes of centuries. An hour passed, and scarce
a limb had been changed, or a muscle relieved.
Either contemplation, or the patient awaiting of
some looked-for event, appeared to suspend the ordinary
functions of life. At length, an interruption
occurred to this extraordinary inaction. A rustling,
not louder than that which would have been made
by the leap of a squirrel, was first heard in the
bushes above; it was succeeded by a crackling of
branches, and then a fragment of a rock came
bounding down the precipice, until it shot over the
head of the still motionless hermit, and fell, with a
noise that drew a succession of echoes from the
caverns of the place, into the ravine beneath.

Notwithstanding the suddenness of this interruption,
and the extraordinary fracas with which it was
accompanied, he, who might be supposed to be most
affected by it, manifested none of the usual symptoms
of fear or surprise. He listened intently, until

the last sound had died away, but it was with expectation
rather than with alarm. Arising slowly,
he looked warily about him, and then walking with a
quick step along the ledge which led to his hut, he
disappeared through its door. In another minute,
however, he was again seen at his former post; a
short carabine, such as was then used by mounted
warriors, lying across his knee. If doubt or perplexity
beset the mind of this individual, at so palpable
a sign that the solitude he courted was in
danger of being interrupted, it was not of a nature
sufficiently strong to disturb the equanimity of his
aspect. A second time the branches rustled, and the
sounds proceeded from a lower part of the precipice,
as if the foot that caused the disturbance was in
the act of descending. Though no one was visible,
the nature of the noise could no longer be mistaken.
It was evidently the tread of a human foot, for no
beast of a weight sufficient to produce so great an
impression, would have chosen to rove across a spot
where the support of hands was nearly as necessary
as that of the other limbs.

“Come forward!” said he who in all but the accessories
of dress and hostile preparation might so
well be termed a hermit—“I am already here.”

The words were not given to the air, for one suddenly
appeared on the ledge at the side next the
settlement, and within twenty feet of the speaker.
When glance met glance, the surprise which evidently
took possession of the intruder and of him
who appeared to claim a better right to be where
they met, seemed mutual. The carabine of the
latter, and a musket carried by the former, fell into
the dangerous line of aim at the same instant, and
in a moment they were thrown upwards again, as
if a common impulse controlled them. The resident
signed to the other to draw nigher, and then every

appearance of hostility disappeared in that sort of
familiarity which confidence begets.

“How is it,” said the former to his guest, when
both were calmly seated behind the little screen of
stones, “that thou hast fallen upon this secret place?
The foot of stranger hath not often trod these rocks,
and no man before thee hath ever descended the
precipice.”

“A moccason is sure,” returned the other with
Indian brevity. “My father hath a good eye. He
can see very far from the door of his lodge.”

“Thou knowest that the men of my color speak
often to their Good Spirit, and they do not love to ask
his favor in the highways. This place is sacred to
his holy name.”

The intruder was the young Sachem of the Narragansetts,
and he who, notwithstanding this plausible
apology, so palpably sought secrecy rather than
solitude, was the man that has often been introduced
into these pages under the shade of mystery. The
instant recognition and the mutual confidence require
no further explanation, since enough has already
been developed in the course of the narrative,
to show that they were no strangers to each other.
Still the meeting had not taken place without uneasiness
on the one part, and great though admirably
veiled surprise on the other. As became his high
station and lofty character, the bearing of Conanchet
betrayed none of the littleness of a vulgar curiosity.
He met his ancient acquaintance with the
calm dignity of his rank, and it would have been
difficult for the most inquiring eye to have detected
a wandering glance, a single prying look, or any
other sign that he deemed the place at all extraordinary
for such an interview. He listened to the little
explanation of the other, with grave courtesy, and
suffered a short time to elapse before he made any
reply.

“The Manitou of the pale-men,” he then said,
“should be pleased with my father. His words are
often in the ears of the Great Spirit! The trees
and the rocks know them.”

“Like all of a sinful and fallen race,” returned
the stranger with the severe air of the age, “I have
much need of my askings. But why dost thou think
that my voice is so often heard in this secret place?”

The finger of Conanchet pointed to the worn rock
at his feet, and his eye glanced furtively at the
beaten path which led between the spot and the
door of the lodge.

“A Yengeese hath a hard heel, but it is softer
than stone. The hoof of the deer would pass many
times, to leave such a trail.”

“Thou art quick of eye, Narragansett, and yet
thy judgment may be deceived. My tongue is not
the only one that speaketh to the God of my
people.”

The Sachem bent his head slightly, in acquiescence,
as if unwilling to press the subject. But his
companion was not so easily satisfied, for he felt the
consciousness of a fruitless attempt at deception
goading him to some plausible means of quieting
the suspicions of the Indian.

“That I am now alone, may be matter of pleasure
or of accident,” he added; “thou knowest that this
hath been a busy and a bloody day among the pale-men,
and there are dead and dying in their lodges.
One who hath no wigwam of his own may have
found time to worship by himself.”

“The mind is very cunning,” returned Conanchet;
“it can hear when the ear is deaf—it can see when
the eye is shut. My father hath spoken to the Good
Spirit, with the rest of his tribe.”

As the chief concluded, he pointed significantly
towards the distant church, out of which the excited
congregation we have described was at that moment

pouring into the green and little-trodden street of
the hamlet. The other appeared to understand his
meaning, and, at the same instant, to feel the folly,
as well as the uselessness, of attempting any longer
to mislead one that already knew so much of his
former mode of life.

“Indian, thou sayest true,” he rejoined gloomily:
“the mind seeth far, and it seeth often in the bitterness
of sorrow. My spirit was communing with the
spirits of those thou seest, when thy step was first
heard; besides thine own, the feet of man never
mounted to this place, except it be of those who
minister to my bodily wants. Thou sayest true; the
mental sight is keen; and far beyond those distant
hills, on which the last rays of the setting sun are
now shining so gloriously, doth mine often bear me
in spirit. Thou wast once my fellow-lodger, youth,
and much pleasure had I in striving to open thy
young mind to the truths of our race, and to teach
thee to speak with the tongue of a Christian; but
years have passed away—hark! There cometh one
up the path. Hast thou dread of a Yengeese?”

The calm mien with which Conanchet had been
listening, changed to a cold smile. His hand had
felt for the lock of the musket, some time before his
companion had betrayed any consciousness of the
approaching footstep; but until questioned, no change
of countenance was visible.

“Is my father afraid for his friend?” he asked,
pointing in the direction of him who approached.
“Is it an armed warrior?”

“No: he cometh with the means of sustaining a
burthen that must be borne, until it pleaseth him
who knoweth what is good for all his creatures to
ease me of it. It may be the parent of her thou
hast this day restored to her friends, or it may be
the brother; for, at times, I owe this kindness to
different members of that worthy family.”

A look of intelligence shot across the swarthy
features of the chief. His decision appeared taken.
Arising, he left his weapon at the feet of his companion,
and moved swiftly along the ledge, as if to
meet the intruder. In another instant he returned,
bearing a little bundle closely enveloped in belts of
richly-beaded wampum. Placing the latter gently
by the side of the old man, for time had changed
the color of the solitary's hair to gray, he said, in a
low, quick voice, pointing with significance at what
he had done—

“The Messenger will not go back with an empty
hand. My father is wise; he will say what is good.”

There was little time for further explanation.
The door of the hut had scarcely closed on Conanchet,
before Mark Heathcote appeared at the
point where the path bent around the angle of the
precipice.

“Thou knowest what hath passed, and wilt suffer
me to depart with brief discourse,” said the young
man, placing food at the feet of him he came to
seek; “ha! what hast here?—didst gain this in the
fray of the morning?”

“It is booty that I freely bestow; take it to the
house of thy father. It is left with that object. Now
tell me of the manner in which death hath dealt
with our people, for thou knowest that necessity
drove me from among them, so soon as liberty was
granted.”

Mark showed no disposition to gratify the other's
wish. He gazed on the bundle of Conanchet, as if
his eye had never before looked on a similar object,
and keenly contending passions were playing about
a brow that was seldom as tranquil as suited the
self-denying habits of the times and country.

“It shall be done, Narragansett!” he said, speaking
between his clenched teeth; “it shall be done!”
Then turning on his heel, he stalked along the giddy

path with a rapidity of stride that kept the other
in fearful suspense for his safety, until his active
form had disappeared.

The recluse arose, and sought the occupant of his
humble abode.

“Come forth,” he said, opening the narrow door
for the passage of the Chief. “The youth hath
departed with thy burthen, and thou art now alone
with an ancient associate.”

Conanchet reappeared at the summons, but it
was with an eye less glowing and a brow less stern
than when he entered the little cabin. As he moved
slowly to the stone he had before occupied, his step
was arrested for a moment, and a look of melancholy
regret seemed to be cast at the spot where
he had laid the bundle. Conquering his feelings,
however, in the habitual self-command of his people,
he resumed his seat, with the air of one that was
grave by nature, while he appeared to exert no
effort in order to preserve the admirable equanimity
of his features. A long and thoughtful silence succeeded,
and then the solitary spoke.

“We have made a friend of the Narragansett
Chief,” he said, “and this league with Philip is
broken?”

“Yengeese,” returned the other, “I am full of
the blood of Sachems.”

“Why should the Indian and the white do each
other this violence? The earth is large, and there
is place for men of all colors and of all nations on
its surface.”

“My father hath found but little,” said the other,
bestowing such a cautious glance at the narrow
limits of his host, as at once betrayed the sarcastic
purport of his words, while it equally bespoke the
courtesy of his mind.

“A light-minded and vain prince is seated on the
throne of a once-godly nation, Chief, and darkness

has again come over a land which of late shone
with a clear and shining light! The just are made
to flee from the habitations of their infancy, and the
temples of the elect are abandoned to the abominations
of idolatry. Oh England! England! when
will thy cup of bitterness be full?—when shall this
judgment pass from thee? My spirit groaneth over
thy fall—yea, my inmost soul is saddened with the
spectacle of thy misery!”

Conanchet was too delicate to regard the glazed
eye and flushed forehead of the speaker, but he
listened in amazement and in ignorance. Such expressions
had often met his ear before, and though
his tender years had probably prevented their producing
much effect, now, that he again heard them
in his manhood, they conveyed no intelligible meaning
to his mind. Suddenly laying a finger on the
knee of his companion, he said—

“The arm of my father was raised on the side
of the Yengeese, to-day; yet they give him no seat
at their council-fire!”

“The sinful man, who ruleth in the island whence
my people came, hath an arm that is long as his
mind is vain. Though debarred from the councils
of this valley, Chief, time hath been, when my voice
was heard in councils that struck heavily at the
power of his race. These eyes have seen justice
done on him who gave existence to the double-tongued
instrument of Belial, that now governeth
a rich and glorious realm!”

“My father hath taken the scalp of a great
chief!”

“I helped to take his head!” returned the solitary,
a ray of bitter exultation gleaming through
the habitual austerity of his brow.

“Come.—The eagle flies above the clouds, that
he may move his wings freely. The panther leaps
longest on the widest plain; the biggest fish swim

in the deep water. My father cannot stretch himself
between these rocks. He is too big to lie down
in a little wigwam. The woods are wide; let him
change the color of his skin, and be a gray head at
the council-fire of my nation. The warriors will
listen to what he says, for his hand hath done a
strong deed!”

“It may not be—it may not be, Narragansett.
That which hath been generated in the spirit, must
abide, and it would be `easier for the blackamoor
to become white, or for the leopard to change his
spots,' than for one who hath felt the power of the
Lord, to cast aside his gifts. But I meet thy proffers
of amity in a charitable and forgiving spirit.
My mind is ever with my people; yet is there place
for other friendships. Break then this league with
the evil-minded and turbulent Philip, and let the
hatchet be for ever buried in the path between thy
village and the towns of the Yengeese.”

“Where is my village? There is a dark place
near the islands on the shores of the Great Lake;
but I see no lodges.”

“We will rebuild thy towns, and people them
anew. Let there be peace between us.”

“My mind is ever with my people;” returned
the Indian, repeating the other's words, with an
emphasis that could not be mistaken.

A long and melancholy pause succeeded; and
when the conversation was renewed, it had reference
to those events which had taken place in the
fortunes of each, since the time when they were
both tenants of the block-house that stood amid the
ancient habitations of the Heathcotes. Each appeared
too well to comprehend the character of the
other, to attempt any further efforts towards producing
a change of purpose; and darkness had
gathered about the place, before they arose to enter
the hut of the solitary.