XV.—THE HUNTER-SPY.
Not in the dim cathedral aisle, where the smoke of the incense ascends
for evermore, and the image of the Virgin smiles above the altar—not in
the streets of the colossal city, where the palace and the hut, the beggar and
the lord, are mingled in the great spectacle of life—not even in the quiet
home of civilization, where the glow of the hearth-side flame lights up the
face of the mother as she hushes her babe to slumber—
But among the mountains, where sky, and rock, and tree, and cataract,
speak of the presence of their God,—Nature, with her thousand voices,
sings forever, her anthem of thankfulness and prayer.
It is a sublime anthem which she sings out yonder, in the untrodden
wilderness. The cataract thunders it, as in all the glory of its flashing
waters, it springs from the cliff into the darkness below. The breeze, too,
softly murmuring among the tops of the evergreen pines, in the calmness
of the summer morn, in the shadows of the summer eve, whispers that
anthem, as with an angel's voice. The sky writes it upon her vault, not
only in the sun and stars, and moon, but in every feathery cloud that skims
over its blue dome, in the deep silence of a summer noon.
But at night, when the storm comes out, and mingles cataract and rock,
forest and sky, in one fierce whirlpool of battle; then the thunder sings the
anthem, and the lightning writes it on the universe.
It was noon among the mountains, nearly a hundred years ago, when the
sun shone down through the woods upon the waters of a cataract, trembling
in tumultuous beauty on the verge of a granite cliff, ere it dashed into
the abyss below.
Let us pause upon the verge of this cliff, and gaze upon Nature as she
stands before us, clad in the wild glory which she has worn since the hour
when “Let there be Light!” from the lips of Divinity, thundered over the
chaos of the new-born world.
Upon the verge of the cliff. Grey and hoary, overgrown with vines, and
clumps of moss. It trembles beneath our feet—trembles as with the pulse
of the cataract. Look yonder—a mass of waters, not fifty yards in width,
emerging from the foliage, gliding between walls of rocks, gleaming for a
moment in bright sunshine on the edge of darkness, and then dashing in one
long stream of light and spray, far down into night.
Look below—ah! you tremble, you shrink back appalled. That void
is terrible in its intense blackness. And from that abyss, for evermore,
arises a dull, sullen sound, like the whispering of a thousand voices. It is
the cataract, speaking to the rocks which receive it.
There is a rugged beauty in the spectacle. The woods all around, with
grey cliffs breaking from the canopy of leaves; the sky, seen there, far
above the cataract and its chasm; the cataract itself, bridged by fallen
tree.
A massy oak, rent from the earth by the storm, extends across the cataract,
just where it plunges into darkness. Here, on the western side, you
behold its roots, half torn from the ground—yonder, on the eastern side,
its withered branches, strongly contrast with the waving foliage all around.
And between the rocks and the fallen tree, glide the waters, ere they dash
below.
As we stand here, on this rock, leaning over the darkness, tell me, does
not the awful silence of these primeval woods—only broken by the eternal
anthem of the mountain stream—strike your hearts with a deep awe?
Another music shook the woods an hour ago. Strange sounds, scarce
ever heard in these woods before; sounds deeper than the roar of the cataract,
yet not so loud as thunder. Distant shouts, too, like the yell of maddened
men, were borne upon the breeze, and, for a moment, the cataract
seemed to hush itself into silence, as a horrible chorus of groans broke over
the woods.
What meant these sounds, disturbing the sanctity of the Almighty's
forest? We cannot tell; but, only yesterday, a brave band of men, attired
in scarlet and gold, with bayonets gleaming over their heads, passed this
way in solid columns.
Only yesterday, their commander—a man of courtly look and glittering
apparel—rode through these woods, pointing gaily with his sword, as the
warm hope of victory flushed his face: while at his side, journeyed a young
man, with thoughtful eye and solemn face. The commander was clad in
scarlet and gold—the young man, in blue and silver. The commander was
General Braddock; the young man, Colonel Washington.
All day long the sounds of battle, borne from afar by the breeze, have
shrieked through the woods, but now all is still.
Yet hold—there is a crashing sound among the branches, on this western
side of the waterfall—look! A face is seen among the leaves, another, and
another. Three faces, wan, and wild, and bloody. In a moment, three
forms spring from the covert and stand upon this rock, gazing around upon
chasm, and wood, and sky, with the wild glare of hunted tigers.
The first form, standing on the verge of the cliff, with the blue uniform,
fluttering in ribbands over his broad chest, and spotted with blood on the
arms. A man in the prime of life, with brown hair clustering around his
brow, and a blue eye lighting up his sunburnt face. Though his uniform is
rent and torn, you can recognize the Provincial Sergeant in the native troops
of General Braddock's army.
At his back stand two British regulars, clad in scarlet, with long military
boots upon each leg, and heavy grenadier caps upon each brow. As they
gaze around—their weaponless hands dripping with blood—a curse breaks
from each lip.
“Don't swear,” exclaims the Sergeant, as he turns from the chasm to
his brother soldiers. “It's bad enough as it is, without swearing! It's
like to drive me mad when I think of it! Only yesterday we hurried on,
through these very woods, and now—ugh! D'ye remember what we saw,
by the banks of the river, not an hour ago? Piles of dead men, those men
our comrades, each brow with the scalp torn from the scull—little rivers of
blood, each river running over the sod, and pouring into the Monongahela,
until its waves became as red as your uniform. Ah! I tell you, boys, it
makes a man sick to think of it!”
“And them Injins,” exclaimed the tallest of the British soldiers, “how
like born devils they screech! The fightin' I don't mind, but I confess the
screechin' hurts one's feelin's.”
The other soldier, with a darkening brow, only muttered a single word,
hissing it, as with the force of his soul, through his set teeth:
“The Spy!”
At that word, the Sergeant started as though bitten by a rattle-snake.
His face, so frank in its hardy manliness of expression, was violently contorted,
his hands clenched.
“Aye, the Spy!” he growled: “Would that I had him here!”
He bent over the chasm, his blue eye glaring with dangerous light, as his
fingers quivered with the frenzy of revenge.
“Would that I had him here, on this rock! By that home which I never
hope to see again, I would give my life to hold him, for one moment only,
on the verge of this rock, and then —”
“Send him yelling down into the pool below!” added the tall soldier.
The other soldier merely wiped the blood from his brow, and muttered
a deep oath, coupled with the ominous words—“The Spy!”
“Come, my boys, we must hurry on!” cried the Sergeant, his form
rising proudly in the sunlight.—“Them Injin devils are in our rear, and
you know the place where all us fellows, who dont happen to be killed, are
to meet! Aye, aye! Come on! Over this fallen tree be our way!”
Followed by the regular soldiers, the Provincial Sergeant crosses the
fearful bridge. You see them quivering there, with but a foot of unhewn
timber between them and the blackness of the chasm; the sunbeam lights
up their tattered uniform and blood-stained faces.
In the centre of the fallen tree, even while the roar of the cataract deafens
his ears, the Sergeant suddenly turns and confronts his comrades:
“Did n't he look beautiful?” he shouts; and his eye flashes, and his
cheek glows—“Yes, beautiful's the word! I mean our young Virginia
Colonel, charging in the thickest of the fight, with his sword uplifted, and
his forehead bare! Did you see his coat, torn by the bullets, which pattered
about him like hail-stones? And then, as he knelt over the dyin' General,
shielding him from bullet and tomahawk, at the hazard of his life,—I vow
he did look beautiful!”
As he speaks, his form trembles with the memory of the battle, and the
tree trembles beneath him. The British soldiers do not speak a word—
their position is too fearful for words—but with upraised arms they beseech
the Sergeant to hurry on.
Across the perilous bridge, and along this eastern rock—a murmur of joy
escapes from each lip.
Then, through the thickly-gathered foliage, into this forest-arbor, formed
by the wild vines, hanging from the limbs of this centuried oak.
A quiet place, with gleams of sunshine escaping through the leaves, and
lighting up the mossy sod, and the massive trunk of the grand old tree.
What means that half-muttered shriek, starting from each heart, and
hushed by the biting of each lip?
The Sergeant starts back, places a hand on the mouth of each soldier, and
his deep whisper thrills in ears—
“In the name of Heaven be still!”
Then every breath is hushed, and every eye is fixed upon the cause of
that strange surprise.
There, at the foot of the tree, his head laid against its trunk, his limbs
stretched along the sod, slumbers a man of some fifty years, one arm bent
under his grey hairs, while the other clasps the barrel of a rifle. Gaze
upon that sunburnt face, pinched in the lips, hollow in the cheeks, the brow
narrow and contracted, the hair and eyebrows black, sprinkled with grey,
and tell me, is it not the index of a mean heart, a cankered soul?
The form, clad in the shirt, leggins and moccasins of one of the outcasts
of civilization, in whom were combined the craft of the pale face, with the
ferocity of the savage, is lean, straight and angular, with the sinews gathered
around the bones like iron thongs.
And while the three soldiers, with darkening faces, gaze upon him, he
sleeps on, this wild hunter of the wild woods.
Do you see that silken purse, slightly protruding from the breast of the
coarse hunting shirt. Look—even as the sunbeam falls upon it, the gleam
of golden guineas shines from its net-work.
There is a strange story connected with that silken purse, with its golden
guineas.
Not ten days ago, the British General was encountered in the wild forest
of the Alleghany mountains, by a tall hunter, who offered to act as his guide
to Fort Pitt, where the French held their position. The offer was accepted
—the reward fifty guineas. The young Colonel Washington distrusted this
hunter—traitor was stamped on his face—but Braddock laughed at his
distrust.
The guide led them forward—led them into the ambush of this morning,
and then disappeared.
At this moment, five hundred hearts are cold on Braddock's field—there
are an hundred little rills of blood pouring into the waves of Monongahela
river; Braddock himself lies mangled and bleeding in the arms of Washington;—and
here, in this arbor of the wild wood, lulled to rest by the anthem
of the cataract, sleeps the hunter-guide, with the silken purse and its
fifty guineas, protruding from his breast. Every guinea bears on its surface
the head of King Louis. Every guinea was given as the price of a life,
and yet there is no blood upon them; but the sun, shining through the
foliage lights them with a mild, warm glow.
And all the while the three soldiers stand there, biting their lips, and
clenching their hands together. There is something fearful in this ominous
silence.
At last the Sergeant advances, stealthily, it is true, yet the sound of his
footstep echoes through the wood. Still the Hunter sleeps on. Then with
a rude knife he severs a piece of the wild vine, ties one end around a projecting
limb of the oak, pushes the leaves aside, and you behold the other
end dangling over the chasm.
A flood of sunlight rushes in through the opening, bathes with its glow
the darkened face of the Sergeant, and the withered face of the sleeping
man. Around the form of the Sergeant, so vigorous in its robust manhood,
extends the mass of foliage, like a frame around a picture. For a moment,
he stands there, on the edge of the eastern rock, the grape vine dangling in
one hand, while his straining eye peruses the darkness of the abyss.
As he turns to his comrades again, he utters this singular sentence in a
whisper:
“Does n't it seem to you that a man tied to this grape-vine by the neck,
and forced to leap from the rock, would stand a mighty good chance of
being—hung?”
A grim smile passes over each face—still the hunter sleeps on; he sleeps
the sound slumber of hardship and toil.
Presently the Sergeant advances, shakes him roughly by the shoulder,
and shouts in his ear—
“Come, Isaac, get up. To-day you die!”
The sleeping man quivered, opened his eyes, beheld the darkened face
above, and then clutched for his rifle.
With a sudden movement, the Sergeant flings it beyond his reach.
“You know me, Isaac. You see the blood upon my coat. You know
your doom. Get up, and say your prayers.”
This was said in a very low voice, yet every word went to the Hunter's
heart. In silence he arose. As he stood erect upon the sod, it might be
seen that he was a man of powerful frame and hardened sinews. He gazed
from face to face, and then toward the cliff—his countenance changed from
sunburnt brown to asky paleness.
“What d'ye mean?” he falters. “You don't intend mischief to an
old man?”
Paler in the face, tremulous in each iron limb—ah! how cowardice and
crime transform a man of iron sinews into a trembling wretch!
“Say your prayers, Isaac,” was the only answer which awaited him.
As the Sergeant spoke, the light in his blue eye grew wilder; he trembled
from his heart to his finger-ends, but not with fear.
Again the Hunter raised his stealthy grey eye, ranging the arbor with a
glance of lightning-like rapidity. All hope of escape was idle.
“Let me finish him with the knife!” growled the tall soldier.
“Say the word, Sergeant, and I'll send a bullet from his own rifle through
his brain!”
“I know'd ye when ye was a boy, down yander in the hills of old Virginny,
Isaac,” said the Sergeant; “and know'd ye for a liar and thief.
Now ye're grown to a tolerable good age—grey hairs, and wrinkles, too,—
I know ye for a traitor and a murderer!”
“But, Jacob, you won't kill me here, like a dog?” exclaimed the Hunter,
in a hollow voice.
“There's a matter of five or six hundred men dead, this hour, on yonder
battlefield. Not only dead, but mangled—their skulls peeled—ugh! It's
an ugly word, I know, but it's a fact—their skulls peeled, and their bodies
cut to pieces by musquet balls and tomahawks. You did it all, Isaac. You
sold your countrymen—your flesh and blood, as I might say, and sold 'em
to the French and Injins.—Come, Isaac, say your prayers!”
There was a strange contrast between the broad, manly figure of the
Sergeant, rising to its full stature, and the slender form of the Hunter,
cringing as from the danger of a threatened blow. The sunlight fell over
both faces, one flushed with a settled purpose, the other livid with the extremity
of fear. In the shadows of the woody arbor the British soldiers
stood, awaiting in silence the issue of the scene.
And ever and anon, in the pauses of the fearful conversation, the cataract
howled below.
“I've no prayers to say,” said the Hunter, in a dogged tone. “Come—
murder me—if you like, I'm ready!”
There was something sublime in the courage of the Coward, who
trembled as with an ague fit, as he said the words.
The words, the tone, the look of the man seemed to touch even the determined
heart of the Sergeant.
“But you may have a wife, Isaac, or a child—” he faltered—“You may
wish to leave some message?”
“I may have a wife and child and I may not,” said the Hunter, quietly
baring his throat. “Come, if you're goin' to murder me, begin!”
Then commenced a scene, whose quiet horror may well chill the blood in
our veins, as we picture it.
The Sergeant advanced, seized the end of the grape-vine, and, while the
wretch trembled in his grasp, knotted it firmly about his neck, gaunt and
sinewy as it was.
The doomed man stood on the edge of the cliff.—Below him boiled the
waters—above him smiled the sky. His deathsman was at his side.
For a moment, the Hunter turned toward the comrades of the Sergeant.
“Kill him like a dog!” growled one of the soldiers.
“Remember the battle, and choke him until his eyes start!” exclaimed
the other.
The eye of the miserable man wandered to the face of his Executioner.
Calm and erect the Sergeant stood there; the only signs of agitation which
he manifested, were visible in a slight tremulous motion of his lip, a sudden
paleness of his cheek.
“Ain't there no pity?” whined the Hunter. “Ye see I'm not fit to die
—the waterfall skeers me. No pity, did ye say?”
“None!” thundered the Sergeant, and with one movement of his arm
pushed the doomed man from the rock.
Then—as the limb quivered with the burden of the fearful fruit which it
bore—as the blackened face and starting eyes, and protruding tongue glowed
horribly in the sunlight—as one long, deep cry of agony mingled with the
roar of the cataract—the Sergeant seized the purse of guineas and hurled it
far down into the darkness of the chasm.
“Let the traitor's gold go with his soul!” he cried, as the coin, escaping
from the purse, sparkled like spray-drops through the air.
The level rays of the setting sun streamed over the dead man's face.
All was desolate and silent in the forest—the Sergeant and his comrades
had passed on their way—the deep anthem of the waterfall arose to the
sunset Heaven.
There was a footstep on the fallen tree, and a boy of some twelve years,
bearing a burden on his back, came tripping lightly over the cataract. He
was roughly clad, in a dress of wild deer's hide, yet there was a frankness
about his sunburnt face, a daring in his calm grey eye, which made you
forget his uncouth attire. As he came bounding on, as fearlessly as though
the floor of some quiet home were beneath him—the breeze tossed his
brown hair aside from his face, until it waved in curls of glossy softness.
“Father!” his young voice resounded through the woods, clear and shrill
as the tones of careless boyhood. “Father, do you sleep yet?” he cried,
as he crossed the tree. “You know I went this morning to the Indian's
wigwam to procure food and drink for you. Here it is—I'm safe back
again. Father, I say!”
Again he called, and still no answer.
He stood on the astern side of the waterfall, near the forest arbor.
“Ah! I know what you're about!” he laughed, with childish gaiety.
“You want me to think you're asleep—you want to spring up and frighten
me! Ha, ha, ha!”
And gaily laughing, he went through the foliage, and stood in the forest
arbor—stood before the DEAD MAN.
His FATHER, hanging by the grape-vine to the oaken limb, his feet above
the chasm, the sunset glow upon his face. That face as black as ink; the
eyes on the cheek; the purpled tongue lolling on the jaw—his father!
Every breath of air that stirred waved his grey hairs about his brow, and
swayed his stiffened body to and fro.
The boy gazed upon it, but did not weep. His father might be a thief,
traitor, murderer, but the son knew it not. The old man was kind to him
—yes, treacherous to all the world, he loved his motherless child!
“Father!” the boy gasped, and the bread and bottle which he bore on
his shoulders, fell to the ground.
He approached and gazed upon the body of the dead man, You might
see a twitching of the muscles of his young face, a strange working of the
mouth, an elevation and depression of the eye-brows, but his grey eyes
were undimmed by a tear. There was something terrible in the silent
sternness with which the child gazed into his murdered father's face.
There was a paper pinned to the breast of the dead man, a rough paper
scrawled with certain uncouth characters. The boy took the paper—he
could not read—but carefully folding it, he placed it within the breast of his
jacket, near to his heart.
Twenty years afterward, that paper was the cause of a cold-blooded and
horrible murder, wild and unnatural in its slightest details.
Long and earnestly the boy stood gazing upon that distorted face. The
same sunbeam that shone upon the visage of the dead, lighted up the singular
countenance of the boy.
At last, approaching the edge of the cliff, he took his father's hands within
his own. They were very cold. He placed his hands upon the old man's
face. It was clammy and moist. The boy began to shudder with a fear
hitherto unknown to him. For the first time, he stood in the presence of
Death.
His broken ejaculations were calculated to touch the hardest heart.
“Father!” he would whisper, “you aint dead, are you? If you are
dead what'll I do? Come, father, and tell me ye aint dead? Father! I
say, father!”
As the sun went down, that cry quivered through the woods.
The moon arose. Still by her pale light, there on the verge of the cliff,
stood the boy, gazing in his father's face.
“I'll cut him down, that's what I'll do!” he said, taking a hunter's knife
from his girdle.
Standing on tip-toe he hacked the grape-vine with the knife; it snapped
with a sharp sound: she boy reached forth his arms to grasp his father's
body; for a moment he held it trembling there, the blackened face silvered
by the light of the moon.
But his grasp was feeble, compared to the weight which it sustained, and
the body passed from his hands. There was a hissing sound in the air—a
dead pause—a heavy splash in the waters below.
The boy knelt on the rock and gazed below. I confess, as I see him
kneeling there, the light of the moon upon his waving locks—the silence of
night only broken by the eternal anthem of the cataract,—that I cannot
contemplate without a shudder, that sad and terrible picture:
The Boy, leaning over the rock, as he gazes with straining eyes, far down
into the darkness of the abyss, for the DEAD BODY OF HIS Father!
