 | CHAPTER XII. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
“Tarry a little;—there is something else.”
Merchant of Venice.
We shift the scene. The reader will transport
himself from the valley of the Wish-Ton-Wish, to the
bosom of a deep and dark wood.
It may be thought that such scenes have been
too often described to need any repetition. Still, as
it is possible that these pages may fall into the hands
of some who have never quitted the older members
of the Union, we shall endeavor to give them a
faint impression concerning the appearance of the
place to which it has become our duty to transfer
the action of the tale.
Although it is certain that inanimate, like animate
nature, has its period, the existence of the tree has
no fixed and common limit. The oak, the elm, and
the linden, the quick-growing sycamore and the tall
pine, has each its own laws for the government of
its growth, its magnitude, and its duration. By this
provision of nature, the wilderness, in the midst of
so many successive changes, is always maintained
at the point nearest to perfection, since the accessions
are so few and gradual as to preserve its
character.
The American forest exhibits in the highest
degree the grandeur of repose. As nature never
does violence to its own laws, the soil throws out
the plant which it is best qualified to support, and
the eye is not often disappointed by a sickly vegetation.
There ever seems a generous emulation in
the trees, which is not to be found among others of
existence in the solitude of the fields. Each struggles
towards the light, and an equality in bulk and a
similarity in form are thus produced, which scarce
belong to their distinctive characters. The effect
may easily be imagined. The vaulted arches beneath
are filled with thousands of high, unbroken
columns, which sustain one vast and trembling
canopy of leaves. A pleasing gloom and an imposing
silence have their interminable reign below,
while an outer and another atmosphere seems to
rest on the cloud of foliage.
While the light plays on the varying surface
of the tree-tops, one sombre and little-varied hue
colors the earth. Dead and moss-covered logs;
mounds covered with decomposed vegetable substances,
the graves of long-past generations of trees;
cavities left by the fall of some uprooted trunk;
dark fungi, that flourish around the decayed roots
of those about to lose their hold, with a few slender
and delicate plants of a minor growth, and which
best succeed in the shade, form the accompaniments
of the lower scene. The whole is tempered,
and in summer rendered grateful, by a freshness
which equals that of the subterranean vault, without
possessing any of its chilling dampness. In the
midst of this gloomy solitude, the foot of man is
rarely heard. An occasional glimpse of the bounding
deer or trotting moose, is almost the only interruption
on the earth itself; while the heavy
bear or leaping panther, is, at long intervals, met
seated on the branches of some venerable tree.
There are moments, too, when troops of hungry
wolves are found hunting on the trail of the deer;
but these are seen rather as exceptions to the stillness
of the place, than as accessories that should
properly be introduced into the picture. Even the
birds are, in common, mute, or when they do break
character of their wild abode.
Through such a scene two men were industriously
journeying, on the day which succeeded the inroad
last described. They marched as wont, one after
the other, the younger and more active leading the
way through the monotony of the woods, as accurately
and as unhesitatingly as the mariner directs
his course by the aid of the needle over the waste
of waters. He in front was light, agile, and seemingly
unwearied; while the one who followed was
a man of heavy mould, whose step denoted less
practice in the exercise of the forest, and possibly
some failing of natural vigor.
“Thine eye, Narragansett, is an unerring compass
by which to steer, and thy leg a never-wearied
steed;” said the latter, casting the but of his musket
on the end of a mouldering log, while he leaned on
the barrel for support. “If thou movest on the war-path
with the same diligence as thou usest in our
errand of peace, well may the Colonists dread thy
enmity.”
The other turned, and, without seeking aid from
the gun which rested against his shoulder, he pointed
at the several objects he named, and answered—
“My father is this aged sycamore; it leans against
the young oak—Conanchet is a straight pine. There
is great cunning in gray hairs,” added the chief,
stepping lightly forward until a finger rested on
the arm of Submission; “can they tell the time
when we shall lie under the moss like a dead hemlock?”
“That exceedeth the wisdom of man. It is enough,
Sachem, if when we fall, we may say with truth,
that the land we shadowed is no poorer for our
growth. Thy bones will lie in the earth where thy
fathers trod, but mine may whiten in the vault of
some gloomy forest.”
The quiet of the Indian's face was disturbed. The
pupils of his dark eyes contracted, his nostrils dilated,
and his full chest heaved; and then all reposed, like
the sluggish ocean, after a vain effort to heave its
waters into some swelling wave, during a general
calm.
“Fire hath scorched the prints of my father's
moccasons from the earth,” he said, with a smile
that was placid though bitter, “and my eyes cannot
find them. I shall die under that shelter,” pointing
through an opening in the foliage to the blue void;
“the falling leaves will cover my bones.”
“Then hath the Lord given us a new bond of
friendship. There is a yew-tree and a quiet church-yard
in a country afar, where generations of my
race sleep in their graves. The place is white with
stones that bear the name of—”
Submission suddenly ceased to speak, and when
his eye was raised to that of his companion, it was
just in time to detect the manner in which the
curious interest of the latter changed suddenly to
cold reserve, and to note the high courtesy of the
air with which the Indian turned the discourse.
“There is water beyond the little hill,” he said,
“Let my father drink and grow stronger, that he
may live to lie in the clearings.”
The other bowed, and they proceeded to the spot
in silence. It would seem, by the length of time that
was now lost in taking the required refreshment, that
the travellers had journeyed long and far. The Narragansett
ate more sparingly, however, than his companion,
for his mind appeared to sustain a weight
that was far more grievous than the fatigue which
had been endured by the body. Still his composure
was little disturbed outwardly, for during the silent
repast he maintained the air of a dignified warrior,
rather than that of a man whose air could be much
affected by inward sorrow. When nature was appeased,
through the pathless forest.
For an hour after quitting the spring, the progress
of our two adventurers was swift, and uninterrupted
by any passing observation or momentary pause.
At the end of that time, however, the speed of Conanchet
began to slacken, and his eye, instead of
maintaining its steady and forward direction, was
seen to wander with some of the appearance of indecision.
“Thou hast lost those secret signs by which we
have so far threaded the woods,” observed his companion;
“one tree is like another, and I see no difference
in this wilderness of nature; but if thou art
at fault, we may truly despair of our object.”
“Here is the nest of the eagle,” returned Conanchet,
pointing at the object he named perched on the
upper and whitened branches of a dead pine; “and
my father may see the council-tree in this oak—but
there are no Wampanoags!”
“There are many eagles in this forest, nor is that
oak one that may not have its fellow. Thine eye
hath been deceived, Sachem, and some false sign
hath led us astray.”
Conanchet looked at his companion attentively.
After a moment, he quietly asked—
“Did my father ever mistake his path, in going
from his wigwam to the place where he looked upon
the house of his Great Spirit?”
The matter of that often-travelled path was
different, Narragansett. My foot had worn the rock
with many passings, and the distance was a span.
But we have journeyed through leagues of forest,
and our route hath lain across brook and hill, through
brake and morass, where human vision hath not
been able to detect the smallest sign of the presence
of man.”
“My father is old,” said the Indian, respectfully.
of the Great Chief, or he would know the print of a
moccason—see,” making his companion observe the
mark of a human foot that was barely discernible
by the manner in which the dead leaves had been
displaced; “his rock is worn, but it is harder than
the ground. He cannot tell by its signs who passed,
or when.”
“Here is truly that which ingenuity may portray
as the print of man's foot; but it is alone, and
may be some accident of the wind.”
“Let my father look on every side; he will see
that a tribe hath passed.”
“This may be true, though my vision is unequal
to detect that thou wouldst show. But if a tribe
hath passed, let us follow.”
Conanchet shook his head, and spread the fingers
of his two hands in a manner to describe the radii
of a circle.
“Hugh!” he said, starting even while he was
thus significantly answering by gestures, “a moccason
comes!”
Submission, who had so often and so recently
been arrayed against the savages, involuntarily
sought the lock of his carabine. His look and action
were menacing, though his roving eye could see no
object to excite alarm.
Not so Conanchet. His quicker and more practised
vision soon caught a glimpse of the warrior
who was approaching, occasionally concealed by the
trunks of trees, and whose tread on the dried leaves
had first betrayed his proximity. Folding his arms
on his naked bosom, the Narragansett chief awaited
the coming of the other, in an attitude of calmness
and dignity. Neither did he speak nor suffer a muscle
to play, until a hand was placed on one of his arms,
and he who had drawn near said, in tones of amity
and respect—
“The young Sachem hath come to look for his
brother?”
“Wampanoag, I have followed the trail, that
your ears may listen to the talk of a Pale-face.”
The third person in this interview was Metacom.
He shot a haughty and fierce glance at the stranger,
and then turned to his companion in arms, with recovered
calmness, to reply.
“Has Conanchet counted his young men since
they raised the whoop?” he asked, in the language
of the aborigines. “I saw many go into the fields,
that never came back. Let the white man die.”
“Wampanoag, he is led by the wampum of a
Sachem. I have not counted my young men; but
I know that they are strong enough to say, that what
their chief hath promised shall be done.”
“If the Yengeese is a friend of my brother, he is
welcome. The wigwam of Metacom is open; let
him enter it.”
Philip made a sign for the others to follow, and
led the way to the place he had named.
The spot chosen by Philip for his temporary encampment,
was suited to such a purpose. There
was a thicket, denser than common, on one of its
sides; a steep and high rock protected and sheltered
its rear; a swift and wide brook dashed over fragments
that had fallen, with time, from the precipice
in its front; and towards the setting sun, a
whirlwind had opened a long and melancholy glade
through the forest. A few huts of brush leaned
against the base of the hill, and the scanty implements
of their domestic economy were scattered
among the habitations of the savages. The whole
party did not number twenty; for, as has been said,
the Wampanoag had acted latterly more by the
agency of his allies, than with the materials of his
own proper force.
The three were soon seated on a rock, whose foot
water. A few gloomy-looking and fierce Indians
watched the conference, in the back-ground.
“My brother hath followed my trail, that my
ears may hear the words of a Yengeese,” Philip
commenced, after a sufficient period had elapsed to
escape the imputation of curiosity. “Let him speak.”
“I have come singly into the jaws of the lion,
restless and remorseless leader of the savages,” returned
the bold exile, “that you may hear the words
of peace. Why hath the son seen the acts of the
English so differently from the father? Massassoit
was a friend of the persecuted and patient pilgrims
who have sought rest and refuge in this Bethel of
the faithful; but thou hast hardened thy heart to
their prayers, and seekest the blood of those who
wish thee no wrong. Doubtless thy nature is one of
pride and mistaken vanities, like that of all thy race,
and it hath seemed needful to the vain-glory of thy
name and nation to battle against men of a different
origin. But know there is one who is master of
all here on earth, as he is King of Heaven! It is
his pleasure that the sweet savor of his worship
should arise from the wilderness. His will is law,
and they that would withstand do but kick against
the pricks. Listen then to peaceful counsels, that
the land may be parcelled justly to meet the wants
of all, and the country be prepared for the incense
of the altar.”
This exhortation was uttered in a deep and almost
unearthly voice, and with a degree of excitement
that was probably increased by the intensity with
which the solitary had lately been brooding over his
peculiar opinions, and the terrible scenes in which
he had so recently been an actor. Philip listened
with the high courtesy of an Indian prince. Unintelligible
as was the meaning of the speaker, his
countenance betrayed no gleaming of impatience,
and lofty gravity reigned in every feature; and ignorant
as he was of what the other wished to say,
his attentive eye and bending head expressed every
wish to comprehend.
“My pale friend hath spoken very wisely,” he
said, when the other ceased to speak. “But he doth
not see clearly in these woods; he sits too much in
the shade. His eye is better in a clearing. Metacom
is not a fierce beast. His claws are worn out, his
legs are tired with travelling. He cannot jump far.
My pale friend wants to divide the land. Why
trouble the Great Spirit to do his work twice? He
gave the Wampanoags their hunting-grounds, and
places on the salt lake to catch their fish and clams,
and he did not forget his children the Narragansetts.
He put them in the midst of the water, for he saw
that they could swim. Did he forget the Yengeese?
or did he put them in a swamp, where they would
turn into frogs and lizards?”
“Heathen, my voice shall never deny the bounties
of my God! His hand hath placed my fathers in a
fertile land, rich in the good things of the world,
fortunate in position, sea-girt and impregnable.
Happy is he who can find justification in dwelling
within its borders!”
An empty gourd lay on the rock at the side of
Metacom. Bending over the stream, he filled it to
the brim with water, and held the vessel before the
eyes of his companions.
“See,” he said, pointing to the even surface of
the fluid: “so much hath the Great Spirit said it
shall hold. “Now,” he added, filling the hollow of
the other hand from the brook, and casting its contents
into the gourd, “now my brother knows that
some must come away. It is so with his country.
There is no longer room in it for my pale friend.”
“Did I attempt to deceive thine ears with this
many, and sorry am I to say that some among us
are like unto them that were called “Legion.” But
to say that there is not still place for all to die where
they are born, is to utter damning untruth.”
“The land of the Yengeese is then good—very
good,” returned Philip; “but their young men like
one that is better.”
“Thy nature, Wampanoag, is not equal to comprehend
the motives which have led us hither, and
our discourse is getting vain.”
“My brother Conanchet is a Sachem. The leaves
that fall from the trees of his country, in the season
of frosts, blow into my hunting-grounds. We are
neighbors and friends,” slightly bending his head to
the Narragansett. “When a wicked Indian runs
from the islands to the wigwams of my people, he is
whipt and sent back. We keep the path between us
open, only for honest red men.”
Philip spoke with a sneer, that his habitual loftiness
of manner did not conceal from his associate
chief, though it was so slight as entirely to escape
the observation of him who was the subject of his
sarcasm. The former took the alarm, and for the
first time during the dialogue did he break silence.
“My pale father is a brave warrior,” said the
young Sachem of the Narragansetts. “His hand
took the scalp of the Great Sagamore of his people!”
The countenance of Metacom changed instantly.
In place of the ironical scorn that was gathering
about his lip, its expression became serious and respectful.
He gazed steadily at the hard and weatherbeaten
features of his guest, and it is probable that
words of higher courtesy than any he had yet used
would have fallen from him, had not, at that moment,
a signal been given, by a young Indian set to
watch on the summit of the rock, that one approached.
this cry with some uneasiness. Neither however
arose, nor did either betray such evidence of alarm
as denoted a deeper interest in the interruption,
than the circumstances might very naturally create.
A warrior was shortly seen entering the encampment,
from the side of the forest which was known
to lie in the direction of the Wish-Ton-Wish.
The moment Conanchet saw the person of the
newly-arrived man, his eye and attitude resumed
their former repose, though the look of Metacom
still continued gloomy and distrustful. The difference
in the manner of the chiefs was not however
sufficiently strong to be remarked by Submission,
who was about to resume the discourse, when the
new-comer moved past the cluster of warriors in
the encampment, and took his seat near them, on a
stone so low, that the water laved his feet. As
usual there was no greeting between the Indians for
some moments, the three appearing to regard the
arrival as a mere thing of course. But the uneasiness
of Metacom prompted a communication sooner
than common.
“Mohtucket,” he said, in the language of their
tribe, “hath lost the trail of his friends. We thought
the crows of the pale-men were picking his bones!”
“There was no scalp at his belt, and Mohtucket
was ashamed to be seen among the young men with
an empty hand.”
“He remembered that he had too often come
back without striking a dead enemy,” returned
Metacom, about whose firm mouth lurked an expression
of ill-concealed contempt. “Has he now
touched a warrior?”
The Indian, who was merely a man of the inferior
class, held up the trophy which hung at his
girdle to the examination of his chief. Metacom
looked at the disgusting object with the calmness,
lavish on an antique memorial of some triumph of
former ages. His finger was thrust through a hole
in the skin, and then, while he resumed his former
position, he observed drily—
“A bullet hath hit the head. The arrow of
Mohtucket doth little harm!”
“Metacom hath never looked on his young man
like a friend, since the brother of Mohtucket was
killed.”
The glance that Philip cast at his underling, though
it was not unmingled with suspicion, was one of
princely and savage scorn. Their white auditor
had not been able to understand the discourse, but
the dissatisfaction and uneasiness of the eyes of both
were too obvious not to show that the conference
was far from being amicable.
“The Sachem hath discontent with his young
man,” he observed, “and from this may he understand
the nature of that which leadeth many to quit
the land of their fathers, beneath the rising sun, to
come to this wilderness in the west. If he will now
listen, I will touch further on the business of my errand,
and deal more at large with the subject we
have but so lightly skimmed.”
Philip manifested attention. He smiled on his
guest, and even bowed his assent to the proposal;
still his keen eye seemed to read the soul of his
subordinate, through the veil of his gloomy visage.
There was a play of the fingers of his right hand,
when the arm fell from its position across his bosom,
to his thigh, as if they itched to grasp the knife
whose buck-horn handle lay within a few inches of
their reach. Yet his air to the white man was
composed and dignified. The latter was again about
to speak, when the arches of the forest suddenly
rung with the report of a musket. All in and near
the encampment sprung to their feet at the well-known
if so many dark but breathing statues had been
planted there. The rustling of leaves was heard,
and then the body of the young Indian, who had
been posted on the rock, rolled to the edge of the
precipice, whence it fell, like a log, on the yielding
roof of one of the lodges beneath. A shout issued
from the forest behind, a volley roared among the
trees, and glancing lead was whistling through the
air, and cutting twigs from the undergrowth on
every side. Two more of the Wampanoags were
seen rolling on the earth, in the death-agony.
The voice of Annawon was heard in the encampment,
and at the next instant the place was
deserted.
During this startling and fearful moment, the
four individuals near the stream were inactive.
Conanchet and his Christian friend stood to their
arms, but it was rather as men cling to the means
of defence in moments of great jeopardy, than with
any intention of offensive hostilities. Metacom
seemed undecided. Accustomed to receive and inflict
surprises, a warrior so experienced could not
be disconcerted; still he hesitated as to the course
he ought to take. But when Annawon, who was
nearer the scene, sounded the signal of retreat, he
sprung towards the returned straggler, and with a
single blow of his tomahawk brained the traitor.
Glances of fierce revenge, and of inextinguishable
though disappointed hatred, were exchanged between
the victim and his chief, as the former lay
on the rock gasping for breath; and then the latter
turned in his tracks, and raised the dripping weapon
over the head of the white man.
“Wampanoag, no!” said Conanchet, in a voice
of thunder. “Our lives are one.”
Philip hesitated. Fierce and dangerous passions
were struggling in his breast, but the habitual self-command
Even in that scene of blood and alarm, he
smiled on his powerful and fearless young ally; then
pointing to the deepest shades of the forest, he
bounded towards them with the activity of a deer.
| CHAPTER XII. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish | |