 | CHAPTER IV. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
“It would have been happy if they had converted some
before they had killed any.”
—Robinson.
The house at Bethel had, both in front and in
rear, a portico, or, as it was more humbly, and
therefore more appropriately named, a shed; that
in the rear, was a sort of adjunct to the kitchen,
and one end of it was enclosed for the purpose of
a bed-room, and occupied by Magawisca. Everell
found Digby sitting at the other extremity of this
portico; his position was prudently chosen. The
moon was high, and the heavens clear, and there
concealed and sheltered by the shadow of the
roof, he could, without being seen, command the
whole extent of cleared ground that bordered on
the forest, whence the foe would come, if he came
at all.
Everell, like a good knight, had carefully inspected
his arms and just taken his position beside
Digby, when they heard Magawisca's window
cautiously opened, and saw her spring through it.
Everell would have spoken to her, but Digby made
a signal of silence, and she, without observing
them, hastened with a quick and light step towards
the wood, and entered it, taking the path
that led to Nelema's hut.
“Confound her!” exclaimed Digby; “she is
in a plot with the old woman.”
“No—no. On my life she is not, Digby.”
“Some mischief—some mischief,” said Digby,
shaking his head. “They are a treacherous race.
Let's follow her. No, we had best keep clear of
the wood. Do you call after her; she will hearken
to you.”
Everell hesitated. “Speak quickly, Mr. Everell,”
urged Digby; “she will be beyond the
reach of your voice. It is no light matter that
could take her to Nelema's hut at this time of the
night.”
“She has good reason for going, Digby. I am
sure of it; and I will not call her back.”
“Reason,” muttered Digby; “reason is but a
jack-o'-lantern light in most people's minds. You
trust her too far, Mr. Everell; but there, she is returning!
See how she looks all around her, like
a frightened bird that hears an enemy in every
rustling leaf. Stand close—observe her—see, she
lays her ear to the earth—it is their crafty way of
listening—there, she is gone again!” he exclaimed,
as Magawisca darted away into the wood.
“It is past doubt she holds communication with
some one. God send us a safe deliverance. I had
rather meet a legion of Frenchmen than a company
of these savages. They are a kind of beast
we don't comprehend—out of the range of God's
creatures—neither angel, man, nor yet quite devil.
I would have sent to the fort for a guard to-night,
old hag's tokens; nor yet quite to take counsel
from your good mother's fears, she being but a
woman.”
“I think you have caught the fear, Digby, without
taking it's counsel,” said Everell, “which does
little credit to your wisdom; the only use of fear,
being to provide against danger.”
“That is true, Mr. Everell; but don't think I
am afraid. It is one thing to know what danger
is, and wish to shun it; and another thing to feel
like you, fear-nought lads, that have never felt a
twinge of pain, and have scarce a sense of your
own mortality. You would be the boldest at an
attack, Mr. Everell, and I should stand a siege
best. A boy's courage is a keen weapon that
wants temper.”
“Apt to break at the first stroke from the enemy,
you mean, Digby?” Digby nodded assent.
“Well, I should like, at any rate, to prove it,”
added Everell.
“Time enough this half-dozen years yet, my
young master. I should be loath to see that fair
skin of thine stained with blood; and, besides,
you have yet to get a little more worldly prudence
than to trust a young Indian girl, just because she
takes your fancy.”
“And why does she take my fancy, Digby? because
she is true and noble-minded. I am certain,
that if she knows of any danger approaching
us, she is seeking to avert it.”
“I don't know that, Mr. Everell; she'll be first
true to her own people. The old proverb holds fast
with these savages, as well as with the rest of the
world—`hawks won't pick out hawks' eyes.' Like
to like, throughout all nature. I grant you, she
hath truly a fair seeming.”
“And all that's foul is our own suspicion, is it
not, Digby?”
“Not exactly; there's plainly some mystery between
Magawisca and the old woman, and we
know these Pequods were famed above all the
Indian tribes for their cunning.”
“And what is superior cunning among savages
but superior sense?”
“You may out-talk me, Mr. Everell,” replied
Digby, with the impatience that a man feels when
he is sure he is right, without being able to make
it appear. “You may out-talk me, but you will
never convince me. Was not I in the Pequod
war? I ought to know, I think.”
“Yes, and I think you have told me they shewed
more resolution than cunning there; in particular,
that the brother of Magawisca, whom she so
piteously bemoans to this day, fought like a young
lion.”
“Yes, he did, poor dog!—and he was afterwards
cruelly cut off; and it is this that makes
me think they will take some terrible revenge for
his death. I often hear Magawisca talking to
Oneco of her brother, and I think it is to stir his
spaniel to a bloodhound.”
Nothing Digby said had any tendency to weaken
Everell's confidence in Magawisca.
The subject of the Pequod war once started,
Digby and Everell were in no danger of sleeping
at their post. Digby loved, as well as another man,
and particularly those who have had brief military
experience, to fight his battles o'er again; and
Everell was at an age to listen with delight to
tales of adventure, and danger. They thus wore
away the time till the imaginations of both relater
and listener were at that pitch, when every
shadow is embodied, and every passing sound
bears a voice to the quickened sense. “Hark!”
said Digby, “did you not hear footsteps?”
“I hear them now,” replied Everell; “they
seem not very near. Is it not Magawisca returning?”
“No; there is more than one; and it is the
heavy, though cautious, tread of men. Ha! Argus
scents them.” The old house-dog now sprang
from his rest on a mat at the door-stone, and gave
one of those loud inquiring barks, by which this animal
first hails the approach of a strange footstep.
“Hush, Argus, hush,” cried Everell; and the old
dog, having obeyed his instinct, seemed satisfied
to submit to his master's voice, and crept lazily
back to his place of repose.
“You have hushed Argus, and the footsteps
too,” said Digby; but it is well, perhaps, if there
are on guard.”
“If there really is, Digby!” said Everell, who,
terrific as the apprehended danger was, felt the
irrepressible thirst of youth for adventure; “do
you think we could both have been deceived?”
“Nothing easier, Mr. Everell, than to deceive
senses on the watch for alarm. We heard something,
but it might have been the wolves that even
now prowl about the very clearing here at night.
Ha!” he exclaimed, “there they are”—and starting
forward he levelled his musket towards the
wood.
“You are mad,” said Everell, striking down
Digby's musket with the butt end of his own. “It
is Magawisca.” Magawisca at that moment
emerged from the wood.
Digby appeared confounded. “Could I have
been so deceived?” he said; “could it have been
her shadow—I thought I saw an Indian beyond
that birch tree; you see the white bark? well, just
beyond in the shade. It could not have been
Magawisca, nor her shadow, for you see there are
trees between the foot-path and that place; and
yet, how should he have vanished without motion
or sound?”
“Our senses deceive us, Digby,” said Everell,
reciprocating Digby's own argument.
“In this tormenting moonlight they do; but
my senses have been well schooled in their time,
and should have learned to know a man from a
woman, and a shadow from a substance.”
Digby had not a very strong conviction of the
actual presence of an enemy, as was evident from
his giving no alarm to his auxiliaries in the
house; and he believed that if there were hostile
Indians prowling about them, they were few in
number, and fearful; still he deemed it prudent to
persevere in their precautionary measures. “I
will remain here,” he said, “Mr. Everell, and do
you follow Magawisca; sift what you can from
her. Depend on't, there's something wrong.
Why should she have turned away on seeing us?
and did you not observe her hide something beneath
her mantle?”
Everell acceded to Digby's proposition; not
with the expectation of confirming his suspicions,
but in the hope that Magawisca would shew they
were groundless. He followed her to the front of
the house, to which she seemed involuntarily to
have bent her steps on perceiving him.
“You have taken the most difficult part of our
duty on yourself, Magawisca,” he said, on coming
up to her. “You have acted as vidette, while I
have been quiet at my post.”
Perhaps Magawisca did not understand him,
at any rate she made no reply.
“Have you met an enemy in your reconnoitring?
Digby and I fancied that we both heard
and saw the foe.”
“When and where?” exclaimed Magawisca,
in a hurried, alarmed tone.
“Not many minutes since, and just at the very
edge of the wood.”
“What! when Digby raised his gun? I
thought that had been in sport to startle me.”
“No—Magawisca. Sporting does not suit our
present case. My mother and her little ones are
in peril, and Digby is a faithful servant.”
“Faithful!” echoed Magawisca, as if there
were more in Everell's expression than met the
ear; “he surely may walk straight who hath nothing
to draw him aside. Digby hath but one
path, and that is plain before him—but one voice
from his heart, and why should he not obey it?”
The girl's voice faltered as she spoke, and as she
concluded she burst into tears. Everell had never
before witnessed this expression of feeling from
her. She had an habitual self-command that
hid the motions of her heart from common observers,
and veiled them even from those who
most narrowly watched her. Everell's confidence
in Magawisca had not been in the least degree
weakened by all the appearances against her.
He did not mean to imply suspicion by his commendation
of Digby, but merely to throw out a
leading observation which she might follow if she
would.
He felt reproached and touched by her distress,
but struck by the clew, which, as he thought,
her language afforded to the mystery of her conduct,
and confident that she would in no way aid
or abet any mischief that her own people might
be contriving against them, he followed the natural
bent of his generous temper, and assured her
seemed rather to aggravate than abate her distress.
She threw herself on the ground, drew
her mantle over her face, and wept convulsively.
He found he could not allay the storm he had
raised, and he seated himself beside her. After
a little while, either exhausted by the violence
of her emotion, or comforted by Everell's silent
sympathy, she became composed; and raised
her face from her mantle, and as she did so,
something fell from beneath its folds. She hastily
recovered and replaced it, but not till Everell
had perceived it was an eagle's feather. He
knew this was the badge of her tribe, and he had
heard her say, that “a tuft from the wing of the
monarch-bird was her father's crest.” A suspicion
flashed through his mind, and was conveyed to
Magawisca's, by one bright glance of inquiry.
She said nothing, but her responding look was
rather sorrowful than confused, and Everell,
anxious to believe what he wished to be true,
came, after a little consideration, to the conclusion,
that the feather had been dropped in her path by
a passing bird. He did not scrutinise her motive
in concealing it; he could not think her capable
of evil, and anxious to efface from her mind the
distrust his countenance might have expressed—
“This beautiful moon and her train of stars,” he
said, “look as if they were keeping their watch
over our dwelling. There are those, Magawisca,
who believe the stars have a mysterious influence
of their faith, and my imagination is none of the
brightest, but I can almost fancy they are stationed
there as guardian angels, and I feel quite sure
that nothing evil could walk abroad in their
light.”
“They do look peaceful,” she replied mournfully;
“but ah! Everell, man is ever breaking
the peace of nature. It was such a night as this
—so bright and still, when your English came
upon our quiet homes.”
“You have never spoken to me of that night
Magawisca.”
“No—Everell, for our hands have taken hold
of the chain of friendship, and I feared to break
it by speaking of the wrongs your people laid on
mine.”
“You need not fear it; I can honour noble
deeds though done by our enemies, and see that
cruelty is cruelty, though inflicted by our friends.”
“Then listen to me; and when the hour of
vengeance comes, if it should come, remember it
was provoked.”
She paused for a few moments, sighed deeply,
and then began the recital of the last acts in the
tragedy of her people; the principal circumstances
of which are detailed in the chronicles of the
times, by the witnesses of the bloody scenes.
“You know,” she said, “our fortress-homes were
on the level summit of a hill. Thence we could
see as far as the eye could stretch, our hunting-grounds,
the borders of a stream that glided around our
hill, and so near to it, that in the still nights we
could hear its gentle voice. Our fort and wigwams
were encompassed with a palisade, formed
of young trees, and branches interwoven and
sharply pointed. No enemy's foot had ever approached
this nest, which the eagles of the tribe
had built for their mates and their young. Sassacus
and my father were both away on that dreadful
night. They had called a council of our chiefs,
and old men; our young men had been out in
their canoes, and when they returned they had
danced and feasted, and were now in deep sleep.
My mother was in her hut with her children, not
sleeping, for my brother Samoset had lingered
behind his companions, and had not yet returned
from the water-sport. The warning spirit, that
ever keeps its station at a mother's pillow, whispered
that some evil was near; and my mother,
bidding me lie still with the little ones, went forth
in quest of my brother. All the servants of the
Great Spirit spoke to my mother's ear and eye of
danger and death. The moon, as she sunk behind
the hills, appeared a ball of fire; strange
lights darted through the air; to my mother's eye
they seemed fiery arrows; to her ear the air was
filled with death-sighs.
“She had passed the palisade, and was descending
the hill, when she met old Cushmakin. “Do
you know aught of my boy?” she asked.
“Your boy is safe, and sleeps with his companions;
he returned by the Sassafras knoll; that
way can only be trodden by the strong-limbed,
and light-footed.” “My boy is safe,” said my
mother; “then tell me, for thou art wise, and
canst see quite through the dark future, tell me,
what evil is coming to our tribe?” She then described
the omens she had seen. “I know not,”
said Cushmakin, “of late darkness hath spread
over my soul, and all is black there, as before
these eyes, that the arrows of death have pierced;
but tell me, Monoco, what see you now in the
fields of heaven?”
“Oh, now,” said my mother, “I see nothing
but the blue depths, and the watching stars. The
spirits of the air have ceased their moaning, and
steal over my cheek like an infant's breath. The
water-spirits are rising, and will soon spread their
soft wings around the nest of our tribe.”
“The boy sleeps safely,” muttered the old
man, “and I have listened to the idle fear of a
doating mother.”
“I come not of a fearful race,” said my mother.
“Nay, that I did not mean,” replied Cushmakin,
“but the panther watching her young is fearful
as a doe.” The night was far spent, and my
mother bade him go home with her, for our pow-wows[1]
have always a mat in the wigwam of their
am always abroad at the rising of the sun.” It
seemed that the first warm touch of the sun
opened the eye of the old man's soul, and he
saw again the flushed hills, and the shaded vallies,
the sparkling waters, the green maize, and the
gray old rocks of our home. They were just passing
the little gate of the palisade, when the old
man's dog sprang from him with a fearful bark.
A rushing sound was heard. “Owanox! Owanox!
(the English! the English!”) cried Cushmakin.
My mother joined her voice to his, and in an instant
the cry of alarm spread through the wigwams.
The enemy were indeed upon us. They
had surrounded the palisade, and opened their
fire.
“Was it so sudden? Did they so rush on sleeping
women and children?” asked Everell, who
was unconsciously lending all his interest to the
party of the narrator.
“Even so; they were guided to us by the traitor
Wequash; he from whose bloody hand my
mother had shielded the captive English maidens
—he who had eaten from my father's dish, and
slept on his mat. They were flanked by the cowardly
Narragansetts, who shrunk from the sight
of our tribe—who were pale as white men at the
thought of Sassacus, and so feared him, that
when his name was spoken, they were like an unstrung
bow, and they said, `He is all one God—
waited for the prey they dared not attack.”
“Then,” said Eyerell, “as I have heard, our
people had all the honour of the fight.”
“Honour! was it, Everell—ye shall hear. Our
warriors rushed forth to meet the foe; they surrounded
the huts of their mothers, wives, sisters,
children; they fought as if each man had a hundred
lives, and would give each, and all, to redeem
their homes. Oh! the dreadful fray, even now,
rings in my ears! Those fearful guns that we
had never heard before—the shouts of your people—our
own battle yell—the piteous cries of the
little children—the groans of our mothers, and,
oh! worse—worse than all—the silence of those
that could not speak—The English fell back;
they were driven to the palisade; some beyond it,
when their leader gave the cry to fire our huts,
and led the way to my mother's. Samoset,
the noble boy, defended the entrance with a prince-like
courage, till they struck him down; prostrate
and bleeding he again bent his bow, and had taken
deadly aim at the English leader, when a
sabre-blow severed his bowstring. Then was taken
from our hearth-stone, where the English had
been so often warmed and cherished, the brand
to consume our dwellings. They were covered
with mats, and burnt like dried straw. The enemy
retreated without the palisade. In vain did
our warriors fight for a path by which we might
escape from the consuming fire; they were beaten
pressed on the English, howling like
wolves for their prey. Some of our people threw
themselves into the midst of the crackling flames,
and their courageous souls parted with one shout
of triumph; others mounted the palisade, but
they were shot and dropped like a flock of birds
smitten by the hunter's arrows. Thus did the
strangers destroy, in our own homes, hundreds of
our tribe.”
“And how did you escape in that dreadful
hour, Magawisca—you were not then taken prisoners?”
“No; there was a rock at one extremity of our
hut, and beneath it a cavity into which my mother
crept, with Oneco, myself, and the two little
ones that afterwards perished. Our simple habitations
were soon consumed; we heard the foe
retiring, and when the last sound had died away,
we came forth to a sight that made us lament to
be among the living. The sun was scarce
an hour from his rising, and yet in this brief space
our homes had vanished. The bodies of our people
were strewn about the smouldering ruin; and
all around the palisade lay the strong and valiant
warriors—cold—silent—powerless as the unformed
clay.”
Magawisca paused; she was overcome with
the recollection of this scene of desolation. She
looked upward with an intent gaze, as if she held
communion with an invisible being. “Spirit of
could follow thee to that blessed land where I
should no more dread the war-cry, nor the death-knife.”
Everell dashed the gathering tears from his
eyes, and Magawisca proceeded in her narrative.
“While we all stood silent and motionless, we
heard footsteps and cheerful voices. They came
from my father and Sassacus, and their band, returning
from the friendly council. They approached
on the side of the hill that was covered
with a thicket of oaks, and their ruined homes at
once burst upon their view. Oh! what horrid
sounds then pealed on the air! shouts of wailing,
and cries for vengeance. Every eye was turned
with suspicion and hatred on my father. He had
been the friend of the English; he had counselled
peace and alliance with them; he had protected
their traders; delivered the captives taken from
them, and restored them to their people: now his
wife and children alone were living, and they called
him traitor. I heard an angry murmur, and
many hands were lifted to strike the death-blow.
He moved not—`Nay, nay,' cried Sassacus, beating
them off. `Touch him not; his soul is bright
as the sun; sooner shall you darken that, than find
treason in his breast. If he hath shown the
dove's heart to the English when he believed them
friends, he will show himself the fierce eagle now
he knows them enemies. Touch him not, warriors;
remember my blood runneth in his veins.'
“From that moment my father was a changed
“From that moment my father was a changed
man. He neither spoke nor looked at his wife, or
children; but placing himself at the head of one
band of the young men he shouted his war-cry,
and then silently pursued the enemy. Sassacus
went forth to assemble the tribe, and we followed
my mother to one of our villages.”
“You did not tell me, Magawisca,” said Everell,
“how Samoset perished; was he consumed
in the flames, or shot from the palisade?”
“Neither—neither. He was reserved to whet
my father's revenge to a still keener edge. He
had forced a passage through the English, and
hastily collecting a few warriors, they pursued the
enemy, sprung upon them from a covert, and
did so annoy them that the English turned and
gave them battle. All fled save my brother, and
him they took prisoner. They told him they
would spare his life if he would guide them to our
strong holds; he refused. He had, Everell, lived
but sixteen summers; he loved the light of the
sun even as we love it; his manly spirit was tamed
by wounds and weariness; his limbs were like a
bending reed, and his heart beat like a woman's;
but the fire of his soul burnt clear. Again they
pressed him with offers of life and reward; he
faithfully refused, and with one sabre-stroke they
severed his head from his body.”
Magawisca paused—she looked at Everell and
said with a bitter smile—“You English tell us,
Everell, that the book of your law is better than
that written on our hearts, for ye say it teaches
a law and believed it, would ye thus have treated
a captive boy?”
Magawisca's reflecting mind suggested the
most serious obstacle to the progress of the
christian religion, in all ages and under all circumstances;
the contrariety between its divine
principles and the conduct of its professors; which,
instead of always being a medium for the light
that emanates from our holy law, is too often the
darkest cloud that obstructs the passage of its
rays to the hearts of heathen men. Everell had
been carefully instructed in the principles of his
religion, and he felt Magawisca's relation to be an
awkward comment on them, and her inquiry natural;
but though he knew not what answer to
make, he was sure there must be a good one, and
mentally resolving to refer the case to his mother,
he begged Magawisca to proceed with her narrative.
“The fragments of our broken tribe,” she said,
“were collected, and some other small dependent
tribes persuaded to join us. We were obliged to
flee from the open grounds, and shelter ourselves
in a dismal swamp. The English surrounded us;
they sent in to us a messenger and offered life
and pardon to all who had not shed the blood of
Englishmen. Our allies listened, and fled from
us, as frightened birds fly from a falling tree. My
father looked upon his warriors; they answered
that look with their battle-shout. `Tell your people,'
have shed and drank English blood, and that we
will take nothing from them but death.'
“The messenger departed and again returned
with offers of pardon, if we would come forth and
lay our arrows and our tomahawks at the feet of
the English. `What say you, warriors,' cried my
father—`shall we take pardon from those who
have burned your wives and children, and given
your homes to the beasts of prey—who have robbed
you of your hunting-grounds, and driven your
canoes from their waters?' A hundred arrows
were pointed to the messenger. `Enough—you
have your answer,' said my father, and the messenger
returned to announce the fate we had
chosen.”
“Where was Sassacus?—had he abandoned
his people?” asked Everell.
“Abandoned them! No—his life was in theirs;
but accustomed to attack and victory, he could
not bear to be thus driven, like a fox to his hole.
His soul was sick within him, and he was silent
and left all to my father. All day we heard the
strokes of the English axes felling the trees that
defended us, and when night came, they had approached
so near that we could see the glimmering
of their watch-lights through the branches of
the trees. All night they were pouring in their
bullets, alike on warriors, women, and children.
Old Cushmakin was lying at my mother's feet,
when he received a death-wound. Gasping for
`Stay not here,' he said; `look not on your wives
and children, but burst your prison bound; sound
through the nations the cry of revenge! Linked
together, ye shall drive the English into the sea.
I speak the word of the Great Spirit—obey it!'
While he was yet speaking he stiffened in death.
`Obey him, warriors,' cried my mother; `see,'
she said, pointing to the mist that was now wrapping
itself around the wood like a thick curtain—
`see, our friends have come from the spirit-land
to shelter you. Nay, look not on us—our hearts
have been tender in the wigwam, but we can die
before our enemies without a groan. Go forth
and avenge us.'
“`Have we come to the counsel of old men
and old women!' said Sassacus, in the bitterness
of his spirit.
“`When women put down their womanish
thoughts and counsel like men, they should be
obeyed,' said my father. `Follow me, warriors.'
“They burst through the enclosure. We saw
nothing more, but we heard the shout from the foe,
as they issued from the wood—the momentary
fierce encounter—and the cry, `they have escaped!'
Then it was that my mother, who had
listened with breathless silence, threw herself
down on the mossy stones, and laying her hot
cheek to mine—`Oh, my children—my children!'
she said, `would that I could die for you! But
fear not death—the blood of a hundred chieftains,
the enemy comes nearer and nearer. Now lift up
your heads, my children, and show them that even
the weak ones of our tribe are strong in soul.'
“We rose from the ground—all about sat women
and children in family clusters, awaiting unmoved
their fate. The English had penetrated
the forest-screen, and were already on the little
rising-ground where we had been entrenched.
Death was dealt freely. None resisted—not a
movement was made—not a voice lifted—not a
sound escaped, save the wailings of the dying
children.
“One of your soldiers knew my mother, and a
command was given that her life and that of her
children should be spared. A guard was stationed
round us.
“You know that, after our tribe was thus cut
off, we were taken, with a few other captives, to
Boston. Some were sent to the Islands of the
Sun, to bend their free limbs to bondage like your
beasts of burden. There are among your people
those who have not put out the light of the Great
Spirit; they can remember a kindness, albeit
done by an Indian; and when it was known to
your Sachems that the wife of Mononotto, once
the protector and friend of your people, was a
prisoner, they treated her with honour and gentleness.
But her people were extinguished—her
husband driven to distant forests—forced on earth
to the misery of wicked souls—to wander without
heart was broken. You know the rest.”
This war, so fatal to the Pequods, had transpired
the preceding year. It was an important event
to the infant colonies, and its magnitude probably
somewhat heightened to the imaginations of
the English, by the terror this resolute tribe had
inspired. All the circumstances attending it were
still fresh in men's minds, and Everell had heard
them detailed with the interest and particularity
that belongs to recent adventures; but he had
heard them in the language of the enemies and
conquerors of the Pequods; and from Magawisca's
lips they took a new form and hue; she seemed,
to him, to embody nature's best gifts, and her feelings
to be the inspiration of heaven. This new
version of an old story reminded him of the man
and the lion in the fable. But here it was not
merely changing sculptors to give the advantage
to one or the other of the artist's subjects; but it
was putting the chisel into the hands of truth, and
giving it to whom it belonged.
He had heard this destruction of the original
possessors of the soil described, as we find it in
the history of the times, where, we are told, “the
number destroyed was about four hundred;” and
“it was a fearful sight to see them thus frying in
the fire, and the streams of blood quenching the
same, and the horrible scent thereof; but the victory
seemed a sweet sacrifice, and they gave the
praise thereof to God.”
In the relations of their enemies, the courage
of the Pequods was distorted into ferocity, and
their fortitude, in their last extremity, thus set
forth: “many were killed in the swamp, like sullen
dogs, that would rather, in their self-willedness
and madness, sit still to be shot or cut in pieces,
than receive their lives for asking, at the hands of
those into whose power they had now fallen.”
Everell's imagination, touched by the wand of
feeling, presented a very different picture of those
defenceless families of savages, pent in the recesses
of their native forests, and there exterminated,
not by superior natural force, but by the
adventitious circumstances of arms, skill, and
knowledge; from that offered by those who “then
living and worthy of credit did affirm, that in the
morning entering into the swamp, they saw several
heaps of them [the Pequods] sitting close together,
upon whom they discharged their pieces,
laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time,
putting the muzzles of their pieces under the
boughs, within a few yards of them.”
Everell did not fail to express to Magawisca,
with all the eloquence of a heated imagination,
his sympathy and admiration of her heroic and
suffering people. She listened with a mournful
pleasure, as one listens to the praise of a departed
friend. Both seemed to have forgotten the purpose
of their vigil, which they had marvellously
kept without apprehension, or heaviness, when
they were roused from their romantic abstraction
he said; “the family is stirring, and the day is at
hand. See the morning star hanging just over
those trees, like a single watch-light in all the wide
canopy. As you have not to look in a prayerbook
for it, master Everell, don't forget to thank
the Lord for keeping us safe, as your mother, God
bless her, would say, through the night-watches.
Stop one moment,” added Digby, lowering his
voice to Everell as he rose to follow Magawisca,
“did she tell you?”
“Tell me! what?”
“What! Heaven's mercy! what ails the boy!
Why, did she tell you what brought her out tonight?
Did she explain all the mysterious actions
we have seen? Are you crazy? Did not you ask
her?”
Everell hesitated—fortunately for him the light
was too dim to expose to Digby's eye the blushes
that betrayed his consciousness that he had forgotten
his duty. “Magawisca did not tell me,”
he said, “but I am sure Digby that”—
“That she can do no wrong—hey, Master Everell,
well, that may be very satisfactory to you—but it
does not content me. I like not her secret ways—
`it's bad ware that needs a dark store.' ”
Everell had tried the force of his own convictions
on Digby, and knew it to be unavailing,
therefore having no reply to make, he very discreetly
retreated without attempting any.
Magawisca crept to her bed, but not to repose—
her. Her mind was racked with apprehensions,
and conflicting duties, the cruellest rack to an honourable
mind.
Nelema had communicated to her the preceding
day, the fact which she had darkly intimated
to Mrs. Fletcher, that Mononotto, with one or
two associates was lurking in the forest, and
watching an opportunity to make an attack on
Bethel. How far his purpose extended, whether
simply to the recovery of his children, or to the
destruction of the family, she knew not. The
latter was most probable, for hostile Indians
always left blood on their trail. In reply to Magawisca's
eager inquiries, Nelema said she had
again, and again, assured her father of the kind
treatment his children had received at the hands
of Mrs. Fletcher; but he seemed scarcely to hear
what she said, and precipitately left her, telling
her that she would not again see him, till his
work was done.
Magawisca's first impulse had been to reveal
all to Mrs. Fletcher; but by doing this, she would
jeopard her father's life. Her natural sympathies
—her strong affections—her pride, were all enlisted
on the side of her people; but she shrunk,
as if her own life were menaced, from the blow
that was about to fall on her friends. She would
have done or suffered any thing to avert it—any
thing but betray her father. The hope of meeting
him, explains all that seemed mysterious to
was quiet there. In returning she found an eagle's
feather in the path,—she believed it must have
just been dropped there by her father, and this circumstance
determined her to remain watching
through the night, that if her father should appear,
she might avert his vengeance.
She did not doubt that Digby had really seen
and heard him; and believing that her father
would not shrink from a single armed man, she
hoped against hope, that his sole object was to
recover his children; hoped against hope, we say,
for her reason told her, that if that were his only
purpose, it might easily have been accomplished
by the intervention of Nelema.
Magawisca had said truly to Everell, that her
father's nature had been changed by the wrongs
he received. When the Pequods were proud and
prosperous, he was more noted for his humane
virtues, than his warlike spirit. The supremacy
of his tribe was acknowledged, and it seemed to
be his noble nature, as it is sometimes the instinct
of the most powerful animals, to protect and defend,
rather than attack and oppress. The ambitious
spirit of his brother chieftain Sassacus, had
ever aspired to dominion over the allied tribes;
and immediately after the appearance of the English,
the same temper was manifest in a jealousy
of their encroachments. He employed all
his art and influence and authority, to unite the
tribes for the extirpation of the dangerous invaders.
hostility, and foreseeing no danger from them,
was the advocate of a hospitable reception, and
pacific conduct.
This difference of feeling between the two
chiefs, may account for the apparent treachery of
the Pequods, who, as the influence of one or the
other prevailed, received the English traders
with favour and hospitality, or, violating their
treaties of friendship, inflicted on them cruelties
and death.
The stories of the murders of Stone, Norton,
and Oldham, are familiar to every reader of our
early annals; and the anecdote of the two English
girls, who were captured at Wethersfield,
and protected and restored to their friends by the
wife of Mononotto, has already been illustrated by
a sister labourer; and is precious to all those who
would accumulate proofs, that the image of God
is never quite effaced from the souls of his creatures;
and that in their darkest ignorance, and
deepest degradation, there are still to be found
traits of mercy and benevolence. These will be
gathered and treasured in the memory, with that
fond feeling with which Mungo Park describes
himself to have culled and cherished in his
bosom, the single flower that bloomed in his melancholy
track over the African desert.
The chieftain of a savage race, is the depository
of the honour of his tribe; and their defeat is a
disgrace to him, that can only be effaced by the
with the unfortunate, to be compelled to endure
the reproach of inevitable evils; and Mononotto
was often reminded by the remnant of his tribe,
in the bitterness of their spirit, of his former
kindness for the English. This reproach sharpened
too keenly the edge of his adversity.
He had seen his people slaughtered, or driven
from their homes and hunting-grounds, into shameful
exile; his wife had died in captivity, and his
children lived in servile dependence in the house
of his enemies.
Sassacus perished by treachery, and Mononotto
alone remained to endure this accumulated
misery. In this extremity, he determined on the
rescue of his children, and the infliction of some
signal deed of vengeance, by which he hoped to
revive the spirit of the natives, and reinstate himself
as the head of his broken and dispersed people:
in his most sanguine moments, he meditated
a unity and combination that should eventually
expel the invaders.
| CHAPTER IV. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts | |