 | CHAPTER XII. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
“There need no ghost, my lord, come from the grave,
To tell us this.”
Hamlet.
Although the minds of most, if not of all the
inmates of the Wish-Ton-Wish, had been so powerfully
exercised that night with a belief that the
powers of the invisible world were about to be let
loose upon them, the danger had now presented
itself in a shape too palpable to admit of further
doubt. The cry of `the heathen' had been raised
from every lip; even the daughter and elève of
Ruth repeated it, as they fled wailing through the
buildings; and, for a moment, terror and surprise
appeared to involve the assailed in inextricable confusion.
But the promptitude of the young men in
rushing to the rescue, with the steadiness of Content,
soon restored order. Even the females assumed at
least the semblance of composure, the family having
been too long trained to meet the exigencies of such
an emergency, to be thrown entirely off its guard,
for more than the first and the most appalling
moments of the alarm.
The effect of the sudden repulse was such as all
experience had taught the Colonists to expect, in
their Indian warfare. The uproar of the onset
ceased as abruptly as it had commenced, and a
calmness so tranquil, and a stillness so profound,
succeeded, that one who had for the first time
witnessed such a scene, might readily have fancied
it the effects of some wild and fearful illusion.
During these moments of general and deep silence,
the two adventurers, whose retreat had probably
hastened the assault by offering the temptation of
an easy passage within the works, left the cover of
the piles of wood, and ascended the hill to the
place where Dudley knew Content was to be posted,
in the event of a summons to the defences.
“Unless much inquiry hath deceived me in the nature
of the heathen's craftiness,” said the stranger,
“we shall have breathing-time ere the onset be
renewed. The experience of a soldier bids me say,
that prudence now urges us to look into the number
and position of our foes, that we may order our
resistance with better understandinng of their force.”
“In what manner of way may this be done?
Thou seest nought about us but the quiet and the
darkness of night. Speak of the number of our
enemies we cannot, and sally forth we may not,
without certain destruction to all who quit the
palisadoes.”
“Thou forgottest that we have a hostage in the
boy; he may be turned to some advantage, if our
power over his person be used with discretion.”
“I doubt that we deceive ourselves with a hope
that is vain,” returned Content, leading the way
as he spoke, however, towards the court which communicated
with the principal dwelling. “I have
closely studied the eye of that lad, since his unaccountable
entrance within the works, and little do
I find there that should teach us to expect confidence.
those without, has not aided him in passing the
palisadoes, and that he prove not a dangerous spy
on our force and movements.”
“In regard to that he hath entered the dwelling
without sound of conch or aid of postern, be not
disturbed,” returned the stranger with composure.
“Were it fitting, this mystery might be of easy
explanation; but it may truly need all our sagacity
to discover whether he hath connexion with our
foes! The mind of a native does not give up its
secrets like the surface of a vanity-feeding mirror.”
The stranger spoke like a man who wrapped a
portion of his thoughts in reserve, and his companion
listened as one who comprehended more than
it might be seemly or discreet to betray. With this
secret and yet equivocal understanding of each
other's meaning, they entered the dwelling, and
soon found themselves in the presence of those they
sought.
The constant danger of their situation had compelled
the family to bring themselves within the
habits of a methodical and severely-regulated order
of defence. Duties were assigned, in the event of
alarm, to the feeblest bodies and the faintest hearts;
and during the moments which preceded the visit
of her husband, Ruth had been endeavoring to
commit to her female subordinates the several
necessary charges that usage, and more particularly
the emergency of the hour, appeared so imperiously
to require.
“Hasten, Charity, to the block,” she said; “and
look into the condition of the buckets and the ladders,
that should the heathen drive us to its shelter,
provision of water, and means of retreat, be not
wanting in our extremity; and hie thee, Faith, into
the upper apartments, to see that no lights may
direct their murderous aim at any in the chambers.
bullet hath already taken its flight! And now, that
the first assault is over, Mark, and we may hope to
meet the wiles of the enemy by some prudence of
our own, thou mayst go forth to thy father. It
would have been tempting Providence too rashly,
hadst thou rushed, unbidden and uninformed, into
the first hurry of the danger. Come hither, child,
and receive the blessing and prayers of thy mother;
after which thou shalt, with better trust in Providence,
place thy young person among the combatants,
in the hope of victory. Remember that thou
art now of an age to do justice to thy name and
origin, and yet art thou of years too tender to be
foremost in speech, and far less in action, on such a
night as this.”
A momentary flush, that only served to render
the succeeding paleness more obvious, passed across
the brow of the mother. She stooped, and imprinted
a kiss on the forehead of the impatient boy, who
scarcely waited to receive this act of tenderness,
ere he hurried to place himself in the ranks of her
defenders.
“And now,” said Ruth, slowly turning her eye
from the door by which the lad had disappeared,
and speaking with a sort of unnatural composure,
“and now will we look to the safety of those who
can be of but little service, except as sentinels to
sound the alarm. When thou art certain, Faith,
that no neglected light is in the rooms above, take
the children to the secret chamber; thence they
may look upon the fields, without danger from any
chance direction of the savages' aim. Thou knowest,
Faith, my frequent teaching in this matter; let
no sounds of alarm, nor frightful whoopings of the
people without, cause thee to quit the spot; since
thou wilt there be safer even than in the block,
against which many missiles will doubtless be driven,
notice shall be given of the change, should we seek
its security. Thou wilt descend, only, shouldst thou
see enemies scaling the palisadoes on the side which
overhangs the stream; since there have we the
fewest eyes to watch their movements. Remember
that on the side of the out-buildings and of the
fields, our force is chiefly posted; there can be less
reason therefore that thou shouldst expose thy lives
by endeavoring to look, too curiously, into that
which passeth in the fields. Go, my children; and a
heavenly Providence prove thy guardian!”
Ruth stooped to kiss the cheek that her daughter
offered to the salute. The embrace was then given
to the other child, who was in truth scarcely less
near her heart, being the orphan daughter of one
who had been as a sister in her affections. But, unlike
the kiss she had impressed on the forehead of
Mark, the present embraces were hasty, and evidently
awakened less intense emotion. She had
committed the boy to a known and positive danger,
but, under the semblance of some usefulness, she
sent the others to a place believed to be even less
exposed, so long as the enemy could be kept without
the works, than the citadel itself. Still, a feeling
of deep and maternal tenderness came over her
mind, as her daughter retired; and, yielding to its
sudden impulse, she recalled the girl to her side.
“Thou wilt repeat the prayer for especial protection
against the dangers of the wilderness,” she
solemnly continued. “In thy asking, fail not to remember
him to whom thou owest being, and who
now exposeth life, that we may be safe. Thou
knowest the Christian's rock; place thy faith on its
foundation.”
“And they who seek to kill us,” demanded the
well-instructed child; “are they too of the number
of those for whom he died?”
`It may not be doubted, though the manner of
the dispensation be so mysterious! Barbarians in
their habits, and ruthless in their enmities, they
are creatures of our nature, and equally objects of
his care.”
Flaxen locks, that half-covered a forehead and
face across which ran the most delicate tracery of
veins, added lustre to a skin as spotlessly fair as if
the warm breezes of that latitude had never fanned
the countenance of the girl. Through this maze
of ringlets, the child turned her full, clear, blue
eyes, bending her looks, in wonder and in fear, on
the dark visage of the captive Indian youth, who
at that moment was to her a subject of secret
horror. Unconscious of the interest he excited, the
lad stood calm, haughty, and seemingly unobservant,
cautious to let no sign of weakness or of concern
escape him, in this scene of womanly emotion.
“Mother,” whispered the still wondering child;
“may we not let him go into the forest? I do not
love to—”
“This is no time for speech. Go to thy hidingplace,
my child, and remember both thy askings and
the cautions I have named. Go, and heavenly care
protect thy innocent head!”
Ruth again stooped, and bowing her face until
the features were lost in the rich tresses of her
daughter, a moment passed during which there was
an eloquent silence. When she arose, a tear glistened
on the cheek of the child. The latter had
received the embrace more in apathy than in concern;
and now, when led towards the upper rooms,
she moved from the presence of her mother, it was
with an eye that never bent its riveted gaze from
the features of the young Indian, until the intervening
walls hid him entirely from her sight.
“Thou hast been thoughtful and like thyself, my
good Ruth,” said Content, who at that moment entered,
wife by a look of the kindest approbation. “The
youths have not been more prompt in meeting the
foe at the stockades, than thy maidens in looking to
their less hardy duties. All is again quiet, without;
and we come, now, rather for consultation, than for
any purposes of strife.”
“Then must we summon our father from his post
at the artillery, in the block.”
“It is not needful,” interrupted the stranger.
“Time presses, for this calm may be too shortly
succeeded by a tempest that all our power shall not
quell. Bring forth the captive.”
Content signed to the boy to approach, and when
he was in reach of his hand, he placed him full before
the stranger.
“I know not thy name, nor yet even that of thy
people,” commenced the latter, after a long pause
in which he seemed to study deeply the countenance
of the lad; “but certain am I, though a more wicked
spirit may still be struggling for the mastery in thy
wild mind, that nobleness of feeling is no stranger
to thy bosom. Speak; hast thou aught to impart
concerning the danger that besets this family? I
have learned much this night from thy manner, but
to be clearly understood, it is now time that thou
shouldst speak in words.”
The youth kept his eye fastened on that of the
speaker, until the other had ended, and then he bent
it slowly, but with searching observation, on the anxious
countenance of Ruth. It seemed as if he balanced
between his pride and his sympathies. The
latter prevailed; for, conquering the deep reluctance
of an Indian, he spoke openly, and for the first
time, since his captivity, in the language of the
hated race.
“I hear the whoops of warriors,” was his calm answer.
“Have the ears of the pale men been shut?”
“Thou hast spoken with the young men of thy
tribe in the forest, and thou hadst knowledge of this
onset?”
The youth made no reply, though the keen look
of his interrogator was met steadily, and without
fear. Perceiving that he had demanded more than
would be answered, the stranger changed his mode
of investigation, masking his inquiries with a little
more of artifice.
“It may not be that a great tribe is on the bloody
path!” he said; “warriors would have walked over
the timbers of the palisadoes, like bending reeds!
'Tis a Pequot who hath broken faith with a Christian,
and who is now abroad, prowling as a wolf in
the night.”
A sudden and wild expression gleamed over the
swarthy features of the boy. His lips moved, and
the words that issued from between them were uttered
in the tones of biting scorn. Still he rather
muttered than pronounced aloud—
“The Pequot is a dog!”
“It is as I had thought; the knaves are out of
their villages, that the Yengeese may feed their
squaws. But a Narragansett, or a Wampanoag, is
a man; he scorns to lurk in the darkness. When
he comes, the sun will light his path. The Pequot
steals in silence, for he fears that the warriors will
hear his tread.”
It was not easy to detect any evidence that the
captive listened, either to the commendation or the
censure, with answering sympathy; for marble is
not colder that were the muscles of his unmoved
countenance.
The stranger studied the expression of his features
in vain, and drawing so near as to lay his hand on
the naked shoulder of the lad, he added—“Boy,
thou hast heard much moving matter concerning
the nature of our Christian faith, and thou hast been
be that so much good seed hath been altogether
scattered by the way-side! Speak; may I again
trust thee?”
“Let my father look on the snow. The print of
the moccason goes and comes.”
“It is true. Thus far hast thou proved honest;
but when the war-whoop shall be thrilling through
thy young blood, the temptation to join the warriors
may be too strong. Hast any gage, any pledge, in
which we may find warranty for letting thee depart?”
The boy regarded his interrogator with a look
that plainly denoted ignorance of his meaning.
“I would know what thou canst leave with me,
to show that our eyes shall again look upon thy face,
when we have opened the gate for thy passage into
the fields.”
Still the gaze of the other was wondering and
confused.
“When the white man goes upon the war-path
and would put trust in his foe, he takes surety for
his faith, by holding the life of one dear as a warranty
of its truth. What canst offer, that I may
know thou wilt return from the errand on which I
would fain send thee?”
“The path is open.”
“Open, but not certain to be used. Fear may
cause thee to forget the way it leads.”
The captive now understood the meaning of the
other's doubts, but, as if disdaining to reply, he bent
his eyes aside, and stood in one of those immovable
attitudes which so often gave him the air of a piece
of dark statuary.
Content and his wife had listened to this short
dialogue, in a manner to prove that they possessed
some secret knowledge, which lessened the wonder
they might otherwise have felt, at witnessing so obvious
proofs of a secret acquaintance between the
signs of astonishment, when they first heard English
sounds issuing from the lips of the boy. There was,
at least, the semblance of hope in the mediation of
one who had received, and who had appeared to acknowledge,
so much kindness from herself; and Ruth
clung to the cheering expectation with the quickness
of maternal care.
“Let the boy depart,” she said. “I will be his
hostage; and should he prove false, there can be
less to fear in his absence than in his presence.”
The obvious truth of the latter assertion probably
weighed more with the stranger than the unmeaning
pledge of the woman.
“There is reason in this,” he resumed. “Go, then,
into the fields, and say to thy people that they have
mistaken the path; that, they are on, hath led them
to the dwelling of a friend—Here are no Pequots,
nor any of the men of the Manhattoes; but Christian
Yengeese, who have long dealth with the Indian
as one just man dealeth with another. Go, and when
thy signal shall be heard at the gate, it shall be open
to thee, for readmission.”
Thus saying, the stranger motioned to the boy to
follow, taking care, as they left the room together,
to instruct him in all such minor matters as might
assist in effecting the pacific object of the mission
on which he was employed.
A few minutes of doubt and of fearful suspense
succeeded this experiment. The stranger, after seeing
that egress was permitted to his messenger, had
returned to the dwelling, and rejoined his companions.
He passed the moments in pacing the apartment,
with the strides of one in whom powerful
concern was strongly at work. At times, the sound
of his heavy footstep ceased, and then all listened
intently, in order to catch any sound that might instruct
them in the nature of the scene that was passing
yell like that of savage delight arose in the fields.
It was succeeded by the death-like and portentous
calm, which had rendered the time since the momentary
attack even more alarming than when the
danger had a positive and known character. But
all the attention the most intense anxiety could now
lend, furnished no additional clue to the movements
of their foes. For many minutes, the quiet of midnight
reigned both within and without the defences.
In the midst of this suspense, the latch of the door
was lifted, and their messenger appeared with that
noiseless tread and collected mien which distinguish
the people of his race.
“Thou hast met the warriors of thy tribe?” hastily
demanded the stranger.
“The noise did not cheat the Yengeese. It was
not a girl, laughing in the woods.”
“And thou hast said to thy people, `we are
friends'?”
“The words of my father were spoken.”
“And heard—Were they loud enough to enter
the ears of the young men?”
The boy was silent.
“Speak,” continued the stranger, elevating his
form, proudly, like one ready to breast a more severe
shock. “Thou hast men for thy listeners. Is the
pipe of the savage filled? will he smoke in peace,
or holdeth he the tomahawk in a clenched hand?”
The countenance of the boy worked with a feeling
that it was not usual for an Indian to betray.
He bent his look, with concern, on the mild eyes of
the anxious Ruth; then drawing a hand slowly from
beneath the light robe that partly covered his body,
he cast at the feet of the stranger a bundle of arrows,
wrapped in the glossy and striped skin of the
rattlesnake.
“This is warning we may not misconceive!” said
hostility to the light, and exhibiting it before the
eyes of his less-instructed companion. “Boy, what
have the people of my race done, that thy warriors
should seek their blood, to this extremity?”
When the boy had discharged his duty, he moved
aside, and appeared unwilling to observe the effect
which his message might produce on his companions.
But thus questioned, all gentle feelings were near
being forgotten, in the sudden force of passion. A
hasty glance at Ruth quelled the emotion, and he
continued calm as ever, and silent.
“Boy,” repeated Content, “I ask thee why thy
people seek our blood?”
The passage of the electric spark is not more
subtle, nor is it scarcely more brilliant, than was
the gleam that shot into the dark eye of the Indian.
The organ seemed to emit rays coruscant as the
glance of the serpent. His form appeared to swell
with the inward strivings of the spirit, and for a
moment there was every appearance of a fierce
and uncontrollable burst of ferocious passion. The
conquest of feeling was, however, but momentary.
He regained his self-command by a surprising effort
of the will, and advancing so near to him who had
asked this bold question, as to lay a finger on his
breast, the young savage haughtily said—
“See! this world is very wide. There is room
on it for the panther and the deer. Why have the
Yengeese and the red-men met?”
“We waste the precious moments in probing the
stern nature of a heathen,” said the stranger.
“The object of his people is certain, and, with the
aid of the Christian's staff, will we beat back their
power. Prudence requireth at our hands, that the
lad be secured; after which, will we repair to the
stockades and prove ourselves men.”
Against this proposal no reasonable objection
person of his captive in a cellar, when a suggestion
of his wife caused him to change his purpose. Notwithstanding
the sudden and fierce mien of the
youth, there had been such an intelligence created
between them by looks of kindness and interest,
that the mother was reluctant to abandon all hope
of his aid.
“Miantonimoh!” she said, “though others distrust
thy purpose, I will have confidence. Come, then,
with me; and while I give thee promise of safety in
thine own person, I ask at thy hands the office of
a protector for my babes.”
The boy made no reply; but as he passively followed
his conductress to the chambers, Ruth fancied
she read assurance of his faith, in the expression
of his eloquent eye. At the same moment, her husband
and Submission left the house, to take their
stations at the palisadoes.
| CHAPTER XII. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish | |