 | CHAPTER XXV. The King of the Hurons |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
Ye've tracked me o'er the stream;
And, struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam.”
G. W. Patten.
It was about mid-day when Count Carlton's engagement, if such
it may be called, with the Iroquois, had terminated, and when the
voyagers, relieved from apprehension of immediate danger, resumed
their route with comparatively light hearts. To Miss Montaigne,
however, returned none of that buoyancy of spirit which, despite privation
and peril, had marked her conduct during the first few days
of the journey. That repeated alarms and a still abiding uneasiness
as to the future had in part produced her depression was doubtless
true; yet her unbidden thoughts were continually recurring to the
singular conduct of Huntington, and were ferreting out remembrances
of imagined wrongs, which had impelled one, usually so
kind and just-judging, to an act that implied evident displeasure
towards herself.
Ever self-censuring, she could dwell upon this subject only with
pain, for she held in vivid remembrance all the weighty favors she
had received from him, as well as his generous and unpresuming
deportment, which ever indicated a fear of seeming to claim a requital
at her hands. That she had wounded so noble a spirit, had
driven him from her presence, had for ever closed the way to explanation,
and to returning sympathy and friendship, seemed to her now
would be vain to seek a parallel.
Beyond this limit, her thoughts took no definite shape; her sentiments
towards Huntington may, perhaps, at times, have been imbued
with a glow beyond the genial warmth of friendship; but if so,
she knew it not. Love, indeed, is not infrequently an unrecognized
inmate of the heart, overlooked, for a while, or mistaken, by its inexperienced
entertainer, for some kindred emotion, and only discovered
at length, too late to be dislodged. Blanche did not seek to trace
her feelings to their source; and if ever for a moment she had regarded
Henrich as a suitor, the thought had been repressed by the
conviction that there was an unbridged gulf betwixt them, across
which Hope might gaze, but could not pass.
The Lynx had not erred in believing that the Iroquois warriors
were not effectually repulsed; they had vanished, indeed, from view,
and so long did they continue invisible, that hopes were entertained
of their having abandoned their costly enterprise; but they were
again discovered, about the middle of the afternoon, scarcely two
miles distant, skirting the western shore of the lake, and skulking
beneath its shadows. They had retreated with a succession of wailing
yells and screeches, which were supposed at the time to be less
in lamentation for their loss than with a view to invoke aid from the
neighboring forests; and their present pertinacious pursuit was
attributed to the hope of finding such assistance. They were now,
fortunately, silent, believing themselves undiscovered, and it was the
policy of the fugitives to let them remain deceived, lest they should
recommence their dangerous cries.
But not many minutes had elapsed when a noise issued from their
midst, different in its character from any which they had heretofore
made; it was a prolonged, shrill call, seeming to proceed from a
single voice, and the batteau at the same moment shot out from the
shadows into a place where it could be more distinctly seen. The
objects which had occasioned this movement had at the same moment
now pointed them out to his comrades, recalling all their abated
terror, and adding tenfold to its intensity. Three long canoes, containing
in the aggregate not less than thirty men, were doubling a
distant promontory in the northwest, and approaching in a direction
which would directly intersect the path of the count's party; they
were yet several miles distant, and could not be seen with distinctness;
but they were supposed to be a war party, returning from an
expedition, and travelling to their home, somewhere on the eastern
shore of the lake.
The most utter consternation prevailed among the travellers, and
the course of the boat was instantaneously changed, by the Lynx, to
the east, in the direction of a cluster of small islands, which lay
about a mile and a half distant.
“We can only fly,” he said, in answer to the eager inquiries of
his leader, as to the extent of the danger; “if they have not seen us,
we may possibly escape.”
It was the first time that the Huron had spoken discouragingly,
and the count trembled as he replied:
“Why do you say `possibly?' the night is not far distant, and
they are yet several miles from us; the danger cannot be great.”
“It is great!” responded the Indian; “I have said! they are
many—we are few—see!”
As he ceased speaking, he pointed towards the Iroquois batteau,
which was now proceeding rapidly outward, seemingly with a view
to overtake the fugitives, or at least, hound-like, to track them closely
until the other vessels should come up. They repeated their calls,
which, as far as could be judged, were ineffectual in attracting the
attention of the strangers, and this seemed the only encouraging feature
in the affair. But even this was of short duration; for, finding
other means insufficient, the pursuers fired a salute of half a dozen
guns, following it up by a prolonged war-cry, which at once produced
an effect; the canoes stopped for a moment, and came together;
increased speed and in a diverging direction from each other, as if to
make sure of keeping the chase within view. So great, indeed, was
their velocity, compared with that of the count, whose wearied oarsmen
had toiled ever since the preceding evening, that it became
almost doubtful whether the latter would be even able to attain the
refuge of an island before their allied enemies would overtake them.
When the design of the strangers became fully apparent, an
ominous silence prevailed for awhile in the retreating batteau, broken
at length by the hysterical sobbings of Emily and the low mournful
voice of Blanche in attempted encouragement. It was the intention
of the Lynx to land on the smallest of the islets, hoping that possibly
one might be found sufficiently minute to be capable of defence even
by his little corps, until some opportunity of escape should offer.
He was disappointed, however, on drawing near the group, to find
none that was suitable for his purpose: the only one which seemed
even temporarily defensible was situated near the centre of the cluster,
and was separated on the south from a sister isle, by scarcely sixty
rods of water. To this refuge, therefore, the retreating party fled,
wearied and dispirited, while even its stoical warriors entertained
but little hope beyond that of selling their lives dearly, and performing
the journey to the spirit-land in company with a portion, at least,
of their invaders.
The isle of which they had taken possession was much too large
for their safety, being nearly a third of a mile in length, and about
forty rods in width, and would involve the necessity of a division of
their small force to protect its several parts. The batteau, indeed,
containing the first detachment of the enemy, came rapidly up and
took possession as had been anticipated of the nearest island on the
south, while the course of the canoes indicated an intention of landing
upon another, which lay considerably north of that occupied by the
count's party. It was the longest if not the largest of the group,
extending more than a mile north and south, and approaching to
the besieged party. The strangers passed to the north of this large
island, and came down on its eastern side, remaining unobserved
until they had effected a landing near its southern border, and
encamped in the woods.
Thus were the unhappy travellers surrounded as it were by
enemies, who waited only for the approaching night to attack them
from every quarter, and from whose vigilant surveillance there was
no prospect of escape. The count, the Algonquin, and three of the
soldiers took their station on the south coast, while the remainder of
the force, three in number, were stationed at the opposite extremity
of the land; the Lynx being invested with full power to act in his
section of the little realm, as circumstances should require, without
communicating with his principal. For the ladies a fitting place was
selected about midway between the posts.
It was about the hour of four in the afternoon when these
arrangements were completed, and there remained a brief interval
of suspense to be passed before the dreadful crisis should arrive, the
probable issue of which was too appalling to be contemplated. Miss
Montaigne and Emily remained for a while in the shelter which had
been provided for them, but finding the burden of their fears too
heavy to bear alone, they strolled together towards the place where
the Lynx and his two companions were on guard, and begged that
they might be allowed to remain near their protectors. To this, of
course, the Huron readily assented, and while Emily, exhausted,
sought a seat at a little distance from her cousin, the latter remained
standing near the Indian and his comrades.
“You are not accustomed easily to despair,” she said at length;
“why is it that you think there is so little hope of escape? The
shore is not far distant.”
“There are four boats ready to follow when we start,” replied the
Lynx—“we are safer here.”
“But the night may favor us—we may fly unseen—”
“If the Manitou should hang his mantle on the moon, we may,”
said the Huron, pointing to the orb of night, which, although faintly
visible as yet, amid the day's superior beams, was climbing a sky
singularly clear and cloudless, save in the far north, where a high
piled cloud, towering like ocean canvass, navigated the calm expanse
alone, but answered, alas, to no mortal hail, and settled slowly towards
the horizon.
Blanche remained motionless, her lips only moving, and her eyes
fixed upon the firmament; a pause of some minutes succeeded, which
was at length broken by the low voice of the Indian:
“The Lynx is sorry,” he said, looking mournfully at the young
lady, and impressed seemingly with the idea that he was in some
degree responsible for the pending calamity—“he is very sad—but
men must not weep; he did what he could—he has acted like a
chief; is it not so? what does the Dove-eye say?”
“You have done everything that a brave man could do,” replied
Blanche emphatically—“surely you have no cause to reproach
yourself.”
“He will never know it!” replied the Indian bitterly—“the King of
the Hurons will say that the Lynx was not a Brave.”
“That will he not!” answered Blanche, “my father will never do
you injustice; besides, there is one who will proclaim your worth to
the world; thank Heaven that he is not here in this hour of peril!”
“Thank Heaven that he is!” exclaimed a low voice at her side;
“to share every peril of Miss Montaigne—to shield her, if it is the
will of Heaven—to die for her, if it is not!”
To the air, to the water, to the surrounding woods, did Blanche,
bewildered and terrified, look for the speaker, as this familiar and
heart-welcomed voice fell upon her ear; but not to the dark and motionless
figure, which stood scarcely a dozen feet distant from her on
the other side of the Huron chief. So entirely void of suspicion was
she as to the individuality of the Beaver, as an Indian hunter, that
she could quite as easily have suspected the Lynx as him, to be the
the Lynx, with ready tact, had stepped aside, withdrawing also the
soldier, she doubted the faithfulness of her senses, and believed that
her excited imagination had in some way misled her.
“Did any one speak to me, but now, in English?” she said,
using that language; “or does my mind wander?”
As she spoke, the Beaver advanced a few steps, and stood before
her; his calm eyes fixed upon her countenance, for the first time,
with no downcast look to conceal their hue. “Miss Montaigne,”
he said, “I am Henrich Huntington, happy, even in this hour of
gloom, to convince you that I have been no recreant to my trust.”
Speechless with amazement, with alarm, with delight, Blanche
listened to these words, while the flitting color went and came on
her cheeks, like the shadows of flying clouds upon a summer landscape.
Her breath was short and hurried—her parted lips moved
without voice, and her whole frame shook with her irrepressible
emotion.
“Is it, indeed, so?” she said, at length, faintly, and with ashen
face, resting one trembling hand upon a tree for support, and
frankly extending the other to her friend: “Is it you, Henrich?
Oh, I am very glad to see you, and yet I cannot bid you welcome
in this dreadful hour.”
Huntington seized the hand of Miss Montaigne, and ere he
relinquished, pressed it lightly to his lips. “I ask no better welcome,”
he said, as Blanche hastily, yet unreprovingly withdrew the
imprisoned member from his grasp.
“This is no time for idle compliments,” she said, quickly; “tell
me why this disguise? And yet I should not ask, since in it you
have once, aye, twice already, saved our lives.”
“Enough for the present, Miss Montaigne, that it was necessary;
without it I could not have been with you; keep my secret, and
above all, from the count.”
“You have had injustice and suffering,” she replied, hastily.
you! But tell me,—for hope never seems to desert you,—is our
situation altogether desperate? Speak frankly to me; I can bear
the worst and ought to hear it.”
“I should do wrong not to confess to you, Miss Montaigne,” he
replied, “that the danger is very great. The Lynx, who is most
familiar with Indian warfare, thinks, if the soldiers do their duty, we
may take a quarter, or, perhaps, even a third of our enemies with
us into the other world, and thus fall with glory, but scarcely hints
of any other hope.”
“How dreadful to indulge such revengeful wishes at such an
hour!” exclaimed Blanche, tremulously. “And the Algonquin—
what says he?”
“Mallory, who has come from the other company on an errand
of inquiry, reports that he is reserved and taciturn, and chants to
himself at intervals—the sign is bad!”
“Alas, yes! it is his death-song!” answered Miss Montaigne;
“he himself told us of the custom.”
“We have viewed the worst side of the picture,” continued Henrich.
“We should sin not to remember that there is a Power
which saves alike `by many or by few.' He can preserve us, we
know; and if such is not His purpose, that purpose still is best.”
“You speak nobly, Mr. Huntington, and as created man should
ever speak of the dealings of The Infinite; we are in His hands,
and in this solemn hour should confide fully in Him; yet it is difficult
for weak human nature to view closely and calmly that mysterious
change which awaits it; above all,” she said, suddenly raising
her voice, with emotion, “when it comes with such attendant
horrors!”
“Do not quite despair!” replied Henrich, soothingly. “We
may not look for miracles, and yet there may be means and agencies
at work for us, of which we have no knowledge. I do not
wish to excite unfounded hopes, but a thought has occurred to me,
first pursuers are savages, and from them we can hope nothing; but
there may be—it is barely possible—some subordinate English officer
in command of, or in company with the other division, who
would have sufficient influence to save our lives, and cause us to be
regarded as prisoners of war; at least, if we could communicate
with him, and capitulate, before the onslaught commences, and before
the savages become excited in battle.”
“Alas! how many remote contingencies are these! So faint a
hope serves only more fully to reveal our despair—yet you may be
right; do not let me discourage you from any effort.”
Henrich at once proceeded to counsel with the Lynx, while
Blanche, being so permitted, went to inform her cousin of the presence
of Huntington, in the disguise of the Beaver; tidings which
aroused Emily from her stupor of fear and grief, and infused a new
though indefinite hope into her spirit.
| CHAPTER XXV. The King of the Hurons | |