 | CHAPTER VII. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
When you go to bed, or kiln-hole,
To whistle off these secrets; but you must be
Tattling before all our guests?”
Winter's Tale.
Long experience hath shown that the white
man, when placed in situations to acquire such
knowledge, readily becomes the master of most of
that peculiar skill for which the North American
Indian is so remarkable, and which enables him
among other things, to detect the signs of a forest
trail, with a quickness and an accuracy of intelligence
that amount nearly to an instinct. The fears
the reports of the scouts, all of whom agreed in
the opinion that no party of savages, that could be
at all dangerous to a force like their own, was lying
near the valley; and some of whom, the loudest of
which number being stout Eben Dudley, boldly
offered to answer for the security of those who
depended on their vigilance, with their own lives.
These assurances had, beyond a doubt, a soothing
influence on the apprehensions of Ruth and her
handmaidens; but they somewhat failed of their
effect, with those unwelcome visiters who still continued
to cumber Wish-Ton-Wish with their presence.
Though they had evidently abandoned all
ideas connected with the original object of their
visit, they spoke not of departure. On the contrary,
as night approached, their chief entered into council
with old Mark Heathcote, and made certain
propositions for the security of his dwelling, which
the Puritan saw no reason to oppose.
A regular watch was, in consequence, set, and
maintained till morning, at the palisadoes. The
different members of the family retired to their
usual places of rest, tranquil in appearance, if not
in entire confidence of peace; and the military
messengers took post in the lower of the two fighting
apartments of the citadel. With this simple,
and to the strangers particularly satisfactory arrangement,
the hours of darkness passed away in
quiet; morning returning to the secluded valley, as
it had so often done before, with its loveliness unimpaired
by violence or tumult.
In the same peaceful manner did the sun set successively
three several times, and as often did it
arise on the abode of the Heathcotes, without further
sign of danger, or motive of alarm. With the
passage of time, the agents of the Stuart gradually
regained their confidence. Still they never neglected
house with the retiring light; a post which the subordinate
named Hallam, more than once gravely
observed, they were, by their disciplined and military
habits, singularly qualified to maintain. Though
the Puritan secretly chafed under this protracted
visit, habitual self-denial, and a manner so long subdued,
enabled him to conceal his disgust. For the
first two days after the alarm, the deportment of
his guests was unexceptionable. All their faculties
appeared to be engrossed with keen and anxious
watchings of the forest, out of which it would seem
they expected momentarily to see issue a band offerocious
and ruthless savages: but symptoms of returning
levity began to be apparent, as confidence
and a feeling of security increased, with the quiet
passage of the hours.
It was on the evening of the third day from that
on which they had made their appearance in the
settlement, that the man called Hallam was seem
strolling, for the first time, through the postern so
often named, and taking a direction which led towards
the out-buildings. His air was less distrustful
than it had been for many a weary hour, and
his step proportionably confident and assuming. Instead
of wearing, as he had been wont, a pair of
heavy horseman's pistols at his girdle, he had even
laid aside his broadsword, and appeared more in the
guise of one who sought his personal ease, than in
that cumbersome and martial attire which all of his
party, until now, had deemed it prudent to maintain
He cast his glance cursorily over the fields of the
Heathcotes, as they glowed under the soft light of
a setting sun; nor did his eye even refuse to wander
vacantly along the outline of that forest, which his
imagination had so lately been peopling with beings
of a fierce and ruthless nature.
The hour was one when rustic economy brings the
more than usually active at that busy moment, was
a handmaiden of Ruth, whose clear sweet voice was
heard, in one of the inclosures, occasionally rising
on the notes of a spiritual song, and as often sinking
to a nearly inaudible hum, as she extracted from a
favorite animal liberal portions of its nightly tribute
to the dairy of her mistress. To that inclosure
the stranger, as it were by accident, suffered his
sauntering footsteps to stroll, seemingly as much in
admiration of the sleek herd as of any other of its
comely tenants.
“From what thrush hast taken lessons, my pretty
maid, that I mistook thy notes for one of the sweetest
songsters of thy woods?” he asked, trusting his
person to the support of the pen in an attitude of
easy superiority. “One might fancy it a robin, or a
wren, trolling out his evening song, instead of human
voice rising and falling in every-day psalmody.”
“The birds of our forest rarely speak,” returned
the girl; “and the one among them which has
most to say, does it like those who are called gentlemen,
when they set wit to work to please the ear
of simple country maidens.”
“And in what fashion may that be?”
“Mockery.”
“Ah! I have heard of the creature's skill. It is
said to be a compound of the harmony of all other
forest songsters; and yet I see little resemblance to
the honest language of a soldier, in its manner of
utterance.”
“It speaketh without much meaning; and oftener
to cheat the ear, than in honest reason.”
“Thou forgettest that which I told thee in the
morning, child. It would seem that they who named
thee, have no great cause to exult in their judgment
thy disposition, than Faith.”
“It may be, that they who named me little knew
how great must be credulity, to give ear to all
have been required to credit.”
“Thou canst have no difficulty in admitting that
thou art comely, since the eye itself will support
thy belief; nor can one of so quick speech fail to
know that her wit is sharper than common. Thus
far, I admit, the name of Faith will not surely believ
thy character.”
“If Eben Dudley hear thee use such vanity-stirring
discourse,” returned the half-pleased girl, “he
might give thee less credit for wit than thou seemest
willing to yield to others. I hear his heavy foot
among the cattle, and ere long we shall be sure to
see a face that hath little more of lightness to
boast.”
“This Eben Dudley is a personage of no mean
importance, I find!” muttered the other, continuing
his walk, as the borderer named made his appearance
at another entrance of the pen. The glances
exchanged between them were far from friendly,
though the woodsman permitted the stranger to
pass without any oral expression of displeasure.
“The skittish heifer is getting gentle at last, Faith
Ring,” said the borderer, casting the but of his
musket on the ground with a violence that left a
deep impression on the faded sward at his feet.
“That brindled ox, old Logger, is not more willing
to come into his yoke, than is the four-year-old to
yield her milk.”
“The creature has been getting kind, since you
taught the manner to tame its humor,” returned
the dairy girl, in a voice that, spite of every effort
of maiden pride, betrayed something of the flurry
of her spirits, while she plied her light task with
violent industry.
“Umph! I hope some other of my teachings may
be as well remembered; but thou art quick at the
trick of learning, Faith, as is plain by the ready
manner in which thou hast so shortly got the habit
of discourse with a man as nimble-tongued as yon
riding reprobate from over sea.”
“I hope that civil listening is no proof of unseemly
discourse on the part of one who hath been trained
in modesty of speech, Eben Dudley. Thou hast
often said, it was the bounden duty of her who was
spoken to, to give ear, lest some might say she was
of scornful mind, and her name for pride be better
earned than that for good-nature.”
“I see that more of my lessons than I had hoped
are still in thy keeping. So thou listenest thus readily,
Faith, because it is meet that a maiden should
not be scornful!”
“Thou sayest so. Whatever ill name I may deserve,
thou hast no right to count scorn among my
failings.”
“If I do, may I—” Eben Dudley bit his lip,
and checked an expression which would have given
grievous offence to one whose habits of decency
were as severe as those of his companion. “Thou
must have heard much that was profitable to-day,
Faith Ring,” he added, “considering that thy ear
is so open, and that thy opportunities have been
great.”
“I know not what thou wouldst say by speaking
of my opportunities,” returned the girl, bending
still lower beneath the object of her industry, in
order to conceal the glow which her own quick
consciousness told her was burning on her cheek.
“I would say that the tale must be long, that
needeth four several trials of private speech to finish.”
“Four! as I hope to be believed for a girl of truth
in speech or deed, this is but the third time that the
risen.”
“If I know the number of the fingers of my hand
it is the fourth!”
“Nay, how canst thou, Eben Dudley, who has
been afield since the crowing of the cock, know
what hath passed about the dwellings? It is plain
that envy, or some other evil passion, causeth thee
to speak angrily.”
“How is it that I know! perhaps thou thinkes
Faith, thy brother Reuben, only, hath the gift of
sight.”
“The labor must have gone on with great profit
to the Captain, whilst eyes have been roving over
other matters! But perhaps they kept the strong of
arm for the lookers-out, and have set them of feebler
bodies to the toil.”
“I have not been so careless of thy life as to
forget, at passing moments, to cast an eye a broad,
pert-one. Whatever thou mayst think of the need,
there would be fine wailings in the butteries and
dairies, did the Wampanoags get into the clearing,
and were there none to give the alarm in season.”
“Truly, Eben, thy terror of the child in the
block must be grievous for one of thy manhood,
else wouldst thou not watch the buildings so narrowly,”
retorted Faith, laughing; for with the dexterity
of her sex, she began to feel the superiority
she was gradually obtaining in the discourse. “Thou
dost not remember that we have valiant troopers,
from old England, to keep the younker from doing
harm. But here cometh the brave soldier himself:
it will be well to ask vigilance at his hands, or this
night may bring us to the tomahawk in our sleep!”
“Thou speakest of the weapon of the savages!”
said the messenger, who had drawn near again with
a visible willingness to share in an interview which,
while he had watched its progress at a distance,
fear is over, from that quarter.”
“As you say, for this quarter,” said Eben, adjusting
his lips to a low whistle, and coolly looking up
to examine the heavenly body to which he meant
allusion. “But the next quarter may bring us a
pretty piece of Indian skirmishing.”
“And what hath the moon in common with an
incursion of the savages? Are there those among
them, who study the secrets of the stars?”
“They study deviltries and other wickedness,
more than aught else. It is not easy for the mind
of man to fancy horrors such as they design, when
Providence has given them success in an inroad.”
“But thou didst speak of the moon! In what
manner is the moon leagued with their bloody
plots?”
“We have her now in the full, and there is little
of the night when the eye of a watcher might not
see a red skin in the clearing; but a different tale
may be heard, when an hour or two of jet darkness
shall again fall among these woods. There will be
a change shortly; it behoveth us therefore to be on
our guard.”
“Thou thinkest then, truly, that there are outlyers
waiting for the fitting moment?” said the officer,
with an interest so marked as to cause even
the but-half-pacified Faith to glance an arch look
at her companion, though he still had reason to distrust
a wilful expression that lurked in the corner
of her eyes, which threatened at each moment to
contradict his relation of the sinister omens.
“There may be savages lying in the hills, at a
day's journey in the forest; but they know the aim
of a white man's musket too well, to be sleeping
within reach of its range. It is the nature of an
Indian to eat and sleep while he has time for quiet,
come.”
“And what call you the distance to the nearest
settlement on the Connecticut?” demanded the other,
with an air so studiously indifferent as to furnish an
easy clue to the inner workings of his mind.
“Some twenty hours would bring a nimble runner
to the outer habitations, granting small time for food
and rest. He that is wise, however, will take but
little of the latter, until his head be safely housed
within some such building as yon block, or until there
shall stand between him and the forest at least a
goodly row of oaken pickets.”
“There is no path ridden by which travellers may
avoid the forest during the darkness?”
“I know of none. He who quits Wish-Ton-Wish
for the towns below, must make his pillow of the
earth, or be fain to ride as long as beast can carry.”
“We have truly had experience of this necessity,
journeying hither. Thou thinkest, friend, the savages
are in their resting time, and that they wait
the coming quarter of the moon?”
“To my seeming, we shall not have them sooner,”
returned Eben Dudley; taking care to conceal all
qualification of this opinion, if any such he entertained,
by closely locking its purport in a mental
reservation.
“And what season is it usual to choose for getting
into the saddle, when business calls any to the settlements
below?”
“We never fail to take our departure about the
time the sun touches the tall pine, which stands on
yonder height of the mountain. Much experience
hath told us it is the safest hour; hand of time-piece
is not more sure than yon tree.”
“I like the night,” said the other, looking about
him with the air of one suddenly struck with the
promising appearance of the weather. “The blackness
a fitting moment to push the matter, on which we
are sent, nearer to its conclusion.”
So saying, and probably believing that he had
sufficiently concealed the motive of his decision, the
uneasy dragoon walked with an air of soldierly coolness
towards the dwellings, signing at the same time
to one of his companions, who was regarding him
from a distance, to approach.
“Now dost thou believe, witless Dudley, that the
four fingers of thy clumsy hand have numbered the
full amount of all that thou callest my listenings?”
said Faith, when she thought no other ear but his
to whom she spoke could catch her words, and at
the same time laughing merrily beneath her heifer,
though still speaking with a vexation she could not
entirely repress.
“Have I spoken aught but truth? It is not for
such as I to give lessons in journeying, to one who
follows the honest trade of a man-hunter. I have
said that which all who dwell in these parts know
to be reasonable.”
“Surely nought else. But truth is made so powerful
in thy hands, that it needs be taken, like a bitter
healing draught, with closed eyes and at many
swallows. One who drinketh of it too freely, may
well-nigh be strangled. I marvel that he who is so
vigilant in providing for the cares of others, should
take so little heed of those he is set to guard.”
“I know not thy meaning, Faith. When was
danger near the valley, and my musket wanting?”
“The good piece is truer to duty than its master.
Thou mayest have lawful license to sleep on thy
post, for we maidens know nothing of the pleasure
of the Captain in these matters; but it would be
as seemly, if not as soldierly, to place the arms at
the postern and thyself in the chambers, when
the same hour.”
Dudley looked as confused as one of his moul
and unbending temperament might well be, though
he stubbornly refused to understand the allusion of
his offended companion.
“Thou hast not discussed with the trooper from
over sea in vain,” he said, “since thou speakest
so wisely of watches and arms.”
“Truly he hath much schooled me in the matter.
“Umph! and what may be the amount of his
teaching?”
“That he who sleepeth at a postern should
neither talk too boldly of the enemy, nor expect
maidens to put too much trust—”
“In what, Faith?”
“Thou surely knowest I mean in his watchfulness.
My life on it, had one happened to pass at a
later hour than common near the night-post of than
gentle-spoken soldier, he would not have been found
like a sentinel of this household, in the second watch
of the night that is gone, dreaming of the good
things of the Madam's buttery.”
“Didst truly come then, girl?” said Eben, dropping
his voice, and equally manifesting his satisfaction
and his shame. “But thou knowest, Faith, that
the labor had fallen behind in behalf of the scouting
party, and that the toil of yesterday exceeded
that of our usual burthens. Nevertheless, I keep
the postern again to-night, from eight to twelve
and—”
“Will make a goodly rest of it, I doubt not. No
he who hath been so vigilant throughout the day
must needs tire of the task as night draws on
Fare thee well, wakeful Dudley; if thine eye
should open on the morrow, be thankful that the
maidens have not stitched thy garments to the
palisadoes!”
Notwithstanding the efforts of the young man to
detain her, the light-footed girl eluded his grasp,
and, bearing her burden towards the dairy, she
tripped along the path with a half-averted face,
in which triumph and repentance were already
struggling for the possession.
In the mean time, the leader of the messengers
and his military subordinate had a long and interesting
conference. When it was ended, the former
took his way to the apartment in which Mark
Heathcote was wont to pass those portions of his
time that were not occupied in his secret strivings
for the faith, or in exercise without, while superintending
the laborers in the fields. With some little
circumlocution, which was intended to mask his
real motives, the agent of the King announced his
intention to take his final departure that very
night.
“I felt it a duty, as one who has gained experience
in arms by some practice in the wars of
Europe,” he said, “to tarry in thy dwelling while
danger threatened from the lurking savage. It
would ill become soldiers to speak of their intentions;
but had the alarm in truth sounded, thou
wilt give faith, when I say that the block-house
would not have been lightly yielded! I shall make
report to them that sent me, that in Captain Mark
Heathcote, Charles hath a loyal subject, and the
Constitution a firm supporter. The rumors, of a
seemingly mistaken description, which have led us
hither, shall be contradicted; and doubtless it will
be found, that some accident hath given rise to the
deception. Should there be occasion to dwell on the
particulars of the late alarm, I trust the readiness
of my followers to do good service to one of the
King's subjects will not be overlooked.”
“It is the striving of an humble spirit to speak
nought evil of its fellows, and to conceal no good,”
thy abode in my dwelling to thy liking, thou art
welcome; and if duty or pleasure calleth thee to
quit it, peace go with thee. It will be useful to
unite with us in asking that thy passage through
the wilderness may be unharmed; that he who
watcheth over the meanest of his creatures should
take thee in his especial keeping, and that the
savage heathen—”
“Dost think the savage out of his villages?” demanded
the messenger, with an indecorous rapidity,
that cut short the enumeration of the particular
blessings and dangers that his host thought it meet
to include in the leave-taking prayer.
“Thou surely hast not tarried with us to aid
in the defence, and yet feel it doubtful that thy
services might be useful!” observed Mark Heathcote,
drily.
“I would the Prince of Darkness had thee and
all the other diabolicals of these woods in his own
good gripe!” muttered the messenger between his
teeth; and then, as if guided by a spirit that could
not long be quelled, he assumed something more of
his unbridled and natural air, boldly declining to
join in the prayer on the plea of haste, and the
necessity of his looking in person to the movements
of his followers. “But this need not prevent thee,
worthy Captain, from pouring out an asking in our
behalf, while we are in the saddle,” he concluded;
“for ourselves, there remaineth much of thy previously-bestowed
pious aliment to be digested; though
we doubt not, that should thy voice be raised in
our behalf, while journeying along the first few
leagues of the forest, the tread of the hacks would
not be heavier, and, it is certainty, that we ourselves
should be none the worse for the favor.”
Then casting a glance of ill-concealed levity at
one of his followers, who had come to say that
with an air, in which the respect that one like
the Puritan could scarce fail to excite, struggled
with his habitual contempt for things of a serious
character.
The family of Mark Heathcote, the lowest dependant
included, saw these strangers depart with
great inward satisfaction. Even the maidens, in
whom nature, in moments weaker than common,
had awakened some of the lighter vanities, were
gladly rid of gallants, who could not soothe their
ears with the unction of flattery, without frequently
giving great offence to their severe principles, by
light and irreverent allusions to things on which
they themselves were accustomed to think with
fitting awe. Eben Dudley could scarcely conceal
the chuckle with which he saw the party bury themselves
in the forest, though neither he, nor any of
the more instructed in such matters, believed they
incurred serious risk from their sudden enterprise.
The opinions of the scouts proved to be founded
on accurate premises. That and many a subsequent
night passed without alarm. The season continued
to advance, and the laborers pursued their toil to
its close, without another appeal to their courage,
or any additional reasons for vigilance. Whittal
Ring followed his colts with impunity, among the
recesses of the neighboring forests; and the herds
of the family went and came, as long as the weather
would permit them to range the woods, in regularity
and peace. The period of the alarm, and the visit
of the agents of the Crown, came to be food for
tradition; and during the succeeding winter, the
former often furnished motive of merriment around
the blazing fires that were so necessary to the
country and the season.
Still there existed in the family a living memorial
of the unusual incidents of that night. The captive
him in the power of the Heathcotes were beginning
to be forgotten.
A desire to quicken the seeds of spiritual regeneration,
which, however dormant they might be, old
Mark Heathcote believed to exist in the whole
family of man, and consequently in the young
heathen as well as in others, had become a sort of
ruling passion in the Puritan. The fashions and
mode of thinking of the times had a strong leaning
towards superstition; and it was far from difficult
for a man of his ascetic habits and exaggerated
doctrines, to believe that a special interposition had
cast the boy into his hands, for some hidden but
mighty purpose, that time in the good season would
not fail to reveal.
Notwithstanding the strong coloring of fanaticism
which tinged the characters of the religionists of
those days, they were rarely wanting in worldly
discretion. The agents they saw fit to employ, in
order to aid the more hidden purposes of Providence,
were in common useful and rational. Thus, while
Mark never forgot to summon the lad from his
prison at the hour of prayer, or to include an
especial asking in behalf of the ignorant heathen
in general and of this chosen youth in particular, he
hesitated to believe that a manifest miracle would
be exerted in his favor. That no blame might attach
to the portion of duty that was confided to human
means, he had recourse to the discreet agency of
kindness and unremitted care. But all attempts to
lure the lad into the habits of a civilized man, were
completely unsuccessful. As the severity of the
weather increased, the compassionate and thoughtful
Ruth endeavored to induce him to adopt the
garments that were found so necessary to the comfort
of men who were greatly his superiors in hardihood
and in strength. Clothes, decorated in a fashion
provided, and entreaties and threats were both freely
used, with a view to make the captive wear them.
On one occasion, he was even forcibly clad by Eben
Dudley; and being brought, in the unwonted guise,
into the presence of old Mark, the latter offered
up an especial petition that the youth might be
made to feel the merits of this concession to the
principles of a chastened and instructed man. But
within an hour, the stout woodsman, who had been
made on the occasion so active an instrument of
civilization, announced to the admiring Faith that
the experiment was unsuccessful; or, as Eben somewhat
irreverently described the extraordinary effort
of the Puritan, “the heathen hath already resumed
his skin leggings and painted waist-cloth, notwithstanding
the Captain has strove to pin better
garments on his back, by virtue of a prayer that
might have clothed the nakedness of a whole tribe.”
In short, the result proved, in the case of this lad,
as similar experiments have since proved in so many
other instances, the difficulty of tempting one trained
in the freedom and ease of a savage, to consent
to admit of the restraints of a state of being that
is commonly thought to be so much superior. In
every instance in which the youthful captive had
liberty of choice, he disdainfully rejected the customs
of the whites; adhering with a singular, and
almost heroic pertinacity to the usages of his people
and his condition.
The boy was not kept in his bondage without extraordinary
care. Once, when trusted in the fields,
he had openly attempted to escape; nor was the
possession of his person recovered without putting
the speed of Eben Dudley and Reuben Ring to a
more severe trial, as was confessed by the athletic
young borderers themselves, than any they had
hitherto undergone. From that moment, he was
called the laborers afield, the captive was invariably
secured in his prison, where, as some compensation
for his confinement, he was supposed to enjoy the
benefit of long and familiar communication with
Mark Heathcote, who had the habit of passing
many hours of each day, and, not unfrequently
long portions of the night, too, within the retirement
of the block-house. During the time only
when the gates were closed, or when some one of
strength and activity sufficient to control his movements
was present, was the lad permitted to stroll,
at will, among the buildings of the border fortress.
This liberty he never failed to exercise, and often
in a manner that overcame the affectionate Ruth
with a painful excess of sensibility.
Instead of joining in the play of the other children,
the young captive would stand aloof, and regard
their sports with a vacant eye, or, drawing
near to the palisadoes, he often passed hours in
gazing wistfully at those endless forests in which he
first drew breath, and which probably contained all
that was most prized in the estimation of his simple
judgment. Ruth, touched to the heart by this silent
but expressive exhibition of suffering, endeavored
in vain to win his confidence, with a view of enticing
him into employments that might serve to relieve
his care. The resolute but still quiet boy would not
be lured into a forgetfulness of his origin. He appeared
to comprehend the kind intentions of his
gentle mistress, and frequently he even suffered
himself to be led by the mother into the centre of
her own joyous and merry offspring; but it was
only to look upon their amusements with his former
cold air, and to return, at the first opportunity, to
his beloved site at the pickets. Still there were
singular and even mysterious evidences of a growing
consciousness of the nature of the discourse of which
greater familiarity with the language and
opinions of the inhabitants of the valley, than his
known origin and his absolute withdrawal from communication
could give reason to expect. This important
and inexplicable fact was proved by the
frequent and meaning glances of his dark eye, when
aught was uttered in his hearing that affected, ever
so remotely, his own condition; and, once or twice,
by the haughty gleamings of ferocity that escaped
him, when Eben Dudley was heard to vaunt the
prowess of the white men in their encounters with
the original owners of the country. The Puritan
did not fail to note these symptoms of a budding intelligence,
as the pledges of a fruit that would more
than reward his pious toil; and they served to furnish
a great relief to certain occasional repugnance,
which all his zeal could not entirely subdue, at being
the instrument of causing so much suffering to
one who, after all, had inflicted no positive wrong
on himself.
At the period of which we are writing, the climate
of these States differed materially from that which
is now known to their inhabitants. A winter in
the Province of Connecticut was attended by many
successive falls of snow, until the earth was entirely
covered with firmly compressed masses of the frozen
element. Occasional thaws and passing storms of
rain, that were driven away by a return of the clear
and cutting cold of the north-western gales, were
wont at times to lay a covering on the ground, that
was congealed to the consistency of ice, until men,
and not unfrequently beasts, and sometimes sleighs,
were seen moving on its surface, as on the bed of a
frozen lake. During the extremity of a season like
this, the hardy borderers, who could not toil in their
customary pursuits, were wont to range the forest
in quest of game, which, driven for food to known
prey to the intelligence and skill of such men as
Eben Dudley and Reuben Ring.
The youths never left the dwellings on these
hunts, without exciting the most touching interest
in their movements, on the part of the Indian boy.
On all such occasions, he would linger at the loops
of his prison throughout the day, listening intently
to the reports of the distant muskets, as they resounded
in the forest; and the only time, during
captivity of so many months, that he was ever see
to smile, was when he examined the grim look and
muscular claws of a dead panther, that had fallen
beneath the aim of Dudley, in one of these excursions
to the mountains. The compassion of all the
borderers was powerfully awakened in behalf of
the patient and dignified young sufferer, and gladly
would they have given their captive the pleasure
of joining in the chase, had not the task been one
that was far from easy of accomplishment. The
former of the woodsmen just mentioned had even
volunteered to lead him like a hound in a leash
but this was a species of degradation against which
it was certain that a young Indian, ambitious of the
character and jealous of the dignity of a warrior,
would have openly rebelled.
The quick interest of the observant Ruth had,
as it has been seen, early detected a growing intelligence
in the boy. The means by which one, who
never mingled in the employments, and who rarely
seemed to listen to the dialogues of the family
could come to comprehend the meaning of a language
that is found sufficiently difficult for a scholar
were however as much of a mystery to her, as to
all around her. Still, by the aid of that instinctive
tact which so often enlightens the mind of woman,
was she certain of the fact. Profiting by this knowledge,
she assumed the task of endeavoring to obtain
to join the hunters, he would return to the
valley at the end of the day. But though the language
of the woman was gentle as her own kind
nature, and her entreaties that he would give some
evidence of having comprehended her meaning
were zealous and oft repeated, not the smallest
symptom of intelligence, on this occasion, could be
extracted from her pupil. Disappointed, and not
without sorrow, Ruth had abandoned the compassionate
design in despair, when, on a sudden, the
old Puritan, who had been a silent spectator of her
fruitless efforts, announced his faith in the integrity
of the lad, and his intention to permit him to make
one of the very next party, that should leave the
habitations.
The cause of this sudden change in the hitherto
stern watchfulness of Mark Heathcote was, like so
many other of his impulses, a secret in his own bosom.
It has just been said, that during the time
Ruth was engaged in her kind and fruitless experiment
to extract some evidence of intelligence from
the boy, the Puritan was a close and interested observer
of her efforts. He appeared to sympathize
in her disappointment, but the weal of those unconverted
tribes who were to be led from the darkness
of their ways by the instrumentality of this youth,
was far too important to admit the thought of rashly
losing the vantage-ground he had gained, in the
gradually-expanding intellect of the boy, by running
the hazard of an escape. To all appearance, the
intention of permitting him to quit the defences had
therefore been entirely abandoned, when old Mark
so suddenly announced a change of resolution. The
conjectures on the causes of this unlooked-for determination
were exceedingly various. Some believed
that the Puritan had been favored with a
mysterious intimation of the pleasure of Providence,
to despair of success in his undertaking, he was
willing to seek for a more visible manifestation of its
purposes, by hazarding the experiment of trusting
the boy to the direction of his own impulses. All
appeared to be of opinion that if the lad returned,
the circumstance might be set down to the intervention
of a miracle. Still, with his resolution once
taken, the purpose of Mark Heathcote remained
unchanged. He announced this unexpected intention,
after one of his long and solitary visits to the
block-house, where it is possible he had held a powerful
spiritual strife on the occasion; and, as the
weather was exceedingly favorable for such an object,
he commanded his dependants to prepare to
make the sortie on the following morning.
A sudden and an uncontrollable gleam of delight
flashed on the dark features of the captive, when
Ruth was about to place in his hands the bow of her
own son, and, by signs and words, she gave him to
understand that he was to be permitted to use it in
the free air of the forest. But the exhibition of pleasure
disappeared as quickly as it had been betrayed.
When the lad received the weapons, it was rather
with the manner of a hunter accustomed to their
use, than of one to whose hands they had so long
been strangers. As he left the gates of Wish-Ton-Wish,
the handmaidens of Ruth clustered about
him, in wondering interest; for it was strange to see
a youth so long guarded with jealous care, again
free and unwatched. Notwithstanding their ordinary
dependence on the secret lights and great wisdom
of the Puritan, there was a very general impression
that the lad, around whose presence there
was so much that was mysterious and of interest to
their own security, was now to be gazed upon for
the last time. The boy himself was unmoved to the
last. Still he paused, with his foot on the threshold
her young offspring with momentary concern. Then,
assuming the calm air of an Indian warrior, he suffered
his eye to grow cold and vacant, following with
a nimble step the hunters who were already passing
without the palisadoes.
| CHAPTER VII. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish | |