 | CHAPTER XVI. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
So withered, and so wild in their attire;
That look not like the inhabitants of earth,
And yet are on't?”
Macbeth.
That sternness of the season, which has already
been mentioned in these pages, is never of long
continuance in the month of April. A change in
the wind had been noted by the hunters, even before
they retired from their range among the hills;
and though too seriously occupied to pay close attention
to the progress of the thaw, more than one
of the young men had found occasion to remark,
that the final breaking up of the winter had arrived.
Long ere the scene of the preceding chapter reached
its height, the southern winds had mingled with
the heat of the conflagration. Warm airs, that had
been following the course of the Gulf Stream, were
driven to the land, and, sweeping over the narrow
island that at this point forms the advanced work
of the continent, but a few short hours had passed
before they destroyed every chilling remnant of the
dominion of winter. Warm, bland, and rushing in
torrents, the subtle currents penetrated the forests,
melted the snows from the fields, and as all alike
felt the genial influence, it appeared to bestow a
renovated existence on man and beast. With morning,
therefore, a landscape very different from that
last placed before the mind of the reader, presented
itself in the valley of the Wish-Ton-Wish.
The winter had entirely disappeared, and as the
buds had begun to swell under the occasional warmth
have supposed that the advance of the season had
been subject to so stern an interruption. But the
principal and most melancholy change was in the
more artificial parts of the view. Instead of those
simple and happy habitations which had crowned
the little eminence, there remained only a mass of
blackened and charred ruins. A few abused and
half-destroyed articles of household furniture lay
scattered on the sides of the hill, and, here and
there, a dozen palisadoes, favored by some accidental
cause, had partially escaped the flames.
Eight or ten massive and dreary-looking stacks of
chimneys rose out of the smoking piles. In the centre
of the desolation was the stone basement of the
block-house, on which still stood a few gloomy masses
of the timber, resembling coal. The naked and unsupported
shaft of the well reared its circular pillar
from the centre, looking like a dark monument
of the past. The wide ruin of the out-buildings
blackened one side of the clearing, and, in different
places, the fences, like radii diverging from the common
centre of destruction, had led off the flames
into the fields. A few domestic animals ruminated in
the back-ground, and even the feathered inhabitants
of the barns still kept aloof, as if warned by
their instinct that danger lurked around the site of
their ancient abodes. In all other respects, the view
was calm, and lovely as ever. The sun shone from
a sky in which no cloud was visible. The blandness
of the winds, and the brightness of the heavens,
lent an air of animation to even the leafless forest;
and the white vapor, that continued to rise from the
smouldering piles, floated high over the hills, as the
peaceful smoke of the cottage curled above its roof.
The ruthless band which had occasioned this sudden
change was already far on the way to its villages,
or, haply, it sought some other scene of blood.
fierce creatures of the woods had taken, by fences
hurled from their places, or by the carcass of some
animal that had fallen, in the wantonness of victory,
beneath a parting blow. Of all these wild beings,
one only remained; and he appeared to linger at
the spot in the indulgence of feelings that were foreign
to those passions that had so recently stirred
the bosoms of his comrades.
It was with a slow, noiseless step that the solitary
loiterer moved about the scene of destruction. He
was first seen treading, with a thoughtful air, among
the ruins of the buildings that had formed the quadrangle,
and then, seemingly led by an interest in the
fate of those who had so miserably perished, he
drew nearer to the pile in its centre. The nicest
and most attentive ear could not have detected the
fall of his foot, as the Indian placed it within the
gloomy circle of the ruined wall; nor is the breathing
of the infant less audible, than the manner in
which he drew breath, while standing in a place so
lately consecrated by the agony and martyrdom of
a Christian family. It was the boy called Miantonimoh,
seeking some melancholy memorial of those
with whom he had so long dwelt in amity, if not in
confidence.
One skilled in the history of savage passions might
have found a clue to the workings of the mind of
the youth, in the play of his speaking features. As
his dark glittering eye rolled over the smouldering
fragments, it seemed to search keenly for some vestige
of the human form. The element however had
done its work too greedily, to have left many visible
memorials of its fury. An object resembling that
he sought, however, caught his glance, and stepping
lightly to the spot where it lay, he raised the bone
of a powerful arm from the brands. The flashing
of his eye, as it lighted on this sad object, was wild
feels the fierce joy of glutted vengeance; but gentler
recollections came with the gaze, and kinder feelings
evidently usurped the place of the hatred he
had been taught to bear a race, who were so fast
sweeping his people from the earth. The relic fell
from his hand, and had Ruth been there to witness
the melancholy and relenting shade that clouded his
swarthy features, she might have found pleasure in
the certainty that all her kindness had not been
wasted.
Regret soon gave place to awe. To the imagination
of the Indian, it seemed as if a still voice, like
that which is believed to issue from the grave, was
heard in the place. Bending his body forward, he
listened with the intensity and acuteness of a savage.
He thought the smothered tones of Mark
Heathcote were again audible, holding communion
with his God. The chisel of the Grecian would have
loved to delineate the attitudes and movements of
the wondering boy, as he slowly and reverently
withdrew from the spot. His look was riveted on
the vacancy where the upper apartments of the
block had stood, and where he had last seen the
family, calling, in their extremity, on their Deity
for aid. Imagination still painted the victims, in
their burning pile. For a minute longer, during
which brief space the young Indian probably expected
to see some vision of the Pale-faces, did he
linger near; and then, with a musing air and softened
mind, he trod lightly along the path which led
on the trail of his people. When his active form
reached the boundary of the forest, he again paused,
and taking a final gaze at the place where fortune
had made him a witness to so much domestic peace
and of so much sudden misery, his form was quickly
swallowed in the gloom of his native woods.
The work of the savages now seemed complete.
An effectual check appeared to be placed to the
further progress of civilization in the ill-fated valley
of the Wish-Ton-wish. Had nature been left to its
own work, a few years would have covered the
deserted clearing with its ancient vegetation; and
half a century would have again buried the whole
of its quiet glades, in the shadows of the forest.
But it was otherwise decreed.
The sun had reached the meridian, and the hostile
band had been gone some hours, before aught occurred
likely to affect this seeming decision of Providence.
To one acquainted with the recent horrors,
the breathing of the airs over the ruins might have
passed for the whisperings of departed spirits. In
short, it appeared as if the silence of the wilderness
had once more resumed its reign, when it was suddenly
though slightly interrupted. A movement was
made within the ruins of the block. It sounded as
if billets of wood were gradually and cautiously
displaced, and then a human head was reared slowly,
and with marked suspicion, above the shaft of
the well. The wild and unearthly air of this seeming
spectre, was in keeping with the rest of the scene.
A face begrimed with smoke and stained with blood,
a head bound in some fragment of a soiled dress,
and eyes that were glaring in a species of dull
horror, were objects in unison with all the other
frightful accessories of the place.
“What seest thou?” demanded a deep voice from
within the walls of the shaft. “Shall we again
come to our weapons, or have the agents of Moloch
departed? Speak, entranced youth! what dost behold?”
“A sight to make a wolf weep!” returned Eben
Dudley, raising his large frame so as to stand erect
on the shaft, where he commanded a bird's-eye view
of most of the desolation of the valley. “Evil though
been withheld. But what is the cunningest man,
when mortal wisdom is weighed in the scale against
the craft of devils? Come forth! Belial hath done
his worst, and we have a breathing-time.”
The sounds, which issued still deeper from the
well, denoted the satisfaction with which this intelligence
was received, no less than the alacrity
with which the summons of the borderer was obeyed.
Sundry blocks of wood and short pieces of plank
were first passed, with care, up to the hands of
Dudley, who cast them, like useless lumber, among
the other ruins of the building. He then descended
from his perch, and made room for others to follow.
The stranger next arose. After him came Content,
the Puritan, Reuben Ring, and, in short, all the
youths, with the exception of those who had unhappily
fallen in the contest. After these had
mounted, and each in turn had leaped to the ground,
a very brief preparation served for the liberation
of the more feeble of body. The readiness of border
skill soon sufficed to arrange the necessary means.
By the aid of chains and buckets, Ruth and the little
Martha, Faith and all of the handmaidens, without
even one exception, were successively drawn from
the bowels of the earth, and restored to the light
of day. It is scarcely necessary to say to those
whom experience has best fitted to judge of such an
achievement, that no great time or labor was necessary
for its accomplishment.
It is not our intention to harass the feelings of
the reader, further than is required by a simple
narrative of the incidents of the legend. We shall
therefore say nothing of the bodily pain, or of the
mental alarm, by which this ingenious retreat from
the flames and the tomahawk had been effected.
The suffering was chiefly confined to apprehension;
for as the descent was easy, so had the readiness
the aid of articles of furniture first cast into the
shaft, and by well-secured fragments of the floors
properly placed across, both to render the situation
of the females and children less painful than might
at first be supposed, and effectually to protect them
from the tumbling block. But little of the latter,
however, was likely to affect their safety, as the
form of the building was, in itself, a sufficient security
against the fall of its heavier parts.
The meeting of the family, amid the desolation
of the valley, though relieved by the consciousness
of having escaped a more shocking fate, may easily
be imagined. The first act was to render brief but
solemn thanks for their deliverance, and then, with
the promptitude of people trained in hardship, their
attention was given to those measures which prudence
told them were yet necessary.
A few of the more active and experienced of the
youths were dispatched, in order to ascertain the
direction taken by the Indians, and to gain what
intelligence they might concerning their future
movements. The maidens hastened to collect the
kine, while others searched, with heavy hearts,
among the ruins, in quest of such articles of food
and comfort as could be found, in order to administer
to the first wants of nature.
Two hours had effected most of that which could
immediately be done, in these several pursuits. The
young men returned with the assurance that the
trails announced the certain and final retreat of
the savages. The cows had yielded their tribute,
and such provision had been made against hunger
as circumstances would allow. The arms had been
examined, and put, as far as the injuries they had
received would admit, in readiness for instant service.
A few hasty preparations had been made, in order
to protect the females against the cool airs of the
intelligence of a border-man could suggest, or his
exceeding readiness in expedients could in so brief
a space supply.
The sun began to fall towards the tops of the
beeches that crowned the western outline of the
view, before all these necessary arrangements were
ended. It was not till then, however, that Reuben
Ring, accompanied by another youth of equal activity
and courage, appeared before the Puritan,
equipped, as well as men in their situation might
be, for a journey through the forest.
“Go,” said the old religionist, when the youths
presented themselves before him; “Go; carry forth
the tidings of this visitation, that men come to our
succor. I ask not vengeance on the deluded and
heathenish imitators of the worshippers of Moloch.
They have ignorantly done this evil. Let no man
arm in behalf of the wrongs of one sinful and erring.
Rather let them look into the secret abominations
of their own hearts, in order that they crush the
living worm, which, by gnawing on the seeds of a
healthful hope, may yet destroy the fruits of the
promise in their own souls. I would that there be
profit in this example of divine displeasure. Go;
make the circuit of the settlements for some fifty
miles, and bid such of the neighbors as may be
spared, come to our aid. They shall be welcome;
and may it be long ere any of them send invitation
to me or mine, to enter their clearings on the like
melancholy duty. Depart, and bear in mind, that
you are messengers of peace; that your errand
toucheth not the feelings of vengeance, but that it
is succor, in all fitting reason, and no arming of the
hand to chase the savage to his retreats, that I ask
of the brethren.”
With this final admonition, the young men took
their leaves. Still it was evident, by their frowning
forgiving principle might be forgotten, should chance,
in their journey, bring them on the trail of any
wandering inhabitant of the forest. In a few minutes,
they were seen passing, with swift steps, from
the fields into the depths of the forest, along that
path which led to the towns that lay lower on the
Connecticut.
Another task still remained to be performed. In
making the temporary arrangements for the shelter
of the family, attention had been first paid to the
block-house. The walls of the basement of this
building were still standing, and it was found easy,
by means of half-burnt timbers, with an occasional
board that had escaped the conflagration, to cover
it, in a manner that offered a temporary protection
against the weather. This simple and hasty construction,
with an extremely inartificial office erected
around the stack of a chimney, embraced nearly
all that could be done, until time and assistance
should enable them to commence other dwellings.
In clearing the ruins of the little tower of its rubbish,
the remains of those who had perished in the
fray were piously collected. The body of the youth
who had died in the earlier hours of the attack,
was found, but half-consumed, in the court, and
the bones of two more, who fell within the block,
were collected from among the ruins. It had now
become a melancholy duty to consign them all to
the earth, with decent solemnity.
The time selected for this sad office was just as
the western horizon began to glow with that which
one of our own poets has so beautifully termed,
“the pomp that brings and shuts the day.” The sun
was in the tree-tops, and a softer or sweeter light
could not have been chosen for such a ceremony.
Most of the fields still lay in the soft brightness of
the hour, though the forest was rapidly getting the
margin was spreading from the boundary of the
woods, and, here and there, a solitary tree cast its
shadow on the meadows without its limits, throwing
a dark ragged line, in bold relief, on the glow
of the sun's rays. One, it was the dusky image of a
high and waving pine, that reared its dark green
pyramid of never-fading foliage nearly a hundred
feet above the humbler growth of beeches, cast its
shade to the side of the eminence of the block.
Here the pointed extremity of the shadow was seen,
stealing slowly towards the open grave,—an emblem
of that oblivion in which its humble tenants
were so shortly to be wrapped.
At this spot, Mark Heathcote and his remaining
companions had assembled. An oaken chair, saved
from the flames, was the seat of the father; and
two parallel benches, formed of planks placed on
stones, held the other members of the family. The
grave lay between. The patriarch had taken his
station at one of its ends; while the stranger, so
often named in these pages, stood with folded arms
and a thoughtful brow at the other. The bridle of
a horse, caparisoned in that imperfect manner which
the straitened means of the borderers now rendered
necessary, was hanging from one of the half-burnt
palisadoes, in the back-ground.
“A just, but a merciful hand hath been laid heavily
on my household;” commenced the old Puritan,
with the calmness of one who had long been accustomed
to chasten his regrets by humility. “He
that hath given freely, hath taken away; and one,
that hath long smiled upon my weakness, hath now
veiled his face in anger. I have known him in his
power to bless; it was meet that I should see him
in his displeasure. A heart that was waxing confident
would have hardened in its pride. At that
which hath befallen, let no man murmur. Let none
shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall
we not receive evil?' I would that the feeble-minded
of the world, they that jeopard the soul on vanities,
they that look with scorn on the neediness of
the flesh, might behold the riches of one stedfast.
I would that they might know the consolation of
the righteous! Let the voice of thanksgiving be
heard in the wilderness. Open thy mouths in praise,
that the gratitude of a penitent be not hid!”
As the deep tones of the speaker ceased, his stern
eye fell upon the features of the nearest youth,
and it seemed to demand an audible response to his
own lofty expression of resignation. But the sacrifice
exceeded the power of the individual to
whom had been made this silent, but intelligible,
appeal. After regarding the relics that lay at his
feet, casting a wandering glance at the desolation
which had swept over a place his own hand had
helped to decorate, and receiving a renewed consciousness
of his own bodily suffering in the shooting
pain of his wounds, the young borderer averted his
look, and seemed to recoil from so officious a display
of submission. Observing his inability to reply,
Mark continued.—
“Hath no one a voice to praise the Lord? The
bands of the heathen have fallen upon my herds;
the brand hath been kindled within my dwellings;
my people have died by the violence of the unenlightened,
and none are here to say that the Lord
is just! I would that the shouts of thanksgiving
should arise in my fields! I would that the song of
praise should grow louder than the whoop of the
savage, and that all the land might speak joyfulness!”
A long, deep, and expecting pause succeeded.
Then Content rejoined, in his quiet tones, speaking
failed to use—
“The hand that hath held the balance is just,”
he said, “and we have been found wanting. He
that made the wilderness blossom hath caused the
ignorant and the barbarous to be the instruments of
his will. He hath arrested the season of our prosperity,
that we may know he is the Lord. He hath
spoken in the whirlwind, but his mercy granteth
that our ears shall know his voice.”
As his son ceased, a gleam of satisfaction shot
across the countenance of the Puritan. His eye
next turned inquiringly towards Ruth, who sate
among her maidens the image of womanly sorrow.
Common interest seemed to still the breathing of
the little assembly, and sympathy was quite as active
as curiosity, when each one present suffered a glance
to steal towards her benignant but pallid face. The
eye of the mother was gazing earnestly, but without
a tear, on the melancholy spectacle before her.
It unconsciously sought, among the dried and shrivelled
remnants of mortality that lay at her feet,
some relic of the cherub she had lost. A shudder
and struggle followed, after which her gentle voice
breathed so low that those nearest her person could
scarce distinguish the words—
“The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away;
blessed be his holy name!”
“Now know I that he who hath smote me is merciful,
for he chasteneth them he loveth,” said Mark
Heathcote, rising with dignity to address his household.
“Our life is a life of pride. The young are
wont to wax insolent, while he of many years saith
to his own heart, `it is good to be here.' There is a
fearful mystery in one who sitteth on high. The
heavens are his throne, and he hath created the
earth for his footstool. Let not the vanity of the
weak of mind presume to understand it, for `who
The bonds of the evil one, of Satan, and of the sons
of Belial, have been loosened, that the faith of the
elect may be purified, that the names of those written,
since the foundations of the earth were laid,
may be read in letters of pure gold. The time of
man is but a moment in the reckoning of him whose
life is eternity; earth the habitation of a season!
The bones of the bold, of the youthful, and of the
strong of yesterday, lie at our feet. None know
what an hour may bring forth. In a single night,
my children, hath this been done. They whose
voices were heard in my halls are now speechless,
and they who so lately rejoiced are sorrowing. Yet
hath this seeming evil been ordered that good may
come thereof. We are dwellers in a wild and distant
land,” he continued, insensibly permitting his
thoughts to incline towards the more mournful
details of their affliction; “our earthly home is afar
off. Hither have we been led by the flaming pillar
of truth, and yet the malice of the persecuters hath
not forgotten to follow. One houseless, and sought
like the hunted deer, is again driven to flee. We
have the canopy of the stars for a roof; none may
tarry longer to worship, secretly, within our walls.
But the path of the faithful, though full of thorns,
leadeth to quiet, and the final rest of the just man
can never know alarm. He that hath borne hunger,
and thirst, and the pains of the flesh, for the sake
of truth, knoweth how to be satisfied; nor will the
hours of bodily suffering be accounted weary to him
whose goal is the peace of the righteous.” The
strong lineaments of the stranger grew even more
than usually austere, and as the Puritan continued,
the hand which rested on the handle of a pistol
grasped the weapon, until the fingers seemed imbedded
in the wood. He bowed, however, as if to acknowledge
the personal allusion, and remained silent.
“If any mourn the early death of those who have
rendered up their being, struggling, as it may be
permitted, in behalf of life and dwelling,” continued
Mark Heathcote, regarding a female near him, “let
her remember, that from the beginning of the world
were his days numbered, and that not a sparrow
falleth without answering the ends of wisdom.
Rather let the fulfilment of things remind us of the
vanity of life, that we may learn how easy it is to
become immortal. If the youth hath been cut down,
seemingly like unripened grass, he hath fallen by
the sickle of one who knoweth best when to begin
the in-gathering of the harvest to his eternal garners.
Though a spirit bound unto his, as one feeble is
wont to lean on the strength of man and mourn
over his fall, let her sorrow be mingled with rejoicing.”
A convulsive sob broke out of the bosom of
the handmaiden who was known to have been affianced
to one of the dead, and for a moment the
address of Mark was interrupted. But when silence
again ensued, he continued, the subject leading him,
by a transition that was natural, to allude to his own
sorrows. “Death hath been no stranger in my habitation,”
he said. “His shaft fell heaviest, when it struck
her, who, like those that have here fallen, was in the
pride of her youth, and when her soul was glad with
the first joy of the birth of a man-child! Thou who
sittest on high!” he added, turning a glazed and tearless
eye to heaven; “thou knowest how heavy was that
blow, and thou hast written down the strivings of an
oppressed soul. The burthen was not found too heavy
for endurance. The sacrifice hath not sufficed; the
world was again getting uppermost in my heart.
Thou didst bestow an image of that innocence and
loveliness that dwelleth in the skies, and this hast
thou taken away, that we might know thy power.
To this judgment we bow. If thou hast called our
child to the mansions of bliss, she is wholly thine,
still left her to wander further in the pilgrimage of
life, we confide in thy goodness. She is of a long-suffering
race, and thou wilt not desert her to the
blindness of the heathen. She is thine, she is wholly
thine, King of Heaven! and yet hast thou permitted
our hearts to yearn towards her, with the fondness
of earthly love. We await some further manifestation
of thy will, that we may know whether
the fountains of our affection shall be dried in the
certainty of her blessedness—” (scalding tears were
rolling down the cheeks of the pallid and immovable
mother) “or whether hope, nay, whether duty to
thee calleth for the interference of those bound to
her in the tenderness of the flesh. When the blow
was heaviest on the bruised spirit of a lone and solitary
wanderer, in a strange and savage land, he
held not back the offspring it was thy will to grant
him in the place of her called to thyself; and now
that the child hath become a man, he too layeth,
like Abraham of old, the infant of his love, a willing
offering at thy feet. Do with it as to thy never-failing
wisdom seemeth best.”—The words were interrupted
by a heavy groan, that burst from the chest of
Content. A deep silence ensued, but when the assembly
ventured to throw looks of sympathy and
awe at the bereaved father, they saw that he had
arisen and stood gazing steadily at the speaker, as if
he wondered, equally with the others, whence such
a sound of suffering could have come. The Puritan
renewed the subject, but his voice faltered, and for
an instant, as he proceeded, his hearers were oppressed
with the spectacle of an aged and dignified
man shaken with grief. Conscious of his weakness,
the old man ceased speaking in exhortation, and
addressed himself to prayer. While thus engaged,
his tones again became clear, firm and distinct, and
holy calm.
With the performance of this preliminary office,
the simple ceremony was brought to its close. The
remains were lowered, in solemn silence, into the
grave, and the earth was soon replaced by the young
men. Mark Heathcote then invoked aloud the blessing
of God on his household, and bowing in person,
as he had before done in spirit, to the will of Heaven,
he motioned to the family to withdraw.
The interview that succeeded was over the resting-place
of the dead. The hand of the stranger
was firmly clenched in that of the Puritan, and the
stern self-command of both appeared to give way,
before the regrets of a friendship that had endured
through so many trying scenes.
“Thou knowest that I may not tarry,” said the
former, as if he replied to some expressed wish of
his companion. “They would make me a sacrifice
to the Moloch of their vanities; and yet would I
fain abide, until the weight of this heavy blow may
be forgotten. I found thee in peace, and I quit thee
in the depths of suffering!”
“Thou distrustest me, or thou dost injustice to
thine own belief,” interrupted the Puritan, with a
smile, that shone on his haggard and austere visage,
as the rays of the setting sun light a wintry cloud.
“Seemed I happier when this hand placed that of
a loved bride into mine own, than thou now seest
me in this wilderness, houseless, stripped of my
wealth, and, God forgive the ingratitude! but I had
almost said, childless? No, indeed, thou mayest not
tarry, for the blood-hounds of tyranny will be on
their scent; here is shelter no longer.”
The eyes of both turned, by a common and melancholy
feeling, towards the ruin of the block. The
stranger then pressed the hand of his friend in both
his own, and said in a struggling voice—
“Mark Heathcote, adieu! he that had a roof for
the persecuted wanderer shall not long be houseless;
neither shall the resigned for ever know sorrow.”
His words sounded in the ears of his companion
like the revelation of a prophecy. They again
pressed their hands together, and, regarding each
other with looks in which kindness could not be altogether
smothered by the repulsive character of an
acquired air, they parted. The Puritan slowly took
his way to the dreary shelter which covered his family;
while the stranger was shortly after seen urging
the beast he had mounted, across the pastures of the
valley, towards one of the most retired paths of the
wilderness.
| CHAPTER XVI. The wept of Wish-ton-Wish | |