University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Leaving the unsuspecting Heyward, and his confiding
companions, to penetrate still deeper into a forest
that contained such treacherous inmates, we must use
an author's privilege, and shift the scene a few miles
to the westward of the place where we have last seen
them.

On that day, two men might be observed, lingering
on the banks of a small but rapid stream, within
an hour's journey of the encampment of Webb, like
those who awaited the appearance of an absent person,
or the approach of some expected event. The
vast canopy of woods spread itself to the margin of
the river, overhanging the water, and shadowing its
dark glassy current with a deeper hue. The rays of
the sun were beginning to grow less fierce, and the
intense heat of the day was lessened, as the cooler
vapours of the springs and fountains rose above their
leafy beds, and rested in the atmosphere. Still that
breathing silence, which marks the drowsy sultriness
of an American landscape in July, pervaded the secluded

spot, interrupted, only, by the low voices of
the men in question, an occasional and lazy tap of a
reviving wood-pecker, the discordant cry of some
gaudy jay, or a swelling on the ear, from the dull
roar of a distant water-fall.

These feeble and broken sounds were, however,
too familiar to the foresters, to draw their attention
from the more interesting matter of their dialogue.
While one of these loiterers showed the red skin and
wild accoutrements of a native of the woods, the
other exhibited, through the mask of his rude and
nearly savage equipments, the brighter, though sun-burnt
and long-faded complexion of one who might
claim descent from an European parentage. The
former was seated on the end of a mossy log, in a posture
that permitted him to heighten the effect of his
earnest language, by the calm but expressive gestures
of an Indian, engaged in debate. His body, which
was nearly naked, presented a terrific emblem of
death, drawn in intermingled colours of white and
black. His closely shaved head, on which no other
hair than the well known and chivalrous scalping tuft
was preserved, was without ornament of any kind,
with the exception of a solitary Eagle's plume, that
crossed his crown, and depended over the left shoulder.
A tomahawk and scalping-knife, of English manufacture,
were in his girdle; while a short military
rifle, of that sort with which the policy of the
whites armed their savage allies, lay carelessly
across his bare and sinewy knee. The expanded
chest, full-formed limbs, and grave countenance of
this warrior, would denote that he had reached the

vigour of his days, though no symptoms of decay appeared
to have yet weakened his manhood.

The frame of the white man, judging by such parts
as were not concealed by his clothes, was like that of
one who had known hardships and exertion from his
earliest youth. His person, though muscular, was
rather attenuated than full; but every nerve and
muscle appeared strung and indurated, by unremitted
exposure and toil. He wore a hunting-shirt of forest-green,
fringed with faded yellow, and a summer cap,
of skins which had been shorn of their fur. He also
bore a knife in a girdle of wampum, like that
which confined the scanty garments of the Indian, but
no tomahawk. His moccasins were ornamented after
the gay fashion of the natives, while the only part of
his under dress which appeared below the hunting-frock,
was a pair of buckskin leggings, that laced at
the sides, and were gartered above the knees, with
the sinews of a deer. A pouch and horn completed
his personal accoutrements, though a rifle of a great
length, which the theory of the more ingenious
whites had taught them, was the most dangerous of
all fire-arms, leaned against a neighbouring sapling.
The eye of the hunter, or scout, whichever he might
be, was small, quick, keen, and restless, roving while
he spoke, on every side of him, as if in quest of game,
or distrusting the sudden approach of some lurking
enemy. Notwithstanding these symptoms of habitual
suspicion, his countenance was not only without guile,
but at the moment at which he is introduced was
charged with an expression of sturdy honesty.

“Even your traditions make the case in my favour,

Chingachgook,” he said, speaking in the
tongue which was known to all the natives who formerly
inhabited the country between the Hudson and
the Potomack, and of which we shall give a free
translation for the benefit of the reader; endeavouring,
at the same time, to preserve some of the peculiarities,
both of the individual and of the language.
“Your fathers came from the setting sun, crossed the
big river, fought the people of the country, and took
the land; and mine came from the red sky of the
morning, over the salt lake, and did their work much
after the fashion that had been set them by yours;
then let God judge the matter between us, and friends
spare their words!”

“My fathers fought with the naked red-man!” returned
the Indian, sternly, in the same language;
“Is there no difference, Hawk-eye, between the
stone-headed arrow of the warrior, and the leaden
bullet with which you kill?”

“There is reason in an Indian, though nature has
made him with a red skin!” said the white man,
shaking his head, like one on whom such an appeal
to his justice was not thrown away. For a moment
he appeared to be conscious of having the worst of the
argument, then rallying again, he answered to the
objection of his antagonist in the best manner his
limited information would allow: “I am no scholar,
and I care not who knows it; but judging from what
I have seen at deer chaces, and squirrel hunts, of the
sparks below, I should think a rifle in the hands of
their grandfathers, was not so dangerous as a hickory

bow, and a good flint-head might be, if drawn with
Indian judgment, and sent by an Indian eye.”

“You have the story told by your fathers,” returned
the other, coldly waving his hand, in proud disdain.
“What say your old men? do they tell the
young warriors, that the pale-faces met the red-men,
painted for war and armed with the stone hatchet or
wooden gun?”

“I am not a prejudiced man, nor one who vaunts
himself on his natural privileges, though the worst
enemy I have on earth, and he is an Iroquois, daren't
deny that I am genuine white,” the scout replied,
surveying, with secret satisfaction, the faded colour
of his bony and sinewy hand; “and I am willing
to own that my people have many ways, of which, as
an honest man, I can't approve. It is one of their customs
to write in books what they have done and seen,
instead of telling them in their villages, where the lie
can be given to the face of a cowardly boaster, and
the brave soldier can call on his comrades to witness
for the truth of his words. In consequence of this bad
fashion, a man who is too conscientious to mispend
his days among the women, in learning the names of
black marks, may never hear of the deeds of his
fathers, nor feel a pride in striving to outdo them.
For myself, I conclude all the Bumppos could shoot;
for I have a natural turn with a rifle, which must have
been handed down from generation to generation, as
our holy commandments tell us, all good and evil
gifts are bestowed; though I should be loth to answer
for other people in such a matter. But every story

has its two sides; so I ask you, Chingachgook, what
passed when our fathers first met?”

A silence of a minute succeeded, during which the
Indian sat mute; then, full of the dignity of his office,
he commenced his brief tale, with a solemnity that
served to heighten its appearance of truth.

“Listen, Hawk-eye, and your ears shall drink no
lies. 'Tis what my fathers have said, and what the
Mohicans have done.” He hesitated a single instant,
and bending a cautious glance towards his companion,
he continued in a manner that was divided between
interrogation and assertion—“does not this stream at
our feet, run towards the summer, until its waters
grow salt, and the current flows upward!”

“It can't be denied, that your traditions tell you
true in both these matters,” said the white man; “for
I have been there, and have seen them; though, why
water, which is so sweet in the shade, should become
bitter in the sun, is an alteration for which I have
never been able to account.”

“And the current!” demanded the Indian, who
expected his reply with that sort of interest that a
man feels in the confirmation of testimony, at which
he marvels even while he respects it; “the fathers
of Chingachgook have not lied!”

“The Holy Bible is not more true, and that is the
truest thing in nature. They call this up-stream current
the tide, which is a thing soon explained, and
clear enough. Six hours the waters run in, and six
hours they run out, and the reason is this; when
there is higher water in the sea than in the river, it

runs in, until the river gets to be highest, and then it
runs out again.”

“The waters in the woods, and on the great lakes,
run downward until they lie like my hand,” said the
Indian, stretching the limb horizontally before him,
“and then they run no more.”

“No honest man will deny it,” said the scout, a little
nettled at the implied distrust of his explanation
of the mystery of the tides; “and I grant that it is true
on the small scale, and where the land is level. But
every thing depends on what scale you look at things.
Now, on the small scale, the 'arth is level; but on
the large scale it is round. In this manner, pools
and ponds, and even the great fresh water lakes, may
be stagnant, as you and I both know they are, having
seen them; but when you come to spread water over
a great tract, like the sea, where the earth is round,
how in reason can the water be quiet? You might as
well expect the river to lie still on the brink of those
black rocks a mile above us, though your own ears
tell you that it is tumbling over them at this very
moment!”

If unsatisfied by the philosophy of his companion,
the Indian was far too dignified to betray his unbelief.
He listened like one who was convinced, and resumed
his narrative in his former solemn manner.

“We came from the place where the sun is hid at
night, over great plains where the buffaloes live, until
we reached the big river. There we fought the Alligewi,
till the ground was red with their blood.
From the banks of the big river to the shores of the
salt lake, there were none to meet us. The Maquas

followed at a distance. We said the country
should be ours from the place where the water runs
up no longer, on this stream, to a river, twenty suns'
journey toward the summer. The land we had taken
like warriors, we kept like men. We drove the Maquas
into the woods with the bears. They only
tasted salt at the licks; they drew no fish from the
great lake: we threw them the bones.”

“All this I have heard and believe,” said the
white man, observing that the Indian paused; “but
it was long before the English came into the country.”

“A pine grew then, where this chestnut now stands.
The first pale faces who came among us spoke no
English. They came in a large canoe, when my fathers
had buried the tomahawk with the red men
around them. Then, Hawk-eye,” he continued, betraying
his deep emotion, only by permitting his voice
to fall to those low, guttural tones, which render his
language, as spoken at times, so very musical; “then,
Hawk-eye, we were one people, and we were happy.
The salt lake gave us its fish, the wood its deer, and
the air its birds. We took wives who bore us children;
we worshipped the Great Spirit; and we kept
the Maquas beyond the sound of our songs of triumph!”

“Know you any thing of your own family, at that
time?” demanded the white. “But you are a just
man for an Indian! and as I suppose you hold their
gifts, your fathers must have been brave warriors, and
wise men at the council fire.”

“My tribe is the grandfather of nations,” said the

native, “but I am an unmixed man. The blood of
chiefs is in my veins, where it must stay for ever.
The Dutch landed, and gave my people the fire-water;
they drank until the heavens and the earth
seemed to meet, and they foolishly thought they had
found the Great Spirit. Then they parted with their
land. Foot by foot, they were driven back from the
shores, until I, that am a chief and a Sagamore, have
never seen the sun shine but through the trees, and
have never visited the graves of my fathers.”

“Graves bring solemn feelings over the mind,”
returned the scout, a good deal touched at the calm
suffering of his companion; “and often aid a man in
his good intentions, though, for myself, I expect to
leave my own bones unburied, to bleach in the woods,
or to be torn asunder by the wolves. But where are
to be found your race, which came to their kin in
the Delaware country, so many summers since?”

“Where are the blossoms of those summers!—fallen,
one by one: so all of my family departed, each
in his turn, to the land of spirits. I am on the hill-top,
and must go down into the valley; and when Uncas
follows in my footsteps, there will no longer be any
of the blood of the Sagamores, for my boy is the last
of the Mohicans.”

“Uncas is here!” said another voice, in the same
soft, guttural tones, near his elbow; “who wishes Uncas?”

The white man loosened his knife in its leathern
sheath, and made an involuntary movement of the
hand towards his rifle, at this sudden interruption,

but the Indian sat composed, and without turning his
head at the unexpected sounds.

At the next instant, a youthful warrior passed between
them, with a noiseless step, and seated himself
on the bank of the rapid stream. No exclamation of
surprise escaped the father, nor was any question
made or reply given for several minutes, each appearing
to await the moment, when he might speak,
without betraying a womanish curiosity or childish
impatience. The white man seemed to take counsel
from their customs, and relinquishing his grasp of the
rifle, he also remained silent and reserved. At length
Chingachgook turned his eyes slowly towards his son,
and demanded—

“Do the Maquas dare to leave the print of their
moccasins in these woods?”

“I have been on their trail,” replied the young Indian,
“and know that they number as many as the
fingers of my two hands; but they lie hid like cowards.”

“The thieves are outlying for scalps and plunder!”
said the white man, whom we shall call Hawk-eye,
after the manner of his companions. “That busy
Frenchman, Montcalm, will send his spies into our
very camp, but he will know what road we travel!”

“'Tis enough!” returned the father, glancing his
eye towards the setting sun; “they shall be driven
like deer from their bushes. Hawk-eye, let us eat
to-night, and show the Maquas that we are men tomorrow.”

“I am as ready to do the one as the other,” replied
the scout; “but to fight the Iroquois, 'tis necessary

to find the skulkers; and to eat, 'tis necessary to get
the game—talk of the devil and he will come; there
is a pair of the biggest antlers I have seen this season,
moving the bushes below the hill! Now, Uncas,”
he continued in a half whisper, and laughing
with a kind of inward sound, like one who had learnt
to be watchful, “I will bet my charger three times
full of powder, against a foot of wampum, that I take
him atwixt the eyes, and nearer to the right than to
the left.”

“It cannot be!” said the young Indian, springing
to his feet with youthful eagerness; “all but the tips
of his horns are hid!”

“He's a boy!” said the white man, shaking his head
while he spoke, and addressing the father. “Does
he think when a hunter sees a part of the creatur, he
can't tell where the rest of him should be!”

Adjusting his rifle, he was about to make an
exhibition of that skill, on which he so much valued
himself, when the warrior struck up the piece with
his hand, saying,

“Hawk-eye! will you fight the Maquas?”

“These Indians know the nature of the woods, as
it might be by instinct!” returned the scout, dropping
his rifle, and turning away like a man who was
convinced of his error. “I must leave the buck to
your arrow, Uncas, or we may kill a deer for them
thieves, the Iroquois, to eat.”

The instant the father seconded this intimation by
an expressive gesture of the hand, Uncas threw himself
on the ground, and approached the animal with
wary movements. When, within a few yards of the

cover, he fitted an arrow to his bow with the utmost
care, while the antlers moved, as if their owner snuffed
an enemy in the tainted air. In another moment
the twang of the bow was heard, a white streak was
seen glancing into the bushes, and the wounded buck
plunged from the cover, to the very feet of his hidden
enemy. Avoiding the horns of the infuriated animal,
Uncas darted to his side, and passed his knife across
the throat, when bounding to the edge of the river, it
fell, dying the waters with its blood to a great distance.

“'Twas done with Indian skill,” said the scout,
laughing inwardly, but with vast satisfaction; “and
was a pretty sight to behold! Though an arrow is a
near shot, and needs a knife to finish the work.”

“Hugh!” ejaculated his companion, turning quickly,
like a hound who scented his game.

“By the Lord, there is a drove of them!” exclaimed
the hunting scout, whose eyes began to glisten
with the ardour of his usual occupation; “if they come
within range of a bullet, I will drop one, though the
whole Six Nations should be lurking within sound!
What do you hear, Chingachgook? for to my ears the
woods are dumb.”

“There is but one deer, and he is dead,” said the
Indian, bending his body, till his ear nearly touched
the earth. “I hear the sounds of feet!”

“Perhaps the wolves have driven that buck to
shelter, and are following in his trail.”

“No. The horses of white men are coming!”
returned the other, raising himself with dignity,
and resuming his seat on the log with all his

former composure. “Hawk-eye, they are your
brothers; speak to them.”

“That will I, and in English that the king
needn't be ashamed to answer,” returned the hunter,
speaking in the language of which he boasted; “but
I see nothing, nor do I hear the sounds of man or
beast; 'tis strange that an Indian should understand
white sounds better than a man, who, his very enemies
will own, has no cross in his blood, although he
may have lived with the red skins long enough to be
suspected! Ha! there goes something like the cracking
of a dry stick, too—now I hear the bushes move
—yes, yes, there is a tramping that I mistook for the
falls—and—but here they come themselves; God
keep them from the Iroquois!”