 | CHAPTER XIII. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
Kind words, remembered voices, once so sweet,
Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat;
“All shall come back, each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall evil die,
And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.
“And then shall I behold
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her, who still and cold,
Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young.”
Bryant's Past.
The scene that followed passed like a hurricane sweeping
over the valley. Joyce had remained on the ridge of
the roof, animating his little garrison, and endeavouring to
intimidate his enemies, to the last moment. The volley of
bullets had reached the palisades and the buildings, and he
was still unharmed. But the sound of the major's voice
below, and the cry that Miss Maud and Nick were at the
gate, produced a sudden change in all his dispositions for
the defence. The serjeant ran below himself, to report and
receive his orders from the new commander, while all the
negroes, females as well as males, rushed down into the
court, to meet their young master and mistress.
It is not easy to describe the minute that succeeded, after
Willoughby and Maud were surrounded by the blacks.
The delight of these untutored beings was in proportion to
their recent sorrow. The death of their master, and the captivity
of Master Bob and Miss Maud, had appeared to them
like a general downfall of the family of Willoughby; but
here was a revival of its hopes, that came as unexpectedly
as its previous calamities. Amid the clamour, cries, tears,
could scarce find a moment in which to discharge his duty.
“I see how it is, serjeant,” exclaimed Willoughby; “the
assault is now making, and you desire orders.”
“There is not an instant to lose, Major Willoughby; the
enemy are at the palisades already, and there is no one at
his station but Jamie and young Blodget.”
“To your posts, men — to your posts, everybody. The
house shall be made good at all hazards. For God's
sake, Joyce, give me arms. I feel that my father's wrongs
are to be revenged.”
“Robert—dear, dear Robert,” said Maud, throwing her
arms on his shoulders, “this is no moment for such bitter
feelings. Defend us, as I know you will, but defend us like
a Christian.”
One kiss was all that the time allowed, and Maud rushed
into the house to seek her mother and Beulah, feeling as
if the tidings of Bob's return might prove some little alleviation
to the dreadful blow under which they must be suffering.
As for Willoughby, he had no time for pious efforts at
consolation. The Hut was to be made good against a host
of enemies; and the cracking of rifles from the staging and
the fields, announced that the conflict had begun in earnest.
Joyce handed him a rifle, and together they ascended
rapidly to the roofs. Here they found Jamie Allen and
Blodget, loading and firing as fast as they could, and were
soon joined by all the negroes. Seven men were now collected
on the staging; and placing three in front, and two
on each wing, the major's dispositions were made; moving,
himself, incessantly, to whatever point circumstances called.
Mike, who knew little of the use of fire-arms, was stationed
at the gate, as porter and warder.
It was so unusual a thing for savages to attack by day-light,
unless they could resort to surprise, that the assailants
were themselves a little confused. The assault was
made, under a sudden feeling of resentment at the escape
of the prisoner, and contrary to the wishes of the principal
white men in the party, though the latter were dragged in
the train of events, and had to seem to countenance that of
which they really disapproved. These sudden out-breakings
produced memorable disasters. On the present occasion,
however, the most that could occur was a repulse, and to
this the leaders, demagogues who owed their authority to
the excesses and necessities of the times, were fain to submit,
should it happen.
The onset had been fierce and too unguarded. The moment
the volley was fired at the major, the assailants broke
cover, and the fields were alive with men. This was the
instant when the defence was left to Allen and Blodget, else
might the exposure have cost the enemy dear. As it was,
the last brought down one of the boldest of the Indians,
while the mason fired with good will, though with less visible
effect. The yell that followed this demonstration of the
apparent force of the garrison, was a wild mixture of anger
and exultation, and the rush at the palisades was general
and swift. As Willoughby posted his reinforcement, the
stockade was alive with men, some ascending, some firing
from its summit, some aiding others to climb, and one falling
within the enclosure, a second victim to Blodget's unerring
aim.
The volley that now came from the roofs staggered the
savages, most of whom fell outward, and sought cover in
their usual quick and dexterous manner. Three or four,
however, thought it safer to fall within the palisades, seeking
safety immediately under the sides of the buildings. The
view of these men, who were perfectly safe from the fire of
the garrison so long as the latter made no sortie, gave an
idea to those without, and produced, what had hitherto been
wanting, something like order and concert in the attack.
The firing now became desultory and watchful on both
sides, the attacking party keeping themselves covered by the
trees and fences as well as they could, while the garrison
only peered above the ridge of the roof, as occasions required.
The instant the outbreak occurred, all the ci-devant dependants
of captain Willoughby, who had deserted, abandoned
their various occupations in the woods and fields,
collecting in and around the cabins, in the midst of their
wives and children. Joel, alone, was not to be seen. He
had sought his friends among the leaders of the party, behind
house, and to which there was a safe approach by means
of the rivulet and its fringe of bushes. The little council
that was held at this spot took place just as the half-dozen
assailants who had fallen within the palisades were seen
clustering along under the walls of the buildings.
“Natur's gives you a hint how to conduct,” observed Joel,
pointing out this circumstance to his principal companions,
as they all lay peering over the upper portions of the stack,
at the Hut. “You see them men under the eaves—they're
a plaguy sight safer up there, than we be down here; and,
if 'twere'n't for the look of the thing, I wish I was with 'em.
That house will never be taken without a desperate sight
of fightin'; for the captain is an old warrior, and seems to
like to snuff gunpowder”—the reader will understand none
knew of the veteran's death but those in the house—“and
won't be for givin' up while he has a charge left. If I had
twenty men—no, thirty would be better, where these fellows
be, I think the place could be carried in a few minutes, and
then liberty would get its rights, and your monarchy-men
would be put down as they all desarve.”
“What do then?” demanded the leading Mohawk, in his
abrupt guttural English. “No shoot—can't kill log.”
“No, chief, that's reasonable, an' ongainsayable, too;
but only one-half the inner gate is hung, and I've contrived
matters so, on purpose, that the props of the half that is n't
on the hinges can be undone, all the same as onlatching the
door. If I only had the right man here, now, the business
should be done, and that speedily.”
“Go 'self,” answered the Mohawk, not without an expression
of distrust and contempt.
“Every man to his callin', chief. My trade is peace, and
politics, and liberty, while your's is war. Howsever, I can
put you, and them that likes fightin', on the trail, and then
we'll see how matters can be done. Mortality! How them
desperate devils on the roof do keep blazin' away! It
would n't surprise me if they shot somebody, or get hurt
themselves!”
Such were the deliberations of Joel Strides on a battle.
The Indian leaders, however, gave some of their ordinary
signals, to bring their `young men' more under command,
they left the haystack, compelling Joel to accompany them.
The results of these movements were soon apparent.
The most daring of the Mohawks made their way into the
rivulet, north of the buildings, and were soon at the foot of
the cliff. A little reconnoitring told them that the hole
which Joel had pointed out, had not been closed since the
entrance of Willoughby and his companions. Led by their
chief, the warriors stole up the ascent, and began to crawl
through the same inlet which had served as an outlet to so
many deserters, the previous night, accompanied by their
wives and children.
The Indians in front had been ordered to occupy the
attention of the garrison, while this movement was in the
course of execution. At a signal, they raised a yell, unmasked
them, fired one volley, and seemed to make another
rush at the works. This was the instant chosen for the
passage of the hole, and the seven leading savages effected
their entrance within the stockade, with safety. The eighth
man was shot by Blodget, in the hole itself. The body was
instantly withdrawn by the legs, and all in the rear fell
back under the cover of the cliff.
Willoughby now understood the character of the assault.
Stationing Joyce, with a party to command the hole, he
went himself into the library, accompanied by Jamie and
Blodget, using a necessary degree of caution. Fortunately
the windows were raised, and a sudden volley routed all the
Indians who had taken shelter beneath the rocks. These
men, however, fled no further than the rivulet, where they
rallied under cover of the bushes, keeping up a dropping
fire at the windows. For several minutes, the combat was
confined to this spot; Willoughby, by often shifting from
window to window along the rear of the house, getting several
volleys that told, at the men under the cover.
As yet, all the loss had been on the side of the assailants,
though several of the garrison, including both Willoughby
and Joyce, had divers exceedingly narrow escapes. Quite
a dozen of the assailants had suffered, though only four
were killed outright. By this time, the assault had lasted
an hour, and the shades of evening were closing around the
place. Daniel, the miller, had been sent by Joel to spring
usual with the uninitiated, he had hung back, to let
others pass the hole first, and was consequently carried
down in the crowd, within the cover of the bushes of the
rivulet.
Willoughby had a short consultation with Joyce, and then
he set seriously about the preparations necessary for a night
defence. By a little management, and some personal risk,
the bullet-proof shutters of the north wing of the Hut were
all closed, rendering the rear of the buildings virtually impregnable.
When this was done, and the gates of the area
were surely shut, the place was like a ship in a gale, under
short canvass and hove-to. The enemy within the palisades
were powerless, to all appearance, the walls of stone preventing
anything like an application of fire. Of the last,
however, there was a little danger on the roof, the Indians
frequently using arrows for this purpose, and water was
placed on the staging in readiness to be used on occasion.
All these preparations occupied some time, and it was
quite dark ere they were completed. Then Willoughby had
a moment for reflection; the firing having entirely ceased,
and nothing further remaining to do.
“We are safe for the present, Joyce,” the major observed,
as he and the serjeant stood together on the staging, after
having consulted on the present aspect of things; “and I
have a solemn duty, yet, to perform—my dear mother—
and the body of my father—”
“Yes, sir; I would not speak of either, so long as it was
your honour's pleasure to remain silent on the subject. Madam
Willoughby is sorely cut down, as you may imagine,
sir; and, as for my gallant old commander, he died in his
harness, as a soldier should.”
“Where have you taken the body? — has my mother
seen it?”
“Lord bless you, sir, Madam Willoughby had his honour
carried into her own room, and there she and Miss Beulah”—
so all of the Hut still called the wife of Evert Beekman—
“she and Miss Beulah, kneel, and pray, and weep, as you
know, sir, ladies will, whenever anything severe comes over
their feelings—God bless them both, we all say, and think,
ay, and pray, too, in our turns, sir.”
“Very well, Joyce. Even a soldier may drop a tear over
the dead body of his own father. God only knows what
this night will bring forth, and I may never have a moment
as favourable as this, for discharging so solemn a duty.”
“Yes, your honour”—Joyce fancied that the major had
succeeded to this appellation by the decease of the captain—
“yes, your honour, the commandments, that the Rev. Mr.
Woods used to read to us of a Sunday, tell us all about
that; and it is quite as much the duty of a Christian to mind
the commandments, I do suppose, as it is for a soldier to
obey orders. God bless you, sir, and carry you safe through
the affair. I had a touch of it with Miss Maud, myself, and
know what it is. It's bad enough to lose an old commander
in so sudden a way like, without having to feel what has
happened in company with so sweet ladies, as these we
have in the house. As for these blackguards down inside
the works, let them give you no uneasiness; it will be light
work for us to keep them busy, compared to what your honour
has to do.”
It would seem by the saddened manner in which Willoughby
moved away, that he was of the same way of
thinking as the serjeant, on this melancholy subject. The
moment, however, was favourable for the object, and delay
could not be afforded. Then Willoughby's disposition was
to console his mother, even while he wept with her over the
dead body of him they had lost.
Notwithstanding the wild uproar that had so prevailed,
not only without, but within the place, the portion of the
house that was occupied by the widowed matron and her
daughters, was silent as the grave. All the domestics were
either on the staging, or at the loops, leaving the kitchens
and offices deserted. The major first entered a little antechamber,
that opened between a store-room, and the apartment
usually occupied by his mother; this being the ordinary
means of approach to her room. Here he paused,
and listened quite a minute, in the hope of catching some
sound from within that might prepare him for the scene he
was to meet. Not a whisper, a moan, or a sob could
be heard; and he ventured to tap lightly at the door.
This was unheeded; waiting another minute, as much
in dread as in respect, he raised the latch with some such
A single lamp let him into the secrets of this solemn place.
In the centre of the room, lay stretched on a large table,
the manly form of the author of his being. The face was
uppermost, and the limbs had been laid, in decent order, as
is usual with the dead that have been cared for. No change
had been made in the dress, however, the captain lying in
the hunting-shirt in which he had sallied forth; the crimson
tint which disfigured one breast, having been sedulously
concealed by the attention of Great Smash. The passage
from life to eternity had been so sudden, as to leave the
usual benignant expression on the countenance of the corpse;
the paleness which had succeeded the fresh ruddy tint of
nature, alone denoting that the sleep was not a sweet repose,
but that of death.
The body of his father was the first object that met the
gaze of the major. He advanced, leaned forward, kissed
the marble-like forehead, with reverence, and groaned in
the effort to suppress an unmanly outbreaking of sorrow.
Then he turned to seek the other well-beloved faces. There
sat Beulah, in a corner of the room, as if to seek shelter for
her infant, folding that infant to her heart, keeping her look
riveted, in anguish, on the inanimate form that she had
ever loved beyond a daughter's love. Even the presence
of her brother scarce drew a glance away from the sad
spectacle; though, when it at length did, the youthful matron
bowed her face down to that of her child, and wept
convulsively. She was nearest to the major, who moved
to her side, and kissed the back of her neck, with kind
affection. The meaning was understood; and Beulah,
while unable to look up, extended a hand to meet the fraternal
pressure it received.
Maud was near, kneeling at the side of the bed. Her
whole attitude denoted the abstraction of a mind absorbed in
worship and solicitation. Though Willoughby's heart
yearned to raise her in his arms; to console her, and bid
her lean on himself, in future, for her earthly support, he
too much respected her present occupation, to break in upon
it with any irreverent zeal of his own. His eye turned from
this loved object, therefore, and hurriedly looked for his
mother.
The form of Mrs. Willoughby had escaped the first glances
of her son, in consequence of the position in which she had
placed herself. The stricken wife was in a corner of the
room, her person partly concealed by the drapery of a
window-curtain; though this was evidently more the effect
of accident, than of design. Willoughby started, as he
caught the first glance of his beloved parent's face; and he
felt a chill pass over his whole frame. There she sat upright,
motionless, tearless, without any of the alleviating
weaknesses of a less withering grief, her mild countenance
exposed to the light of the lamp, and her eyes riveted on the
face of the dead. In this posture had she remained for
hours; no tender cares on the part of her daughters; no
attentions from her domestics; no outbreaking of her own
sorrows, producing any change. Even the clamour of the
assault had passed by her like the idle wind.
“My mother—my poor—dear—heart-broken mother!”
burst from Willoughby, at this sight, and he stepped quickly
forward, and knelt at her feet.
But Bob — the darling Bob — his mother's pride and joy,
was unheeded. The heart, which had so long beaten for
others only; which never seemed to feel a wish, or a pulsation,
but in the service of the objects of its affection, was
not sufficiently firm to withstand the blow that had lighted
on it so suddenly. Enough of life remained, however, to
support the frame for a while; and the will still exercised
its power over the mere animal functions. Her son shut
out the view of the body, and she motioned him aside with
an impatience of manner he had never before witnessed from
the same quarter. Inexpressibly shocked, the major took
her hands, by gentle compulsion, covering them with kisses,
and literally bathing them in tears.
“Oh! mother—dearest, dearest mother!” he cried, “will
you not—do you not know me—Robert—Bob—your much-indulged,
grateful, affectionate son. If father is gone into
the immediate presence of the God he revered and served, I
am still left to be a support to your declining years.
Lean on me, mother, next to your Father in Heaven.”
“Will he ever get up, Robert?” whispered the widowed
mother. “You speak too loud, and may rouse him before
his time. He promised me to bring you back; and he ever
See, how sweetly he sleeps!”
Robert Willoughby bowed his head to his mother's knees,
and groaned aloud. When he raised his face again, he saw
the arms of Maud elevated towards heaven, as if she would
pluck down that consolation for her mother, that her spirit
was so fervently asking of the Almighty. Then he gazed
into the face of his mother again; hoping to catch a gleam
of some expression and recognition, that denoted more of
reason. It was in vain; the usual placidity, the usual mild
affection were there; but both were blended with the unnatural
halo of a mind excited to disease, if not to madness.
A slight exclamation, which sounded like alarm, came from
Beulah; and turning towards his sister, Willoughby saw
that she was clasping Evert still closer to her bosom, with
her eyes now bent on the door. Looking in the direction
of the latter, he perceived that Nick had stealthily entered
the room.
The unexpected appearance of Wyandotté might well
alarm the youthful mother. He had applied his war-paint
since entering the Hut; and this, though it indicated an intention
to fight in defence of the house, left a picture of
startling aspect. There was nothing hostile intended by
this visit, however. Nick had come not only in amity, but
in a kind concern to see after the females of the family,
who had ever stood high in his friendship, notwithstanding
the tremendous blow he had struck against their happiness.
But he had been accustomed to see those close distinctions
drawn between individuals and colours; and, the other proprieties
admitted, would not have hesitated about consoling
the widow with the offer of his own hand. Major Willoughby,
understanding, from the manner of the Indian,
the object of his visit, suffered him to pursue his own course,
in the hope it might rouse his mother to a better consciousness
of objects around her.
Nick walked calmly up to the table, and gazed at the
face of his victim with a coldness that proved he felt no
compunction. Still he hesitated about touching the body,
actually raising his hand, as if with that intent, and then
withdrawing it, like one stung by conscience. Willoughby
noted the act; and, for the first time, a shadowy suspicion
the manner of his father's death, and old distrusts began
to revive, though so faintly as to produce no immediate
results.
As for the Indian, the hesitating gesture excepted, the
strictest scrutiny, or the keenest suspicion could have detected
no signs of feeling. The senseless form before him was
not less moved than he appeared to be, so far as the human
eye could penetrate. Wyandotté was unmoved. He believed
that, in curing the sores on his own back in this particular
manner, he had done what became a Tuscarora
warrior and a chief. Let not the self-styled Christians of
civilized society affect horror at this instance of savage
justice, so long as they go the whole length of the law
of their several communities, in avenging their own fancied
wrongs, using the dagger of calumny instead of the
scalping-knife, and rending and tearing their victims, by
the agency of gold and power, like so many beasts of
the field, in all the forms and modes that legal vindictiveness
will either justify or tolerate; often exceeding those
broad limits, indeed, and seeking impunity behind perjuries
and frauds.
Nick's examination of the body was neither hurried nor
agitated. When it was over, he turned calmly to consider
the daughters of the deceased.
“Why you cry—why you 'fear'd,” he said, approaching
Beulah, and placing his swarthy hand on the head of
her sleeping infant.—“Good squaw—good pappoose. Wyandotté
take care 'em in woods. Bye'm-by go to pale-face
town, and sleep quiet.”
This was rudely said, but it was well meant. Beulah so
received it; and she endeavoured to smile her gratitude in
the face of the very being from whom, more than from all
of earth, she would have turned in horror, could her mental
vision have reached the fearful secret that lay buried in his
own bosom. The Indian understood her look; and making
a gesture of encouragement, he moved to the side of the
woman whom his own hand had made a widow.
The appearance of Wyandotté produced no change in
the look or manner of the matron. The Indian took her
hand, and spoke.
“Squaw berry good,” he said, with emphasis. “Why
look so sorry—cap'in gone to happy huntin'-ground of his
people. All good dere—chief time come, must go.”
The widow knew the voice, and by some secret association
it recalled the scenes of the past, producing a momentary
revival of her faculties.
“Nick, you are my friend,” she said, earnestly. “Go
speak to him, and see if you can wake him up.”
The Indian fairly started, as he heard this strange proposal.
The weakness lasted only for a moment, however,
and he became as stoical, in appearance at least, as before.
“No,” he said; “squaw quit cap'in, now. Warrior go
on last path, all alone—no want companion.—She look at
grave, now and den, and be happy.”
“Happy!” echoed the widow, “what is that, Nick?—
what is happy, my son? It seems a dream—I must have
known what it was; but I forget it all now. Oh! it was
cruel, cruel, cruel, to stab a husband, and a father—wasn't
it, Robert?—What say you, Nick—shall I give you more
medicine?—You'll die, Indian, unless you take it—mind
what a Christian woman tells you, and be obedient.—Here,
let me hold the cup—there; now you'll live!”
Nick recoiled an entire step, and gazed at the still beautiful
victim of his ruthless revenge, in a manner no one had
ever before noted in his mien. His mixed habits left him
in ignorance of no shade of the fearful picture before his
eyes, and he began better to comprehend the effects of the
blow he had so hastily struck—a blow meditated for years,
though given at length under a sudden and vehement impulse.
The widowed mother, however, was past noting
these changes.
“No — no — no — Nick,” she added, hurriedly, scarce
speaking above a whisper, “do not awake him! God will
do that, when he summons his blessed ones to the foot
of his throne. Let us all lie down, and sleep with him.
Robert, do you lie there, at his side, my noble, noble boy;
Beulah, place little Evert and yourself at the other side;
Maud, your place is by the head; I will sleep at his feet;
while Nick shall watch, and let us know when it will be
time to rise and pray—”
The general and intense—almost spell-bound—attention
wanderings of a mind so single and pure, was interrupted
by yells so infernal, and shrieks so wild and fearful,
that it seemed, in sooth, as if the last trump had sounded,
and men were passing forth from their graves to judgment.
Willoughby almost leaped out of the room, and Maud followed,
to shut and bolt the door, when her waist was encircled
by the arm of Nick, and she found herself borne
forward towards the din.
| CHAPTER XIII. Wyandotté, or, The hutted knoll | |