The pioneers, or The sources of the Susquehanna a descriptive tale |
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| 17. | CHAPTER XVII. |
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 | CHAPTER XVII. The pioneers, or The sources of the Susquehanna |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
His descant wildly thus begun—
`But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son.' ”
Gertrude of Wyomihg.
It was yet early on the following morning,
when Elizabeth and Louisa met by appointment,
and proceeded to the store of Monsieur Le Quoi,
in order to redeem the pledge that the former had
given to the Leather-stocking. The people were
again assembling for the business of the day, but
the hour was too soon for a crowd, and the ladies
found the place in possession only of its polite owner,
Billy Kirby, one female customer, and the boy
who did the duty of helper or clerk.
Monsieur Le Quoi was perusing a packet of
letters, with manifest delight, while the wood-chopper,
with one hand thrust into his bosom,
and the other in the folds of his jacket, holding an
axe under his right arm, stood sympathizing in
the Frenchman's pleasure with a good-natured interest.
The freedom of manners that prevailed
in the new settlements, commonly levelled all difference
in rank, and with it, frequently, all considerations
of education and intelligence. At the
time the ladies entered the store they were unseen
by the owner, who was saying to Kirby—
“Ah! ha! Monsieur Beel, dis lettair mak-a me
de most happi of mans. Ah! ma chere France!
I vill see you aga'n.”
“I rejoice, Monsieur, at any thing that contributes
to your happiness,” cried Elizabeth, “but
must hope we are not going to lose you entirely.”
“Ah! Ma'mselle Templ'! vat honneur I feel
to me; mais I 'ave lettair, dat mak-a mon cœur
sautez de joie. Ah! Ma'mselle Templ', if you 'ave
père, 'ave mère, 'ave leetl'—Jean-tone, vy you
dont 'and de ladi a pins, eh!—if you 'ave amis
beeg and leetl' you voud be glad to go back.
Attendez vous, Ma'mselle, si vous plais; je vous
lirai. `A Monsieur Monsieur Le Quoi, de Mersereau
à Templetone, Noo Yorck, les Etats Unis
d'Amérique. Très cher ami,—Je suis ravis”—
“I apprehend that my French is not equal to
your letter, Monsieur,” said Elizabeth, glancing
her eye expressively at her companion; “will
you favour us with its substance in English?”
“Oh! pardonnez moi—I 'ave been so long from
Paris dat I do forget de—a—a—a—pronunsashong.
You vill 'ave consideration pour moi,
and vill excusez my read in France,” returned the
polite Gaul, bowing with deep humility, as if lamenting
his ignorance of his own language;
“mais I shall tell you en bon Anglois. I 'ave
offeece à Paris, in Bureau, dans le temps du bon
Louis; I fly; run avay to sav-a my 'ead. I
'ave in Martinique von leetl' plantation pour sucre—ah!
ha!—vat you call in dis countray—ah!
ha!—Monsieur Beel, vat you call de place vere
you vork-a? eh?”
“Clearing,” said the wood-chopper, with a
kind nod.
“No, no, clear—vere you burn-a my troat,
eh!”
Billy hitched up his shoulder, and turned his
his face, as he answered—
“I guess 'tis a sugar-bush that the Mounsheer
means;—but you mus'nt take that to heart, man;
'tis the law of the woods.”
“Ah! coquin, I pardonne you,” returned the
Frenchman, placing his hand involuntarily on his
throat—“diable! de law should be altair. Mais,
I 'ave sucre-boosh in Martinique: I fly dere
too;—I come ici;—votre père help-a me;—I
grow reech—yais! I grow reech; mais I 'ave
not France!—L'Assemblée Nationale pass von
edict”—
“What's that?” interrupted Billy, who was
endeavouring, with much interest, to comprehend
the story.
“Eh! vat dat! vy vat you call, ven de Assemblee
d' Alban' mak-a de law?”
“That's an act of the Legyslatoore,” said Kirby,
with the readiness of an American on such a
subject.
“Vell! dis vas act of Legyslatoore, to restorer
my land; my charactair; my sucre-boosh; and
ma countray. Ah! Ma'mselle Templ', je suis enchanté!
mais I 'ave grief to leav-a you; Oh!
yais! I 'ave grief ver mooch.”
The amount of all this was, that Mr. Le Quoi,
who had fled from his own country more through
terror than because he was offensive to the ruling
powers in France, had succeeded at length in getting
an assurance that his return to the West Indies
would be unnoticed; and the Frenchman,
who had sunk into the character of a country
shop-keeper, with so much grace, was about to
emerge again from his obscurity into his proper
level in society.
We need not repeat the civil things that passed
between the parties on this occasion, nor recount
Frenchman expressed, at being compelled to quit
the society of Miss Temple. Elizabeth took an
opportunity, during this expenditure of polite expressions,
to purchase the powder privately of the
boy, who bore the generic appellation of Jonathan.
Before they parted, however, Mr. Le
Quoi, who seemed to think that he had not said
enough, solicited the honour of a private interview
with the heiress, with a gravity in his air
that announced the importance of the subject.
After conceding the favour, and appointing a
more favourable time for the meeting, Elizabeth
succeeded in getting out of the store, into which
the countrymen now began to enter, as usual,
where they met with the same attention and bienséance
as formerly.
Elizabeth and Louisa pursued their walk as far
as the bridge in profound silence, but when they
reached that place, the latter stopped, and appeared
anxious to utter something that her feelings
suppressed.
“Are you ill, Louisa?” exclaimed Miss Temple;
“had we not better return, and seek another
opportunity to meet the old man?”
“Not ill, but terrified. Oh! I never, never
can go on that hill again with you only. I am
not equal to it, indeed I am not.”
This was an unexpected declaration to Elizabeth,
who, although she experienced no idle
apprehensions of a danger that no longer existed,
felt most sensitively all the delicacies of maiden
modesty. She stood for some time, deeply reflecting
within herself, the colour gradually gathering
over her features at her own thoughts;
but, as if sensible that it was a time for action instead
of reflection, she struggled to shake off her
hesitation, and replied firmly—
“Well, then it must be done by me, and alone.
There is no other than yourself to be trusted,
or poor old Leather-stocking will be discovered.
Wait for me in the edge of these woods, that at
least I may not be seen strolling in the hills by
myself just now. One would not wish to create
remarks, Louisa—if—if—. You will wait for me,
dear girl?”
“A year, in sight of the village, Miss Temple,”
returned the agitated Louisa, “but do not, do not
ask me to go on that hill.”
Elizabeth found that her companion was really
unable to proceed, and they completed their arrangement
by posting Louisa out of the observation
of the people who occasionally passed, but
nigh to the road, and in plain view of the whole
valley. Miss Temple then proceeded alone. She
ascended the road which has been so often mentioned
in our narrative, with an elastic and firm
step, fearful that the delay in the store of Mr. Le
Quoi, and the time necessary for reaching the
summit, would prevent her being punctual to the
appointment. Whenever she passed an opening
in the bushes, she would pause for breath, or perhaps,
drawn from her pursuits by the picture at
her feet, would linger a moment to gaze at the
beauties of the valley. The long drought had,
however, changed its coat of verdure to a hue of
brown, and, though the same localities were
there, the view wanted the lively and cheering
aspect of early summer. Even the heavens seemed
to share in the dried appearance of the earth,
for the sun was concealed by a haziness in the atmosphere,
which looked like a thin smoke without
a particle of moisture, if such a thing were
possible. The blue sky was scarcely to be seen,
though now and then there was a faint lighting
up in spots, through which masses of rolling vapour
as if nature were struggling to collect her
floods for the relief of man. The very atmosphere
that Elizabeth inhaled was hot and dry, and by the
time she reached the point where the course led
her from the highway, she experienced a sensation
like suffocation. But, disregarding her feelings,
the heiress hastened to execute her mission,
dwelling in her thoughts on nothing but the disappointment,
and even the helplessness, the hunter
would experience, without her aid.
On the summit of the mountain which Judge
Temple had named the “Vision,” a little spot
had been cleared, in order that a better view might
be obtained of the village and the valley. It was
at this point that Elizabeth understood the hunter
she was to meet him; and thither she urged her
way, as expeditiously as the difficulty of the
ascent and the impediments of a forest in a state
of nature would admit. Numberless were the
fragments of rocks, trunks of fallen trees, and
branches, that she had to conted against; but
every difficulty vanished before her resolution,
and, by her own watch, she stood on the desired
spot several minutes before the appointed
hour.
After resting a moment on the end of a log,
Miss Temple cast a scrutinizing glance about her
in quest of her old friend, but he was evidently
not in the clearing; when she arose and walked
around its skirts, examining every place where
she thought it probable Natty might deem it prudent
to conceal himself. Her search was fruitless;
and, after exhausting not only herself, but
her thoughts, in efforts to discover or imagine his
situation, she ventured to trust her voice in that
solitary place.
“Natty! Leather-stocking! old man!” she
was given, excepting the reverberations of her
own clear tones, as they were echoed in the parched
forest.
While calling, Elizabeth gradually approached
the brow of the mountain, where a faint cry, like
the noise produced by striking the hand against
the mouth at the same time that the breath is
strongly exhaled, was heard, answering to her
own voice. Not doubting in the least that it
was the Leather-stocking lying in wait for her,
and who gave that signal to indicate the place
where he was to be found, Elizabeth descended
for near a hundred feet, until she gained a little natural
terrace, thinly scattered with trees, that grew
in the fissures of the rocks, which were covered by a
scanty soil. She had advanced to the edge of this
platform, and was gazing over the perpendicular
precipice that formed its face, when a rustling
among the dry leaves near her drew her eyes in
another direction. Miss Temple certainly was
startled by the object that she then saw, but a moment
restored her self-possession, and she advanced
firmly, and with some interest in her manner,
to the spot.
On the trunk of a fallen oak Mohegan was seated,
with his tawny visage turned towards her,
and his glaring eyes fixed on her face with an expression
of wildness and fire that would have terrified
a less resolute female. His blanket had fallen
from his shoulders, and was lying in folds around
him, leaving his breast, arms, and most of his
body bare. The medallion of Washington reposed
on his chest, a badge of distinction that
Elizabeth well knew he only produced on great
and solemn occasions. But the whole appearance
of the aged chief was more studied than common,
and was in some particulars terrific. The
either way so as to expose his high forehead and
piercing eyes, without their usual shading. In the
enormous incisions of his ears were entwined ornaments
of silver, beads, and porcupine's quills,
mingled in a rude taste, and after the Indian
fashions. A large drop, composed of similar materials,
was suspended from the cartilage of his
nose, and, falling below his lips, rested on his
chin. Streaks of red paint crossed his wrinkled
brow, and were traced down either cheek, with
such variations in the lines as caprice or custom
suggested. His body was also coloured in the
same manner; the whole exhibiting an Indian
warrior prepared for some event of more than
usual moment.
“John! how fare you, worthy John?” said
Elizabeth, as she approached him; “you have
long been a stranger in the village. You promised
me a willow basket, and I have had a shirt
of calico in readiness for you this month past.”
The Indian looked steadily at her for some
time without answering, and then shaking his
head, he replied, in his low, guttural tones—
“John's hand can make baskets no more—he
wants no shirt.”
“But if he should, he will know where to come
for it,” returned Miss Temple. “Indeed, old
John, I feel as if you had a natural right to order
what you will from us.”
“Daughter,” said the Indian, “listen:—Six
times ten hot summers have passed, since John
was young; tall like a pine; straight like the bullet
of Hawk-eye; strong as the buffalo; spry as the
cat of the mountain. He was strong, and a warrior
like the Young Eagle. If his tribe wanted to
track the Maquas for many suns, the eye of Chingachgook
found the print of their moccasins. If
the scalps of their enemies, it was on his pole they
hung. If the squaws cried because there was no
meat for their children, he was the first in the
chase. His bullet was swifter than the deer.—
Daughter, then Chingachgook struck his tomahawk
into the trees; it was to tell the lazy ones
where to find him and the Mingoes—but he made
no baskets.”
“Those times have gone by, old warrior,” returned
Elizabeth; “since then, your people have
disappeared, and in place of chasing your enemies,
you have learned to fear God and to live at
peace.”
“Stand here, daughter, where you can see the
great spring, the wigwams of your father, and
the land on the crooked-river. John was yet
young, when his tribe gave away the country, in
council, from where the blue mountain stands
above the water, to where the Susquehannah is
hid by the trees. All this, and all that grew in it,
and all that walked over it, and all that fed there,
they gave to the Fire-eater—for they loved him.
He was strong, and they were women, and he
helped them. No Delaware would kill a deer
that run in his woods, nor stop a bird that flew
over his land; for it was his. Has John lived in
peace! Daughter, since John was young, he has
seen the white man from Frontinac come down
on his white brothers at Albany, and fight. Did
they fear God! He has seen his English and his
American Fathers burying their tomahawks in
each others' brains, for this very land. Did they
fear God, and live in peace! He has seen the
land pass away from the Fire-eater, and his children,
and the child of his child, and a new chief
set over the country. Did they live in peace who
did this! did they fear God!”
“Such is the custom of the whites, John. Do
not the Delawares fight, and trade their lands for
powder, and blankets, and merchandise?”
The Indian turned his dark eyes on the heiress,
and kept them there, with a scrutiny that alarmed
her a little, as he replied, in a louder and more
animated voice—
“Where are the blankets and merchandise
that bought the right of the Fire-eater! are they
with him in his wigwam? Did they say to him,
brother, sell us your land, and take this gold, this
silver, these blankets, these rifles, or even this
rum, for it? No; they tore it from him, as a
scalp is torn from an enemy; and they that did
it looked not behind them, to see whether he lived
or died. Do such men live in peace, and fear the
Great Spirit?”
“But you hardly understand the circumstances,”
said Elizabeth, more embarrassed than she
would own, even to herself. “If you knew our
laws and customs better, you would judge differently
of our acts. Do not believe evil of my father,
old Mohegan, for he is just and good.”
“The brother of Miquon is good, and he will
do right. I have said it to Hawk-eye—I have
said it to the Young Eagle, that the brother of
Miquon would do justice.”
“Whom call you the Young Eagle?” said Elizabeth,
averting her face from the gaze of the Indian
as she asked the question; “whence comes
he, and what are his rights?”
“Has my daughter lived so long with him,
to ask this question?” returned the Indian,
warily. “Old age freezes up the blood, as the
frosts cover the great spring in winter; but youth
keeps the streams of the blood open, like a sun in
the time of blossoms. The Young Eagle has
eyes; had he no tongue?”
The loveliness to which the old warrior alluded
was in no degree diminished by his allegorical
speech; for the blushes of the maiden who
listened, covered her burning cheeks, till her dark
eyes seemed to glow with their reflection; but, after
struggling a moment with her shame, she
laughed, as if unwilling to understand him seriously,
and replied in a tone of pleasantry—
“Not to make me the mistress of his secret.
He is too much of a Delaware, to tell his secret
thoughts to a woman.”
“Daughter, the Great Spirit made your father
with a white skin, and he made mine with a red;
but he coloured both their hearts with blood.
When young, it is swift and warm; but when old,
it is still and cold. Is there difference below the
skin? No. Once John had a woman. She was
the mother of so many sons”—he raised his hand
with three fingers elevated—“and she had daughters
that would have made the young Delawares
happy. She was kind, daughter, and what I said
she did. You have different fashions; but do
you think John did not love the wife of his youth
—the mother of his children!”
“And what has become of your family, John,
your wife and your children?” asked Elizabeth,
touched by the melancholy of the Indian's manner.
“Where is the ice that covered the great spring?
It is melted, and gone with the waters. John
has lived till all his people have left him for the
land of spirits; but his time has come, and he is
ready.”
Mohegan dropped his head in his blanket, and
sat in silence. Miss Temple knew not what to
say. She wished to draw the thoughts of the old
warrior from his gloomy recollections, but there
was a dignity in his sorrow, and in his fortitude,
time. After a long pause, however, she renewed
the discourse, by asking—
“Where is the Leather-stocking, John? this
canister of powder I have brought at his request;
but he is nowhere to be seen. Will you take
charge of it, and see it delivered?”
The Indian raised his head slowly, and looked
earnestly at the gift of the heiress, which she put
in his hand.
“This is the great enemy of my nation. Without
this, when could the white men drive the Delawares!
Daughter, the Great Spirit gave your
fathers to know how to make guns and powder,
that they might sweep the Indians from the land.
There will soon be no red-skin in the country.
When John has gone, the last will leave these
hills, and all his family will be dead.” The aged
warrior stretched his body forward, leaning his
elbow on his knee, and appeared to be taking a
parting look at the objects of the vale, which were
still visible through the misty atmosphere; though
the air seemed to thicken at each moment around
Miss Temple, who became conscious of an increased
difficulty of respiration. The eye of
Mohegan changed gradually, from its sorrowful
expression to a look of wildness, that might be
supposed to border on the inspiration of a prophet,
as he continued—“But he will go to the
country where his fathers have met. The game
shall be plenty as the fish in the lakes. No woman
shall cry for meat. No Mingo can ever
come. The chase shall be for children, and all
just red-men shall live together as brothers.”
“John! this is not the heaven of a Christian!”
cried Miss Temple; “you deal now in the superstition
of your forefathers.”
“Fathers! sons!” said Mohegan with firmness
Young Eagle, and he has the blood of a white
man.”
“Tell me, John,” said Elizabeth, willing to
draw his thoughts to other subjects, and at the
same time yielding to her own secret interest in
the youth; “who is this Mr. Edwards? why are
you so fond of him, and whence does he come?”
The Indian started at the question, which evidently
recalled his recollection to the earth, and,
taking her hand, he drew Miss Temple to a seat
beside him, and pointed to the country beneath
them, before he answered.
“See, daughter,” he said, directing her looks
towards the north; “as far as your young eyes
can see, was the land of his”—
But immense volumes of smoke at that moment
rolled over their heads, and whirling in
the eddies formed by the mountains, interposed a
barrier to their sight, while he was speaking.
Startled by the circumstance, Miss Temple sprung
on her feet, and turning her eyes toward the summit
of the mountain, she beheld it covered by a
similar canopy, while a roaring sound was heard
in the forest above her, like the rushing of furious
winds.
“What means it, John!” she exclaimed; “we
are enveloped in smoke, and I feel a heat like the
glow of a furnace.”
Before the Indian could reply, a voice was
heard, crying in the woods, with a painful
anxiety—
“John! where are you, old Mohegan! the
woods are on fire, and you have but a few minutes
for escape.”
The chief put his hand before his mouth, and
making it play on his lips, produced the kind
place, when a quick and hurried step was heard
dashing through the dried underbrush and bushes,
and presently Edwards rushed to his side, with
horror painted in every feature.
| CHAPTER XVII. The pioneers, or The sources of the Susquehanna | |