 | CHAPTER XIII. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
“Thou art, my good youth, my page;
I'll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.”
Cymbeline.
The apartment, in which Ruth had directed the
children to be placed, was in the attic, and, as already
stated, on the side of the building which
faced the stream that ran at the foot of the hill.
It had a single projecting window, through which
there was a view of the forest and of the fields on
that side of the valley. Small openings in its sides
admitted also of glimpses of the grounds which lay
further in the rear. In addition to the covering of
the roofs, and of the massive frame-work of the
the place against the entrance of most missiles then
known in the warfare of the country. During the
infancy of the children, this room had been their
sleeping apartment; nor was it abandoned for that
purpose, until the additional outworks, which increased
with time around the dwellings, had emboldened
the family to trust themselves, at night,
in situations more convenient, and which were believed
to be no less equally secure against surprise.
“I know thee to be one who feeleth the obligations
of a warrior,” said Ruth, as she ushered her
follower into the presence of the children. “Thou
wilt not deceive me; the lives of these tender ones
are in thy keeping. Look to them, Miantonimoh,
and the Christian's God will remember thee in thine
own hour of necessity!”
The boy made no reply, but in a gentle expression
which was visible in his dark visage, the mother
endeavored to find the pledge she sought. Then,
as the youth, with the delicacy of his race, moved
aside in order that they who were bound to each
other by ties so near might indulge their feelings
without observation, Ruth again drew near her offspring,
with all the tenderness of a mother beaming
in her eyes.
“Once more I bid thee not to look too curiously
at the fearful strife that may arise in front of our
habitations,” she said. “The heathen is truly upon
us, with bloody mind; young, as well as old, must
now show faith in the protection of our master, and
such courage as befitteth believers.”
“And why is it, mother,” demanded her child,
“that they seek to do us harm? have we ever done
evil to them?”
“I may not say. He that hath made the earth
hath given it to us for our uses, and reason would
he that needeth truly, may occupy.”
“The savage!” whispered the child, nestling
still nearer to the bosom of her stooping parent.
“His eye glittereth like the star which hangs above
the trees.”
“Peace, daughter; his fierce nature broodeth
over some fancied wrong!”
“Surely, we are here rightfully. I have heard
my father say, that when the Lord made me a
present to his arms, our valley was a tangled forest,
and that much toil only has made it as it is.”
“I hope that what we enjoy, we enjoy rightfully!
And yet it seemeth that the savage is ready to
deny our claims.”
“And where do these bloody enemies dwell? have
they, too, valleys like this, and do the Christians
break into them to shed blood, in the night?”
“They are of wild and fierce habits, Ruth, and
little do they know of our manner of life. Woman
is not cherished as among the people of thy
father's race, for force of body is more regarded
than kinder ties.”
The little auditor shuddered, and when she buried
her face deeper in the bosom of her parent, it
was with a more quickened sense of maternal affection,
and with a livelier view, than her infant
perception had ever yet known, of the gentle charities
of kindred. When she had spoken, the matron
impressed the final kiss on the forehead of each of
the children, and asking, aloud, that God might
bless them, she turned to go to the performance of
duties that called for the exhibition of very different
qualities. Before quitting the room, however,
she once more approached the boy, and, holding the
light before his steady eye, she said solemnly—
“I trust my babes to the keeping of a young
warrior!”
The look he returned was like the others, cold
but not discouraging. A gaze of many moments
elicited no reply; and Ruth prepared to quit the
place, troubled by uncertainty concerning the intentions
of the guardian she left with the girls, while
she still trusted that the many acts of kindness
which she had shown him, during his captivity,
would not go without their reward. Her hand rested
on the bolt of the door, in indecision. The moment
was favorable to the character of the youth, for she
recalled the manner of his return that night, no less
than his former acts of faith, and she was about to
leave the passage for his egress open, when an
uproar arose on the air which filled the valley with
all the hideous cries and yells of a savage onset.
Drawing the bolt, the startled woman descended,
without further thought, and rushed to her post,
with the hurry of one who saw only the necessity
of exertion in another scene.
“Stand to the timbers, Reuben Ring! Bear back
the skulking murderers on their bloody followers!
The pikes! Here, Dudley is opening for thy valor.
The Lord have mercy on the souls of the ignorant
heathen!” mingled with the reports of musketry,
the whoops of the warriors, the whizzing of bullets
and arrows, with all the other accompaniments of
such a contest, were the fearful sounds that saluted
the senses of Ruth as she issued into the court. The
valley was occasionally lighted by the explosion of
fire-arms, and then, at times, the horrible din prevailed
in the gloom of deep darkness. Happily, in
the midst of all this confusion and violence, the
young men of the valley were true to their duties.
An alarming attempt to scale the stockade had
already been repulsed, and, the true character of
two or three feints having been ascertained, the
principal force of the garrison was now actively
employed in resisting the main attack.
“In the name of him who is with us in every
danger!” exclaimed Ruth, advancing to two figures
that were so busily engaged in their own concerns,
as not to heed her approach, “tell me how goes
the struggle? Where are my husband and the boy?
—or has it pleased Providence that any of our
people should be stricken?”
“It hath pleased the Devil,” returned Eben
Dudley, somewhat irreverently for one of that
chastened school, “to send an Indian arrow through
jerkin and skin, into this arm of mine! Softly, Faith;
dost think, girl, that the covering of man is like
the coat of a sheep, from which the fleece may be
plucked at will! I am no moulting fowl, nor is this
arrow a feather of my wing. The Lord forgive the
rogue for the ill turn he hath done my flesh, say I,
and amen like a Christian! he will have occasion
too for the mercy, seeing he hath nothing further
to hope for in this world. Now, Faith, I acknowledge
the debt of thy kindness, and let there be no more
cutting speech between us. Thy tongue often pricketh
more sorely than the Indian's arrow.”
“Whose fault is it that old acquaintance hath
sometimes been overlooked, in new conversations?
Thou knowest that, wooed by proper speech, no
maiden in the Colony is wont to render gentler
answer. Dost feel uneasiness in thine arm, Dudley?”
“ 'Tis not tickling with a straw, to drive a flint-headed
arrow to the bone! I forgive thee the matter
of too much discourse with the trooper, and all the
side-cuts of thy over-ambling tongue, on conditions
that—”
“Out upon thee, brawler! wouldst be prating
here the night long on pretence of a broken skin,
and the savage at our gates? A fine character will
the Madam render of thy deeds, when the other
youths have beaten back the Indian, and thou
loitering among the buildings!”
The discomfited borderer was about to curse in
his heart the versatile humor of his mistress, when
he saw, by a side-glance, that ears which had no
concern in the subject, had liked to have shared in
the matter of their discourse. Seizing the weapon
which was leaning against the foundation of the
block, he hurried past the mistress of the family,
and, in another minute, his voice and his musket
were again heard ringing in the uproar.
“Does he bring tidings from the palisadoes?”
repeated Ruth, too anxious that the young man
should return to his post, to arrest his retreat.
“What saith he of the onset?”
“The savage hath suffered for his boldness, and
little harm hath yet come to our people. Except
that yon block of a man hath managed to put arm
before the passage of an arrow, I know not that
any of our people have been harmed.”
“Hearken! they retire, Ruth. The yells are less
near, and our young men will prevail! Go thou to
thy charge among the piles of the fuel, and see that
no lurker remaineth to do injury. The Lord hath
remembered mercy, and it may yet arrive that this
evil shall pass away from before us!”
The quick ear of Ruth had not deceived her.
The tumult of the assault was gradually receding
from the works, and though the flashings of the
muskets and the bellowing reports that rang in the
surrounding forest were not less frequent than before,
it was plain that the critical moment of the onset
was already past. In place of the fierce effort to
carry the place by surprise, the savages had now
resorted to means that were more methodical, and
which, though not so appalling in appearance, were
perhaps quite as certain of final success. Ruth
profited by a momentary cessation in the flight of
the missiles, to seek those in whose welfare she had
placed her chief concern.
“Has other, than brave Dudley, suffered by this
assault?” demanded the anxious wife, as she passed
swiftly among a group of dusky figures that were
collected in consultation, on the brow of the declivity;
“has any need of such care as a woman's hand
may bestow? Heathcote, thy person is unharmed!”
“Truly, one of great mercy hath watched over
it, for little opportunity hath been given to look to
our own safety. I fear that some of our young men
have not regarded the covers with the attention
that prudence requires.”
“The thoughtless Mark hath not forgotten my
admonitions! Boy, thou hast never lost sight of duty
so far as to precede thy father?”
“One sees or thinks but little of the red-skins,
when the whoop is ringing among the timbers of
the palisadoes, mother,” returned the boy, dashing
his hand across his brow, in order that the drops of
blood which were trickling from a furrow left by
the passage of an arrow, might not be seen. “I
have kept near my father, but whether in his front,
or in his rear, the darkness hath not permitted me
to note.”
“The lad hath behaved in a bold and seemly
manner,” said the stranger; “and he hath shown
the metal of his grandsire's stock—ha! what is't we
see gleaming among the sheds? A sortie may be
needed, to save the granaries and thy folds from
destruction!”
“To the barns! to the barns!” shouted two of
the youths, from their several look-outs. “The
brand is in the buildings!” exclaimed a maiden who
discharged a similar duty under cover of the dwellings.
Then followed a discharge of muskets, all of
which were levelled at the glancing light that was
glaring in fearful proximity to the combustible materials
which filled the most of the out-buildings.
A savage yell, and the sudden extinguishment of the
aim.
“This may not be neglected!” exclaimed Content,
moved to extraordinary excitement by the extremity
of the danger. “Father!” he called aloud, “ 'tis
fitting time to show our utmost strength.”
A moment of suspense succeeded this summons.
The whole valley was then as suddenly lighted, as
if a torrent of the electric fluid had flashed across
its gloomy bed; a sheet of flame glanced from the
attic of the block, and then came the roar of the
little piece of artillery, which had so long dwelt
there in silence. The rattling of a shot among the
sheds, and the rending of timber, followed. Fifty
dark forms were seen, by the momentary light,
gliding from among the out-buildings, in an alarm
natural to their ignorance, and with an agility proportioned
to their alarm. The moment was propitious.
Content silently motioned to Reuben Ring;
they passed the postern together, and disappeared
in the direction of the barns. The period of their
absence was one of intense care to Ruth, and it was
not without its anxiety even to those whose nerves
were better steeled. A few moments, however,
served to appease these feelings; for the adventurers
returned in safety, and as silently as they
had quitted the defences. The trampling of feet on
the crust of the snow, the neighing of horses, and the
bellowing of frightened cattle, as the terrified beasts
scattered about the fields, soon proclaimed the
object of the risk which had just been run.
“Enter!” whispered Ruth, who held the postern
with her own hand. “Enter, of Heaven's mercy!
Thou hast given liberty to every hoof, that no living
creature perish by the flames?”
“All; and truly not too speedily—for, see—the
brand is again at work!”
Content had much reason to felicitate himself on
torches, made as usual of blazing knots of
pine, were again seen glancing across the fields, evidently
approaching the out-buildings by such indirect
and covered paths, as might protect those who
bore them from the shot of the garrison. A final
and common effort was made to arrest the danger.
The muskets of the young men were active, and
more than once did the citadel of the stern old Puritan
give forth its flood of flame, in order to beat
back the dangerous visitants. A few shrieks of savage
disappointment and of bodily anguish, announced
the success of these discharges; but, though most
of those who approached the barns were either
driven back in fear, or suffered for their temerity,
one among them, more wary or more practised than
his companions, found means to effect his object.
The firing had ceased, and the besieged were congratulating
themselves on success, when a sudden
light glared across the fields. A sheet of flame soon
came curling over the crest of a wheat-stack, and
quickly wrapped the inflammable material in its
fierce torrent. Against this destruction there remained
no remedy. The barns and inclosures which,
so lately, had been lying in the darkness of the hour,
were instantly illuminated, and life would have been
the penalty paid by any of either party, who should
dare to trust his person within the bright glare. The
borderers were soon compelled to fall back, even
within the shadows of the hill, and to seek such
covers as the stockades offered, in order to avoid the
aim of the arrow or the bullet.
“This is a mournful spectacle to one that has
harvested in charity with all men;” said Content to
the trembler who convulsively grasped his arm,
as the flame whirled in the currents of the heated
air, and, sweeping once or twice across the roof of a
shed, left a portion of its torrent creeping insidiously
a blessed season is about to melt into ashes, before
the brand of these accur—”
“Peace, Heathcote! What is wealth, or the fulness
of thy granaries, to that which remains? Check
these repinings of thy spirit, and bless God that he
leaveth us our babes, and the safety of our inner
roofs.”
“Thou sayest truly,” returned the husband, endeavoring
to imitate the meek resignation of his
companion. “What indeed are the gifts of the
world, set in the balance against the peace of mind
—ha! that evil blast of wind sealeth the destruction
of our harvest! The fierce element is in the heart
of the granaries.”
Ruth made no reply, for though less moved by
worldly cares than her husband, the frightful progress
of the conflagration alarmed her with a sense
of personal danger. The flames had passed from
roof to roof, and meeting everywhere with fuel of
the most combustible nature, the whole of the vast
range of barns, sheds, granaries, cribs and out-buildings,
was just breaking forth in the brightness of a
torrent of fire. Until this moment, suspense, with
hope on one side and apprehension on the other,
had kept both parties mute spectators of the scene.
But yells of triumph soon proclaimed the delight
with which the Indians witnessed the completion of
their fell design. The whoops followed this burst of
pleasure, and a third onset was made.
The combatants now fought under a brightness
which, though less natural, was scarcely less brilliant
than that of noon-day. Stimulated by the
prospect of success, which was offered by the conflagration,
the savages rushed upon the stockade
with more audacity than it was usual to display in
their cautious warfare. A broad shadow was cast,
by the hill and its buildings, across the fields on the
comparative gloom, the fiercest of the band made
their way to the very palisadoes, with impunity.
Their presence was announced by the yell of delight,
for too many curious eyes had been drinking in the
fearful beauty of the conflagration, to note their approach,
until the attack had nearly proved successful.
The rushes to the defence, and to the attack,
were now alike quick and headlong. Volleys were
useless, for the timbers offered equal security to both
assailant and assailed. It was a struggle of hand to
hand, in which numbers would have prevailed, had
it not been the good fortune of the weaker party to
act on the defensive. Blows of the knife were passed
swiftly between the timbers, and occasionally the
discharge of the musket, or the twanging of the bow,
was heard.
“Stand to the timbers, my men!” said the deep
tones of the stranger, who spoke in the midst of the
fierce struggle with that commanding and stirring
cheerfulness that familiarity with danger can alone
inspire. “Stand to the defences, and they are impassable.
Ha! 'twas well meant, friend savage,”
he muttered between his teeth, as he parried, at
some jeopardy to one hand, a thrust aimed at his
throat, while with the other he seized the warrior
who had inflicted the blow, and drawing his naked
breast, with the power of a giant, full against the
opening between the timbers, he buried his own
keen blade to its haft in the body. The eyes of the
victim rolled wildly, and when the iron hand which
bound him to the wood, with the power of a vice,
loosened its grasp, he fell motionless on the earth.
This death was succeeded by the usual yell of
disappointment, and the assailants disappeared, as
swiftly as they had approached.
“God be praised, that we have to rejoice in this
advantage!” said Content, enumerating the individuals
again assembled at the stand on the hill, where, favored
by the glaring light, they could overlook, in
comparative security, the more exposed parts of
their defences. “We count our own, though I fear
me, many may have suffered.”
The silence and the occupations of his listeners,
most of whom were stanching their blood, was a
sufficient answer.
“Hist, father!” said the quick-eyed and observant
Mark; “one remaineth on the palisado nearest the
wicket. Is it a savage? or do I see a stump, in the
field beyond?”
All eyes followed the direction of the hand of the
speaker, and there was seen, of a certainty, something
clinging to the inner side of one of the timbers,
that bore a marked resemblance to the human form.
The part of the stockades, where the seeming figure
clung, lay more in obscurity than the rest of the
defences, and doubts as to its character were not
alone confined to the quick-sighted lad who had first
detected its presence.
“Who hangs upon our palisadoes?” called Eben
Dudley. “Speak, that we do not harm a friend!”
The wood itself was not more immovable than
the dark object, until the report of the borderer's
musket was heard, and then it came tumbling to
the earth like an insensible mass.
“Fallen like a stricken bear from his tree! Life
was in it, or no bullet of mine could have loosened
the hold!” exclaimed Dudley, a little in exultation,
as he saw the success of his aim.
“I will go forward, and see that he is past—”
The mouth of young Mark, was stopped by the
hand of the stranger, who calmly observed—
“I will look into the fate of the heathen, myself.”
He was about to proceed to the spot, when the supposed
dead, or wounded man, sprang to his feet, with
forest, and bounded towards the cover of the buildings,
with high and active leaps. Two or three muskets
sent their streaks of flame across his path, but
seemingly without success. Jumping in a manner to
elude the certainty of their fire, the unharmed savage
gave forth another yell of triumph, and disappeared
among the angles of the dwellings. His cries
were understood, for answering whoops were heard
in the fields, and the foe without again rallied to the
attack.
“This may not be neglected,” said he who, more
by his self-possession and air of authority, than by
any known right to command, had insensibly assumed
so much authority in the important business
of that night. “One like this, within our walls, may
quickly bring destruction on the garrison. The postern
may be opened to an inroad—”
“A triple lock secures it,” interrupted Content.
“The key is hid where none know to seek it, other
than such as are of our household.”
“And happily the means of passing the private
wicket are in my possession,” muttered the other,
in an under tone. “So far, well; but the brand!
the brand! the maidens must look to the fires and
lights, while the youths make good the stockade,
since this assault admitteth not of further delay.”
So saying, the stranger gave an example of courage
by proceeding to his stand at the pickets, where,
supported by his companions, he continued to defend
the approaches against a discharge of arrows and
bullets that was more distant, but scarcely less dangerous
to the safety of those who showed themselves
on the side of the acclivity, than those which had
been previously showered upon the garrison.
In the mean time, Ruth summoned her assistants,
and hastened to discharge the duty which had just
been prescribed. Water was cast freely on all
to give far more light than was either necessary
or safe, care was taken to extinguish any torch
or candle that, in the hurry of alarm, might have
been left to moulder in its socket, throughout the
extensive range of the dwellings and the offices.
| CHAPTER XIII. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish | |