 | CHAPTER VII. The deerslayer: or, The first war-path |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
In misery, which makes the oppressed man
Regardless of his own life, makes him too
Lord of the oppressor's—”
Coleridge.
All this time Hetty had remained seated in the head of
the scow, looking sorrowfully into the water, which held the
body of her mother, as well as that of the man whom she
had been taught to consider her father. Hist stood near
her in gentle quiet, but had no consolation to offer in words.
The habits of her people taught her reserve in this respect;
moment when she might manifest some soothing sympathy
by means of acts, rather than speech. Chingachgook held
himself a little aloof, in grave reserve, looking like a warrior,
but feeling like a man.
Judith jointed her sister with an air of dignity and solemnity
it was not her practice to show; and, though the
gleamings of anguish were still visible on her beautiful face,
when she spoke it was firmly and without tremour. At that
instant, Hist and the Delaware withdrew, moving towards
Hurry, in the other end of the boat.
“Sister,” said Judith, kindly, “I have much to say to
you; we will get into this canoe, and paddle off to a distance
from the ark—the secrets of two orphans ought not to be
heard by every ear.”
“Certainly, Judith, by the ears of their parents. Let
Hurry lift the grapnel, and move away with the ark, and
leave us here, near the graves of father and mother, to say
what we may have to say.”
“Father!” repeated Judith, slowly, the blood for the first
time since her parting with March, mounting to her cheeks;
“He was no father of ours, Hetty! That we had from his
own mouth, and in his dying moments.”
“Are you glad, Judith, to find you had no father! He
took care of us, and fed us, and clothed us, and loved us;
a father could have done no more. I don't understand why
he wasn't a father.”
“Never mind, dear child, but let us do as you have said.
It may be well to remain here, and let the ark move a little
away. Do you prepare the canoe, and I will tell Hurry and
the Indians our wishes.”
This was soon and simply done; the ark moving, with
measured strokes of the sweeps, a hundred yards from the
spot, leaving the girls floating, seemingly in air, above the
place of the dead; so buoyant was the light vessel that held
them, and so limpid the element by which it was sustained.
“The death of Thomas Hutter,” Judith commenced, after
a short pause had prepared her sister to receive her communications,
“has altered all our prospects, Hetty. If he was
together.”
“How do I know, Judith, that you wouldn't be as glad to
find I am not your sister, as you are in finding that Thomas
Hutter, as you call him, was not your father. I am only
half-witted, and few people like to have half-witted relations;
and then I'm not handsome—at least, not as handsome as
you—and you may wish a handsomer sister.”
“No, no, Hetty. You and you only are my sister—my
heart, and my love for you, tell me that—and mother was
my mother—of that, too, am I glad, and proud; for she was
a mother to be proud of—but father was not father!”
“Hush, Judith! His spirit may be near; it would grieve
it to hear his children talking so, and that, too, over his
very grave. Children should never grieve parents, mother
often told me, and especially when they are dead!”
“Poor Hetty! They are happily removed beyond all
cares on our accounts. Nothing that I can do or say, will
cause mother any sorrow now—there is some consolation in
that, at least!—and nothing you can say or do, will make
her smile, as she used to smile on your good conduct when
living.”
“You don't know that, Judith. Spirits can see, and mother
may see as well as any spirit. She always told us that
God saw all we did, and that we should do nothing to offend
him; and now she has left us, I strive to do nothing that
can displease her. Think how her spirit would mourn and
feel sorrow, Judith, did it see either of us doing what is not
right; and spirits may see, after all; especially the spirits
of parents that feel anxious about their children.”
“Hetty, Hetty—you know not what you say!” murmured
Judith, almost livid with emotion. “The dead cannot
see, and know nothing of what passes here! But, we
will not talk of this any longer. The bodies of mother and
Thomas Hutter lie together in the lake, and we will hope
that the spirits of both are with God. That we, the children
of one of them, remain on earth, is certain; it is now
proper to know what we are to do in future.”
“If we are not Thomas Hutter's children, Judith, no one
will dispute our right to his property. We have the castle
and the ark, and the canoes, and the woods, and the lakes,
from staying here, and passing our lives just as we ever
have done.”
“No, no—poor sister. This can no longer be. Two
girls would not be safe here, even should these Hurons fail
in getting us into their power. Even father had as much
as he could sometimes do, to keep peace upon the lake; and
we should fail altogether. We must quit this spot, Hetty,
and remove into the settlements.”
“I am sorry you think so, Judith,” returned Hetty, dropping
her head on her bosom, and looking thoughtfully
down at the spot where the funeral pile of her mother could
just be seen. “I am very sorry to hear it. I would rather
stay here, where, if I wasn't born, I've passed my life. I
don't like the settlements—they are full of wickedness and
heart-burnings, while God dwells unoffended in these hills!
I love the trees, and the mountains, and the lake, and the
springs; all that his bounty has given us, and it would grieve
me sorely, Judith, to be forced to quit them. You are handsome,
and not at all half-witted, and one day you will marry,
and then you will have a husband, and I a brother, to take
care of us, if women can't really take care of themselves in
such a place as this.”
“Ah! if this could be so, Hetty, then, indeed, I could now
be a thousand times happier in these woods, than in the settlements!
Once I did not feel thus, but now I do. Yet
where is the man to turn this beautiful place into such a
garden of Eden, for us?”
“Harry March loves you, sister,” returned poor Hetty,
unconsciously picking the bark off the canoe as she spoke.
“He would be glad to be your husband, I'm sure; and a
stouter and a braver youth is not to be met with the whole
country round.”
“Harry March and I understand each other, and no more
need be said about him. There is one—but no matter. It
is all in the hands of Providence, and we must shortly come
to some conclusion about our future manner of living. Remain
here—that is, remain here, alone, we cannot—and
perhaps no occasion will ever offer for remaining in the
manner you think of. It is time, too, Hetty, we should learn
all we can concerning our relations and family. It is not
be glad to see us. The old chest is now our property, and
we have a right to look into it, and learn all we can by what
it holds. Mother was so very different from Thomas Hutter,
that, now I know we are not his children, I burn with
a desire to know whose children we can be. There are
papers in that chest, I am certain, and those papers may
tell us all about our parents and natural friends.”
“Well, Judith, you know best, for you are cleverer than
common, mother always said, and I am only half-witted.
Now father and mother are dead, I don't much care for any
relations but you, and don't think I could love them I never
saw, as well as I ought. If you don't like to marry Hurry,
I don't see who you can choose for a husband, and then I
fear we shall have to quit the lake, after all.”
“What do you think of Deerslayer, Hetty?” asked Judith,
bending forward like her unsophisticated sister, and endeavouring
to conceal her embarrassment in a similar manner.
“Would he not make a brother-in-law to your liking?”
“Deerslayer!” repeated the other, looking up in unfeigned
surprise; “why, Judith, Deerslayer isn't in the least comely,
and is altogether unfit for one like you!”
“He is not ill-looking, Hetty; and beauty in a man is
not of much matter.”
“Do you think so, Judith? I know that beauty is of no
great matter, in man or woman, in the eyes of God; for
mother has often told me so, when she thought I might have
been sorry I was not as handsome as you,—though she
needn't have been uneasy on that account, for I never
coveted any thing that is yours, sister; but tell me so she
did;—still, beauty is very pleasant to the eye, in both. I
think, if I were a man, I should pine more for good looks,
than I do as a girl. A handsome man is a more pleasing
sight than a handsome woman.”
“Poor child! you scarce know what you say, or what
you mean! Beauty in our sex is something, but in man, it
passes for little. To be sure, a man ought to be tall, but
others are tall as well as Hurry; and active—I think I
know those that are more active; and strong—well, he
hasn't all the strength in the world; and brave—I am certain
I can name a youth who is braver!”
“This is strange, Judith. I didn't think the earth held a
handsomer, or a stronger, or a more active, or a braver
man than Harry Hurry! I am sure I never met his equal
in either of these things.”
“Well, well, Hetty—say no more of this. I dislike to
hear you talking in this manner. 'Tis not suitable to your
innocence, and truth, and warm-hearted sincerity. Let
Harry March go. He quits us to-night, and no regret of
mine will follow him, unless it be that he has staid so long,
and to so little purpose.”
“Ah! Judith, this is what I've long feared; and I did so
hope he might be my brother-in-law!”
“Never mind it now; let us talk of our poor mother,
and of Thomas Hutter.”
“Speak kindly, then, sister, for you can't be quite certain
that spirits don't both hear and see. If father wasn't father,
he was good to us, and gave us food and shelter. We can't
put any stones over their graves, here in the water, to tell
people all this, and so we ought to say it with our tongues.”
“They will care little for that, girl. 'T is a great consolation
to know, Hetty, that if mother ever did commit any
heavy fault when young, that she lived sincerely to repent of
it; no doubt her sins were forgiven her.”
“'T isn't right, Judith, for children to talk of their parent's
sins. We had better talk of our own.”
“Talk of your sins, Hetty! If there ever was a creature
on earth without sin, it is you! I wish I could say or think
the same of myself; but we shall see. No one knows what
changes affection for a good husband can make in a woman's
heart. I don't think, child, I have even now the same
love for finery I once had.”
“It would be a pity, Judith, if you did think of clothes,
over your parents' graves! We will never quit this spot, if
you say so, and will let Hurry go where he pleases.”
“I am willing enough to consent to the last, but cannot
answer for the first, Hetty. We must live, in future, as becomes
respectable young women, and cannot remain here
to be the talk and jest of all the rude and foul-tongued
trappers and hunters that may come upon the lake. Let
Hurry go by himself, and then I'll find the means to see
Deerslayer, when the future shall be soon settled. Come,
let us paddle up to the scow, and consult with our friends.
This night I shall look into the chest, and to-morrow shall
determine what we are to do. As for the Hurons, now we
can use our stores without fear of Thomas Hutter, they will
be easily bought off. Let me get Deerslayer once out of
their hands, and a single hour shall bring things to an understanding.”
Judith spoke with decision, and she spoke with authority,
a habit she had long practised towards her feeble-minded
sister. But, while thus accustomed to have her way, by
the aid of manner and a readier command of words, Hetty
occasionally checked her impetuous feelings and hasty acts
by the aid of those simple, moral truths that were so deeply
engrafted in all her own thoughts and feelings; shining
through both with a mild and beautiful lustre that threw a
sort of holy halo around so much of what she both said and
did. On the present occasion, this healthful ascendency of
the girl of weak intellect, over her of a capacity that, in
other situations, might have become brilliant and admired,
was exhibited in the usual simple and earnest manner.
“You forget, Judith, what has brought us here,” she said
reproachfully. “This is mother's grave, and we have just
laid the body of father by her side. We have done wrong
to talk so much of ourselves at such a spot, and ought now
to pray God to forgive us, and ask him to teach us where
we are to go, and what we are to do.”
Judith involuntarily laid aside her paddle, while Hetty
dropped on her knees and was soon lost in her devout but
simple petitions. Her sister did not pray. This she had
long ceased to do directly, though anguish of spirit frequently
wrung from her mental and hasty appeals to the great
source of benevolence, for support, if not for a change of
spirit. Still, she never beheld Hetty on her knees, that a
feeling of tender recollection, as well as of profound regret
at the deadness of her own heart, did not come over her.
Thus had she herself done in childhood, and even down to
the hour of her ill-fated visits to the garrisons; and she
would willingly have given worlds, at such moments, to be
able to exchange her present sensations, for that confiding
faith, those pure aspirations, and the gentle hope that shone
less-favoured sister. All she could do, however, was to
drop her head to her bosom, and assume in her attitude
some of that devotion in which her stubborn spirit refused
to unite.
When Hetty rose from her knees, her countenance had a
glow and serenity that rendered a face that was always
agreeable, positively handsome. Her mind was at peace,
and her conscience acquitted her of a neglect of duty.
“Now you may go, if you want to, Judith,” she said;
“God has been kind to me, and lifted a burden off my
heart. Mother had many such burdens, she used to tell
me, and she always took them off in this way. 'Tis the
only way, sister, such things can be done. You may raise
a stone, or a log, with your hands; but the heart must be
lightened by prayer. I don't think you pray as often as
you used to do when younger, Judith!”
“Never mind—never mind, child”—answered the other
huskily—“'tis no matter, now. Mother is gone, and Thomas
Hutter is gone, and the time has come when we must
think and act for ourselves.”
As the canoe moved slowly away from the place, under
the gentle impulsion of the elder sister's paddle, the younger
sat musing, as was her wont, whenever her mind was
perplexed by any idea more abstract and difficult of comprehension
than common.
“I don't know what you mean by future, Judith,” she at
length suddenly observed. “Mother used to call heaven the
future, but you seem to think it means next week, or to-morrow!”
“It means both, dear sister; every thing that is yet to
come, whether in this world or another. It is a solemn
word, Hetty, and most so, I fear, to them that think the
least about it. Mother's future is eternity; ours may yet
mean what will happen while we live in this world—is not
that a canoe just passing behind the castle?—here, more in
the direction of the point I mean; it is hid, now;—but, certainly,
I saw a canoe stealing behind the logs.”
“I've seen it some time,” Hetty quietly answered, for
the Indians had few terrors for her, “but I did not think it
right to talk about such things over mother's grave. The
single man; he seemed to be Deerslayer, and no Iroquois.”
“Deerslayer!” returned the other, with much of her native
impetuosity. “That can't be! Deerslayer is a prisoner,
and I have been thinking of the means of setting
him free. Why did you fancy it Deerslayer, child?”
“You can look for yourself, sister; there comes the
canoe in sight again, on this side of the hut.”
Sure enough, the light boat had passed the building, and
was now steadily advancing towards the ark; the persons on
board of which were already collecting in the head of the
scow, to receive their visiter. A single glance sufficed to
assure Judith that her sister was right, and that Deerslayer
was alone in the canoe. His approach was so calm and
leisurely, however, as to fill her with wonder, since a man
who had effected his escape from enemies, by either artifice
or violence, would not be apt to move with the steadiness
and deliberation with which his paddle swept the water. By
this time the day was fairly departing, and objects were already
seen dimly under the shores. In the broad lake,
however, the light still lingered, and around the immediate
scene of the present incidents, which was less shaded than
most of the sheet, being in its broadest part, it cast a glare
that bore some faint resemblance to the warm tints of an
Italian or Grecian sunset. The logs of the hut and ark
had a sort of purple hue, blended with the growing obscurity,
and the bark of the hunter's boat was losing its
distinctness, in colours richer, but more mellowed, than those
it showed under a bright sun. As the two canoes approached
each other,—for Judith and her sister had plied their paddles
so as to intercept the unexpected visiter ere he reached
the ark,—even Deerslayer's sun-burned countenance wore
a brighter aspect than common, under the pleasing tints that
seemed to dance in the atmosphere. Judith fancied that delight
at meeting her had some share in this unusual and
agreeable expression. She was not aware that her own
beauty appeared to more advantage than common, from the
same natural cause; nor did she understand, what it would
have given her so much pleasure to know, that the young
man actually thought her, as she drew near, the loveliest
creature of her sex, his eyes had ever dwelt on.
“Welcome—welcome, Deerslayer!” exclaimed the girl,
as the canoes floated at each other's sides, the paddles having
ceased their movements; “we have had a melancholy—a
frightful day—but your return is, at least, one misfortune
the less. Have the Hurons become more humane, and let
you go; or have you escaped from the wretches, by your
own courage and skill?”
“Neither, Judith—neither one nor t'other. The Mingos
are Mingos still, and will live and die Mingos; it is not
likely their natur's will ever undergo much improvement.
Well; they've their gifts, and we've our'n, Judith, and it
doesn't much become either to speak ill of what the Lord
has created; though, if the truth must be said, I find it a
sore trial to think kindly, or to talk kindly, of them vagabonds.
As for outwitting them, that might have been done,
and it was done, too, atween the Sarpent, yonder, and
me, when we were on the trail of Hist—” here the hunter
stopped to laugh in his own silent fashion;—“but it's no
easy matter to sarcumvent the sarcumvented. Even the
fa'ans get to know the tricks of the hunters afore a single
season is over; and an Indian, whose eyes have once been
opened by a sarcumvention, never shuts them ag'in in precisely
the same spot. I've known whites to do that, but
never a red-skin. What they l'arn, comes by practice, and
not by books; and of all schoolmasters, exper'ence gives
lessons that are the longest remembered.”
“All this is true, Deerslayer; but if you have not escaped
from the savages, how came you here?”
“That's a nat'ral question, and charmingly put. You
are wonderful handsome this evening, Judith, or, Wild Rose,
as the Sarpent calls you, and I may as well say it, since I
honestly think it! You may well call them Mingos, savages,
too, for savage enough do they feel, and savage enough will
they act, if you once give them an opportunity. They feel
their loss here, in the late skrimmage, to their hearts' cores,
and are ready to revenge it on any creatur' of English blood
that may fall in their way. Nor, for that matter, do I much
think they would stand at taking their satisfaction out of a
Dutchman.”
“They have killed father; that ought to satisfy their
wicked cravings for blood,” observed Hetty, reproachfully.
“I know it, gal—I know the whole story—partly from
what I've seen from the shore, since they brought me up
from the point, and partly from their threats ag'in myself,
and their other discourse. Well, life is unsartain at the
best, and we all depend on the breath of our nostrils for it,
from day to day. If you've lost a staunch fri'nd, as I make
no doubt you have, Providence will raise up new ones in his
stead; and since our acquaintance has begun in this oncommon
manner, I shall take it as a hint that it will be a part
of my duty in futur', should the occasion offer, to see you
don't suffer for want of food in the wigwam. I can't bring
the dead to life, but as to feeding the living, there's few on
all this frontier can outdo me, though I say it in the way of
pity and consolation, like, and, in no particular, in the way
of boasting!”
“We understand you, Deerslayer,” returned Judith, hastily,
“and take all that falls from your lips, as it is meant,
in kindness and friendship. Would to heaven all men had
tongues as true, and hearts as honest!”
“In that respect men do differ, of a sartainty, Judith.
I've known them that wasn't to be trusted any farther than
you can see them; and others ag'in whose messages, sent
with a small piece of wampum, perhaps, might just as much
be depended on, as if the whole business was finished afore
your face. Yes, Judith, you never said truer words, than
when you said some men might be depended on, and some
others might not.”
“You are an unaccountable being, Deerslayer,” returned
the girl, not a little puzzled with the childish simplicity of
character that the hunter so often betrayed—a simplicity so
striking, that it frequently appeared to place him nearly on
a level with the fatuity of poor Hetty, though always relieved
by the beautiful moral truth that shone through all
that this unfortunate girl both said and did. “You are a
most unaccountable man, and I often do not know how to
understand you. But never mind, just now; you have forgotten
to tell us by what means you are here.”
“I!—oh! That's not very onaccountable, if I am myself,
Judith. I'm out on furlough.”
“Furlough!—That word has a meaning among the soldiers
used by a prisoner.”
“It means just the same. You're right enough; the soldiers
do use it, and just in the same way as I use it. A
furlough is when a man has leave to quit a camp, or a garrison,
for a sartain specified time; at the end of which he is
to come back and shoulder his musket, or submit to his torments,
just as he may happen to be a soldier, or a captyve
Being the last, I must take the chances of a prisoner.”
“Have the Hurons suffered you to quit them in this manner,
without watch or guard?”
“Sartain—I couldn't have come in any other manner,
unless, indeed, it had been by a bold rising, or a sarcum
vention.”
“What pledge have they that you will ever return?”
“My word,” answered the hunter, simply. “Yes, I own
I gave 'em that, and big fools would they have been to let me
come without it! Why, in that case, I shouldn't have been
obliged to go back and ondergo any deviltries their fury may
invent, but might have shouldered my rifle, and made the
best of my way to the Delaware villages. But, Lord! Judith,
they know'd this, just as well as you and I do, and
would no more let me come away, without a promise to go
back, than they would let the wolves dig up the bones of
their fathers!”
“Is it possible you mean to do this act of extraordinary
self-destruction and recklessness?”
“Anan!”
“I ask if it can be possible that you expect to be able to
put yourself again in the power of such ruthless enemies,
by keeping your word.”
Deerslayer looked at his fair questioner for a moment,
with stern displeasure. Then the expression of his honest
and guileless face suddenly changed, lighting as by a quick
illumination of thought; after which he laughed in his ordinary
manner.
“I didn't understand you, at first, Judith; no, I didn't!
You believe that Chingachgook and Hurry Harry won't
suffer it; but you don't know mankind thoroughly yet, I
see. The Delaware would be the last man on 'arth to offer
any objections to what he knows is a duty; and, as for
to spend many words on such a subject. If he did,
't would make no great difference, howsever; but not he—
for he thinks more of his gains than of even his own word.
As for my promises, or your'n, Judith, or anybody else's,
they give him no consarn. Don't be under any oneasiness,
therefore, gal; I shall be allowed to go back according to
the furlough; and if difficulties was made, I've not been
brought up, and edicated, as one may say, in the woods,
without knowing how to look 'em down.”
Judith made no answer for some little time. All her feelings
as a woman—and as a woman who, for the first time
in her life, was beginning to submit to that sentiment which
has so much influence on the happiness or misery of her
sex—revolted at the cruel fate that she fancied Deerslayer
was drawing down upon himself, while the sense of right,
which God has implanted in every human breast, told her
to admire an integrity as indomitable and unpretending as
that which the other so unconsciously displayed. Argument,
she felt would be useless; nor was she, at that moment,
disposed to lessen the dignity and high principle that
were so striking in the intentions of the hunter, by any
attempt to turn him from his purpose. That something
might yet occur to supersede the necessity for this self-immolation,
she tried to hope; and then she proceeded to ascertain
the facts, in order that her own conduct might be
regulated by her knowledge of circumstances.
“When is your furlough out, Deerslayer?” she asked,
after both canoes were heading towards the ark, and moving,
with scarcely a perceptible effort of the paddles, through
the water.
“To-morrow noon; not a minute afore; and you may
depend on it, Judith, I shan't quit what I call Christian company,
to go and give myself up to them vagabonds, an instant
sooner than is downright necessary. They begin to
fear a visit from the garrisons, and wouldn't lengthen the
time a moment; and it's pretty well understood atween us,
that, should I fail in my ar'n'd, the torments are to take
place when the sun begins to fall, that they may strike upon
their home trail as soon as it is dark.”
This was said solemnly, as if the thought of what was
mind, and yet so simply, and without a parade of suffering,
as rather to repel than to invite any open manifestations of
sympathy.
“Are they bent on revenging their losses?” Judith asked,
faintly, her own high spirit yielding to the influence of the
other's quiet but dignified integrity of purpose.
“Downright, if I can judge of Indian inclinations by the
symptoms. They think, howsever, I don't suspect their designs,
I do believe; but one that has lived so long among
men of red-skin gifts, is no more likely to be misled in Indian
feelin's, than a true hunter is like to lose his trail, or a
staunch hound his scent. My own judgment is greatly ag'in
my own escape, for I see the women are a good deal enraged
on behalf of Hist, though I say it, perhaps, that shouldn't
say it—seein' that I had considerable hand myself in getting
the gal off. Then there was a cruel murder in their camp
last night, and that shot might just as well have been fired
into my breast. Howsever, come what will, the Sarpent
and his wife will be safe, and that is some happiness, in
any case.”
“Oh! Deerslayer, they will think better of this, since
they have given you until to-morrow noon to make up your
mind!”
“I judge not, Judith; yes, I judge not. An Indian is an
Indian, gal, and it's pretty much hopeless to think of swarving
him, when he's got the scent and follows it with his
nose in the air. The Delawares, now, are a half-christianized
tribe—not that I think such sort of Christians much
better than your whole-blooded disbelievers—but, nevertheless,
what good half-christianizing can do to a man some
among 'em have got, and yet revenge clings to their hearts
like the wild creepers here to the tree! Then I slew one of
the best and boldest of their warriors, they say, and it is
too much to expect that they should captivate the man who
did this deed, in the very same scouting on which it was
performed, and they take no account of the matter. Had
a month or so gone by, their feelin's would have been softened
down, and we might have met in a more friendly way;
but it is, as it is. Judith, this is talking of nothing but
myself, and my own consarns, when you have had trouble
your own matters. Is the old man laid in the water where
I should think his body would like to rest?”
“It is, Deerslayer,” answered Judith, almost inaudibly.
“That duty has just been performed. You are right in
thinking that I wish to consult a friend; and that friend is
yourself. Hurry Harry is about to leave us; when he is
gone, and we have got a little over the feelings of this solemn
office, I hope you will give me an hour alone. Hetty
and I are at a loss what to do.”
“That's quite nat'ral, coming as things have, suddenly
and fearfully. But here's the ark, and we'll say more of
this when there is a better opportunity.”
| CHAPTER VII. The deerslayer: or, The first war-path | |