 | CHAPTER XII. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
Something, methought, surpassing mortal beauty.
She presently turn'd round, and fix'd her large, wild eyes,
Brimming with tears, upon me, fetch'd a sigh,
As from a riven heart, and cried: “He's dead!”
Hillhouse.
Maud had been so earnest, and so much excited, that she
scarcely reflected on the singularity and novelty of her
situation, until she was seated, as described at the close of
the last chapter. Then, indeed, she began to think that she
had embarked in an undertaking of questionable prudence,
and to wonder in what manner she was to be useful. Still
her heart did not fail her, or her hopes altogether sink.
She saw that Nick was grave and occupied, like a man who
intended to effect his purpose at every hazard; and that
purpose she firmly believed was the liberation of Robert
Willoughby.
As for Nick, the instant his companion was seated, and
he had got a position to his mind, he set about his business
with great assiduity. It has been said that the lean-to, like
the cabin, was built of logs; a fact that constituted the
security of the prisoner. The logs of the lean-to, however,
were much smaller than those of the body of the house, and
both were of the common white pine of the country; a wood
of durable qualities, used as it was here, but which yielded
easily to edged tools. Nick had a small saw, a large chisel,
and his knife. With the chisel, he cautiously commenced
opening a hole of communication with the interior, by
removing a little of the mortar that filled the interstices
between the logs. This occupied but a moment. When
effected, Nick applied an eye to the hole and took a look
within. He muttered the word “good,” then withdrew his
own eye, and, by a sign, invited Maud to apply one of hers.
This our heroine did, and saw Robert Willoughby, reading
within a few feet of her, with a calmness of air, that at once
lately occurred, almost within reach of his arm.
“Squaw speak,” whispered Nick; “voice sweet as wren
—go to Major's ear like song of bird.—Squaw speak music
to young warrior.”
Maud drew back, her heart beat violently, her breathing
became difficult, and the blood rushed to her temples. But
an earnest motion from Nick reminded her this was no time
for hesitation, and she applied her mouth to the hole.
“Robert — dear Robert,” she said, in a loud whisper,
“we are here—have come to release you.”
Maud's impatience could wait no longer; but her eye
immediately succeeded her mouth. That she was heard
was evident from the circumstance that the book fell from
the Major's hand, in a way to show how completely he was
taken by surprise. “He knows even my whispers,” thought
Maud, her heart beating still more violently, as she observed
the young soldier gazing around him, with a bewildered air,
like one who fancied he had heard the whisperings of some
ministering angel. By this time, Nick had removed a long
piece of the mortar; and he too, was looking into the buttery.
By way of bringing matters to an understanding, the
Indian thrust the chisel through the opening, and, moving
it, he soon attracted Willoughby's attention. The latter
instantly advanced, and applied his own eye to the wide
crack, catching a view of the swarthy face of Nick.
Willoughby knew that the presence of this Indian, at such
a place, and under such circumstances, indicated the necessity
of caution. He did not speak, therefore; but, first
making a significant gesture towards the door of his narrow
prison, thus intimating the close proximity of sentinels, he
demanded the object of this visit, in a whisper.
“Come to set major free,” answered Nick.
“Can I trust you, Tuscarora? Sometimes you seem a
friend, sometimes an enemy. I know that you appear to be
on good terms with my captors.”
“Dat good—Injin know how to look two way—warrior
must, if great warrior.”
“I wish I had some proof, Nick, that you are dealing
with me in good faith.”
“Call dat proof, den!” growled the savage, seizing Maud's
startled girl was fully aware of what he meant to do.
Willoughby knew the hand at a glance. He would have
recognised it, in that forest solitude, by its symmetry and
whiteness, its delicacy and its fullness; but one of the taper
fingers wore a ring that, of late, Maud had much used;
being a diamond hoop that she had learned was a favourite
ornament of her real mother's. It is not surprising, therefore,
that he seized the pledge that was thus strangely held
forth, and had covered it with kisses, before Maud had presence
of mind sufficient, or strength to reclaim it. This
she would not do, however, at such a moment, without returning
all the proofs of ardent affection that were lavished
on her own hand, by giving a gentle pressure to the one in
which it was clasped.
“This is so strange, Maud!—so every way extraordinary,
that I know not what to think,” the young man whispered,
soon as he could get a glimpse of the face of the sweet girl.
“Why are you here, beloved, and in such company?”
“You will trust me, Bob — Nick comes as your friend.
Aid him all you can, now, and be silent. When free, then
will be the time to learn all.”
A sign of assent succeeded, and the major withdrew a
step, in order to ascertain the course Nick meant to pursue.
By this time, the Indian was at work with his knife, and he
soon passed the chisel in to the prisoner, who seized it, and
commenced cutting into the logs, at a point opposite to that
where the Tuscarora was whittling away the wood. The
object was to introduce the saw, and it required some labour
to effect such a purpose. By dint of application, however,
and by cutting the log above as well as that below, sufficient
space was obtained in the course of a few minutes. Nick
then passed the saw in, through the opening, it exceeding
his skill to use such a tool with readiness.
By this time, Willoughby was engaged with the earnestness
and zeal of the captive who catches a glimpse of liberty.
Notwithstanding, he proceeded intelligently and with
caution. The blanket given him by his captors, as a pallet,
was hanging from a nail, and he took the precaution to
draw this nail, and to place it above the spot selected for the
cut, that he might suspend the blanket so as to conceal
all was ready, and the blanket was properly placed, he
began to make long heavy strokes with the tool, in a way
to deaden the sound. This was a delicate operation; but
the work's being done behind the blanket, had some effect in
lessening the noise. As the work proceeded, Willoughby's
hopes increased; and he was soon delighted to hear from
Nick, that it was time to insert the saw in another place.
Success is apt to induce carelessness; and, as the task proceeded,
Willoughby's arm worked with greater rapidity,
until a noise at the door gave the startling information that
he was about to be visited. There was just time to finish
the last cut, and to let the blanket fall, before the door
opened. The saw-dust and chips had all been carefully removed,
as the work proceeded, and of these none were left
to betray the secret.
There might have been a quarter of a minute between
the moment when Willoughby seated himself, with his book
in his hand, and that in which the door opened. Short as
was this interval, it sufficed for Nick to remove the piece of
log last cut, and to take away the handle of the saw; the
latter change permitting the blanket to hang so close against
the logs as completely to conceal the hole. The sentinel
who appeared was an Indian in externals, but a dull, white
countryman in fact and character.
“I thought I heard the sound of a saw, major,” he said,
listlessly; “yet everything looks quiet, and in its place
here!”
“Where should I get such a tool?” Willoughby coolly
replied; “and what is there here to saw?”
“'Twas as nat'ral, too, as the carpenter himself could
make it, in sound!”
“Possibly the mill has been set in motion by some of
your idlers, and you have heard the large saw, which, at a
distance, may sound like a smaller one near by.”
The man looked incredulously at his prisoner for a moment;
then he drew to the door, with the air of one who
was determined to assure himself of the truth, calling aloud,
as he did so, to one of his companions to join him. Willoughby
knew that no time was to be lost. In half-a-minute,
he had passed the hole, dropped the blanket before it, had
shoving aside the bushes with the other, as he followed
Nick from the straitened passage between the lean-to and
the rock. The major seemed more bent on bearing Maud
from the spot, than on saving himself. Her feet scarce
touched the ground, as he ascended to the place where
Joyce had halted. Here Nick stood an instant, with a
finger raised in intense listening. His practised ears caught
the sound of voices in the lean-to, then scarce fifty feet distant.
Men called to each other by name, and then a voice
directly beneath them, proclaimed that a head was already
thrust through the hole.
“Here is your saw, and here is its workmanship!” exclaimed
this voice.
“And here is blood, too,” said another. “See! the
ground has been a pool beneath those stones.”
Maud shuddered, as if the soul were leaving its earthly
tenement, and Willoughby signed impatiently for Nick to
proceed. But the savage, for a brief instant, seemed bewildered.
The danger below, however, increased, and
evidently drew so near, that he turned and glided up the
ascent. Presently, the fugitives reached the descending
path, that diverged from the larger one they were on, and
by which Nick and Maud had so recently come diagonally
up this cliff. Nick leaped into it, and then the intervening
bushes concealed their persons from any who might continue
on the upward course. There was an open space, however,
a little lower down; and the quick-witted savage came to
a stand under a close cover, believing flight to be useless
should their pursuers actually follow on their heels.
The halt had not been made half-a-dozen seconds, when
the voices of the party ascending in chase, were heard
above the fugitives. Willoughby felt an impulse to dash
down the path, bearing Maud in his arms, but Nick interposed
his own body to so rash a movement. There was
not time for a discussion, and the sounds of voices, speaking
English too distinctly to pass for any but those of men of
English birth, or English origin, were heard disputing about
the course to be taken, at the point of junction between the
two paths.
“Go by the lower,” called out one, from the rear; “he
the Hudson. Once before, he has done this, as I know from
Strides himself.”
“D—n Strides!” answered another, more in front. “He
is a sniveling scoundrel, who loves liberty, as a hog loves
corn; for the sake of good living. I say go the upper,
which will carry him on the heights, and bring him out
near his father's garrison.”
“Here are marks of feet on the upper,” observed a third,
“though they seem to be coming down, instead of going up
the hill.”
“It is the trail of the fellows who have helped him to
escape. Push up the hill, and we shall have them all in ten
minutes. Push up—push up.”
This decided the matter. It appeared to Willoughby that
at least a dozen men ran up the path, above his head, eager
in the pursuit, and anticipating success. Nick waited no
longer, but glided down the cliff, and was soon in the broad
path which led along the margin of the stream, and was the
ordinary thoroughfare in going to or from the Knoll. Here
the fugitives, as on the advance, were exposed to the danger
of accidental meetings; but, fortunately, no one was
met, or seen, and the bridge was passed in safety. Turning
short to the north, Nick plunged into the woods again,
following the cow-path by which he had so recently descended
to the glen. No pause was made even here. Willoughby
had an arm round the waist of Maud, and bore her
forward, with a rapidity to which her own strength was
altogether unequal. In less than ten minutes from the time
the prisoner had escaped, the fugitives reached the level of
the rock of the water-fall, or that of the plain of the Dam.
As it was reasonably certain that none of the invaders had
passed to that side of the valley, haste was no longer necessary,
and Maud was permitted to pause for breath.
The halt was short, however, our heroine, herself, now
feeling as if the major could not be secure until he was
fairly within the palisades. In vain did Willoughby try to
pacify her fears, and to assure her of his comparative safety;
Maud's nerves were excited, and then she had the dreadful
tidings, which still remained to be told, pressing upon her
Nick soon made the signal to proceed, and then the three
began to circle the flats, as mentioned in the advance of
Maud and her companion. When they reached a favourable
spot, the Indian once more directed a halt, intimating
his own intention to move to the margin of the woods, in
order to reconnoitre. Both his companions heard this announcement
with satisfaction, for Willoughby was eager to
say to Maud directly that which he had so plainly indicated
by means of the box, and to extort from her a confession
that she was not offended; while Maud herself felt the necessity
of letting the major know the melancholy circumstance
that yet remained to be told. With these widely
distinct feelings uppermost, our two lovers saw Nick quit
them, each impatient, restless and uneasy.
Willoughby had found a seat for Maud, on a log, and he
now placed himself at her side, and took her hand, pressing
it silently to his heart.
“Nick has then been a true man, dearest Maud,” he said,
“notwithstanding all my doubts and misgivings of him.”
“Yes; he gave me to understand you would hardly trust
him, and that was the reason I was induced to accompany
him. We both thought, Bob, you would confide in me!”
“Bless you — bless you — beloved Maud — but have you
seen Mike—has he had any interview with you—in a word,
did he deliver you my box?”
Maud's feelings had been so much excited, that the declaration
of Willoughby's love, precious as it was to her heart,
failed to produce the outward signs that are usually exhibited
by the delicate and sensitive of her sex, when they
listen to the insinuating language for the first time. Her
thoughts were engrossed with her dreadful secret, and with
the best and least shocking means of breaking it to the
major. The tint on her cheek, therefore, scarce deepened,
as this question was put to her, while her eye, full of earnest
tenderness, still remained riveted on the face of her companion.
“I have seen Mike, dear Bob,” she answered, with a
steadiness that had its rise in her singleness of purpose —
“and he has shown me—given me, the box.”
“But have you understood me, Maud?—You will remember
that box contained the great secret of my life!”
“This I well remember—yes, the box contains the great
secret of your life.”
“But — you cannot have understood me, Maud — else
would you not look so unconcerned — so vacantly — I am
not understood, and am miserable!”
“No—no—no”—interrupted Maud, hurriedly—“I understand
all you have wished to say, and you have no cause
to be—” Maud's voice became choked, for she recollected
the force of the blow that she had in reserve.
“This is so strange! — altogether so unlike your usual
manner, Maud, that there must be some mistake. The box
contained nothing but your own hair, dearest.”
“Yes; nothing else. It was my hair; I knew it the instant
I saw it.”
“And did it tell you no secret?—Why was Beulah's hair
not with it? Why did I cherish your hair, Maud, and your's
alone? You have not understood me!”
“I have, dear, dear Bob!—You love me—you wished to
say we are not brother and sister, in truth; that we have an
affection that is far stronger—one that will bind us together
for life. Do not look so wretched, Bob; I understand everything
you wish to say.”
“This is so very extraordinary! — So unlike yourself,
Maud, I know not what to make of it! I sent you that box,
beloved one, to say that you had my whole heart; that I
thought of you day and night; that you were the great object
of my existence, and that, while misery would be certain
without you, felicity would be just as certain with you;
in a word, that I love you, Maud, and can never love another.”
“Yes, so I understood you, Bob.”—Maud, spite of her
concentration of feeling on the dreadful secret, could not
refrain from blushing—“It was too plain to be mistaken.”
“And how was my declaration received? Tell me at
once, dear girl, with your usual truth of character, and
frankness—can you, will you love me in return?”
This was a home question, and, on another occasion, it
might have produced a scene of embarrassment and hesitation.
But Maud was delighted with the idea that it was in
to inflict, by setting Robert Willoughby's mind at ease on
this great point.
“I do love you, Bob,” she said, with fervent affection
beaming in every lineament of her angel face—“have loved
you, for years—how could it be otherwise? I have scarce
seen any other to love; and how see you, and refrain?”
“Blessed, blessed, Maud—but this is so strange—I fear
you do not understand me—I am not speaking of such affection
as Beulah bears me, as brother and sister feel; I speak
of the love that my mother bore my father—of the love of
man and wife”—
A groan from Maud stopped the vehement young man,
who received his companion in his arms, as she bowed her
head on his bosom, half fainting.
“Is this resentment, dearest, or is it consent?” he asked,
bewildered by all that passed.
“Oh! Bob—Father—father—father!”
“My father!—what of him, Maud? Why has the allusion
to him brought you to this state?”
“They have killed him, dearest, dearest Bob; and you
must now be father, husband, brother, son, all in one. We
have no one left but you!”
A long pause succeeded. The shock was terrible to
Robert Willoughby, but he bore up against it, like a man.
Maud's incoherent and unnatural manner was now explained,
and while unutterable tenderness of manner—a tenderness
that was increased by what had just passed—was exhibited
by each to the other, no more was said of love. A common
grief appeared to bind their hearts closer together, but it was
unnecessary to dwell on their mutual affection in words.
Robert Willoughby's sorrow mingled with that of Maud,
and, as he folded her to his heart, their faces were literally
bathed in each other's tears.
It was some time before Willoughby could ask, or Maud
give, an explanation. Then the latter briefly recounted all
she knew, her companion listening with the closest attention.
The son thought the occurrence as extraordinary as it was
afflicting, but there was not leisure for inquiry.
It was, perhaps, fortunate for our lovers that Nick's employment
kept him away. For nearly ten minutes longer
and possibly a little disturbed. At the sound of his
footstep, Willoughby released Maud from his arms, and both
assumed an air of as much tranquillity as the state of their
feetings would allow.
“Better march”—said, Nick, in his sententious manner—
“Mohawk very mad.”
“Do you see the signs of this?” asked the major, scarce
knowing what he said.
“Alway make Injin mad; lose scalp. Prisoner run
away, carry scalp with him.”
“I rather think, Nick, you do my captors injustice; so
far from desiring anything so cruel, they treated me well
enough, considering the circumstances, and that we are in
the woods.”
“Yes; spare scalp, 'cause t'ink rope ready. Nebber
trust Mohawk—all bad Injin.”
To own the truth, one of the great failings of the savages
of the American forests, was to think of the neighbouring
tribes, as the Englishman is known to think of the
Frenchman, and vice versa; as the German thinks of both,
and all think of the Yankee. In a word, his own tribe contains
everything that is excellent, with the Pawnee, the
Osage and Pottawattomie, as Paris contains all that is perfect
in the eyes of the bourgeois, London in those of the
cockney, and this virtuous republic in those of its own enlightened
citizens; while the hostile communities are remorselessly
given up to the tender solicitude of those beings
which lead nations, as well as individuals, into the sinks of
perdition. Thus Nick, liberalized as his mind had comparatively
become by intercourse with the whites, still retained
enough of the impressions of childhood, to put the worst
construction on the acts of all his competitors, and the best
on his own. In this spirit, then, he warned his companions
against placing any reliance on the mercy of the Mohawks.
Major Willoughby, however, had now sufficient inducements
to move, without reference to the hostile intentions of
his late captors. That his escape would excite a malignant
desire for vengeance, he could easily believe; but his mother,
his revered heart-broken mother, and the patient, afflicted
Beulah, were constantly before him, and gladly did he press
To say that the lovely, confiding being who clung to his
side, as the vine inclines to the tree, was forgotten, or that
he did not retain a vivid recollection of all that she had so
ingenuously avowed in his favour, would not be rigidly accurate,
though the hopes thus created shone in the distance,
under the present causes of grief, as the sun's rays illumine
the depths of the heavens, while his immediate face is entirely
hidden by an eclipse.
“Did you see any signs of a movement against the house,
Nick?” demanded the major, when the three had been
busily making their way, for several minutes, round the
margin of the forest.
The Tuscarora turned, nodded his head, and glanced at
Maud.
“Speak frankly, Wyandotté—”
“Good!” interrupted the Indian with emphasis, assuming
a dignity of manner the major had never before witnessed.
“Wyandotté come—Nick gone away altogeder. Nebber
see Sassy Nick, ag'in, at Dam.”
“I am glad to hear this, Tuscarora, and as Maud says,
you may speak plainly.”
“T'ink, den, best be ready. Mohawk feel worse dan if
he lose ten, t'ree, six scalp. Injin know Injin feelin'. Pale-face
can't stop red-skin, when blood get up.”
“Press on, then, Wyandotté, for the sake of God — let
me, at least, die in defence of my beloved mother!”
“Moder; good!—Doctor Tuscarora, when death grin in
face! She my moder, too!”
This was said energetically, and in a manner to assure
his listeners that they had a firm ally in this warlike savage.
Little did either dream, at that instant, that this same wayward
being — the creature of passion, and the fierce avenger
of all his own fancied griefs, was the cause of the dreadful
blow that had so recently fallen on them.
The sun still wanted an hour of setting, when Nick
brought his companions to the fallen tree, by which they
were again to cross the rivulet. Here he paused, pointing
to the roofs of the Hut, which were then just visible through
the trees; as much as to say that his duty, as a guide, was
done.
“Thank you, Wyandotté,” said Willoughby; “if it be
the will of God to carry us safely through the crisis, you
shall be well rewarded for this service.”
“Wyandotté chief—want no dollar. Been Injin runner
— now be Injin warrior. Major follow — squaw follow —
Mohawk in hurry.”
This was enough. Nick passed out of the forest on a
swift walk—but for the female, it would have been his customary,
loping trot — followed by Willoughby; his arm,
again, circling the waist of Maud, whom he bore along,
scarce permitting her light form to touch the earth. At this
instant, four or five conches sounded, in the direction of the
mills, and along the western margin of the meadows. Blast
seemed to echo blast; then the infernal yell, known as the
war-whoop, was heard all along the opposite face of the
buildings. Judging from the sounds, the meadows were
alive with assailants, pressing on for the palisades.
At this appalling moment, Joyce appeared on the ridge
of the roof, shouting, in a voice that might have been heard
to the farthest point in the valley—
“Stand to your arms, my men,” he cried; “here the
scoundrels come; hold your fire until they attempt to cross
the stockade.”
To own the truth, there was a little bravado in this, mingled
with the stern courage that habit and nature had both
contributed to lend the serjeant. The veteran knew the
feebleness of his garrison, and fancied that warlike cries,
from himself, might counterbalance the yells that were now
rising from all the fields in front of the house.
As for Nick and the major, they pressed forward, too
earnest and excited, to speak. The former measured the
distance by his ear; and thought there was still time to gain
a cover, if no moment was lost. To reach the foot of the
cliff, took just a minute; to ascend to the hole in the palisade,
half as much time; and to pass it, a quarter. Maud was
dragged ahead, as much as she ran; and the period when
the three were passing swiftly round to the gate, was pregnant
with imminent risk. They were seen, and fifty rifles
were discharged, as it might be, at a command. The bullets
pattered against the logs of the Hut, and against the
opened the gate, and the next instant the three were within
the shelter of the court.
| CHAPTER XII. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll | |