 | CHAPTER XXVI. The King of the Hurons |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
Nor know I why this next appears the last;
Yet so my heart forebodes.”
—Byron.
The Huron heard his friend's remarks in silence, but gave little
confirmation to his views; he had seen nothing to induce him to
suppose there were any other than Indians among either of the
attacking parties, and he had no belief, if there were, that any terms
could be made which would compromise the savages' right to deal
with their prisoners after their usual custom. For himself and the
Algonquin, he knew, he said, there could be no hope, and they
could hardly be expected to be parties to a capitulation which did
not include them in its protection. They were willing to die; the
spirit-land of their fathers was open to them; they would enter it
gloriously; they would fall like chiefs and great braves, and would
never be taken prisoners, and roasted like cowards, at a stake.
Such was the substance of the Lynx's emphatic reply, and so wrapt
was he in the thoughts he had uttered that it was some moments
before Henrich could again attract his attention to his own remarks.
When he had succeeded in doing so, he repelled, with indignation,
any design on the part of himself or the ladies, to seek exclusively
their own safety, assured the Indian that if any treaty was effected,
it should be one which included the whole party in its provisions,
and reminding him that it was the part of a great warrior never to
remit his efforts for life, begged him to reflect whether he could
of course, would undertake the hazardous errand of bearing a flag
to a savage foe, nor could the only boat of the prisoners be risked
on such an embassy, and nothing remained but to attempt to send,
by some means, a written message to the opposing camp.
The Huron, incapable of opposing his friend, however hopeless of
the result, undertook to find some mode of locomotion for a talking
paper, if Henrich would prepare one, and they set simultaneously
about their tasks, thus combining the ingenuity of civilized and
savage life, where either alone would have been insufficient to effect
their purpose.
The pocket-book of Huntington furnished from its miscellaneous
contents a scrap of paper, on which he wrote, in pencil, the following
words:
“We are travellers; three of us are English citizens—the remainder
are French and their allies. Will our lives be protected if we
surrender ourselves prisoners? We are well armed. To any
officer or gentleman in command of the enemy.”
The Lynx, meanwhile, procured a piece of bark about eighteen
inches in length, and six or eight inches wide, which he speedily
fashioned, with his hunting knife, into the shape of a boat; a miniature
mast arose from its centre, slitted to receive the trimmed leaves
which formed its lower sails, while the letter itself, fastened securely
above them, constituted a top-gallant-royal to the little vessel. A
fixed rudder, the result of much careful calculation, was added, and
the little messenger, freighted with many hopes, was set afloat,
watched by the tearful eyes of Blanche and Emily, and awakening
alternate hopes and fears, as it now slightly diverged from its
expected route, and now pressed gallantly forward on its way.
The wind was blowing lightly from the south-west, and there was
great danger that the boat might pass eastward of the island, notwithstanding
the accurate adjustment of the tiller, to prevent such a
result. Now plunging and dipping before some passing flaw, now
as if bewildered and uncertain of its course, it still soon attained
a position about midway between the islands, without any material
deviation from its route. Thence it proceeded with a steady and
uniform progress towards the opposing shore, evidently attracting
the attention of the enemy long before it reached the beach, one of
whom was seen to dart out from his shelter, and seizing the toy,
bear it back to the woods.
The excitement incident to this experiment had temporarily relieved
the minds of those engaged in it from the oppressive sense of
their danger, which now returned with overwhelming force. The
effort which they had just made began to seem almost absurd, even
in the eyes of its originator, and when five minutes of suspense had
ensued,—minutes by the chronometer, but hours by the mental
measurement of the prisoners,—a settled conviction fastened upon
their minds that the season of hope was past.
“It was surely most cruel of uncle,” said Emily, first breaking
the mournful silence which had for some minutes prevailed, “to expose
us to such perils! Oh! why did he not rather leave us in
New York until this dreadful war was ended?”
“Do not blame him, Emily,” replied Blanche, with a beseeching
look; “he did not, indeed he did not, know the danger. The
Lynx will tell you that for months there has been no hostile party
in these parts; that the theatre of war was at other and remote
points when he set out from home; and in proof of this, remember
how very far we have come in safety.”
“Only to be murdered at the last!” sobbed Emily, bitterly;
“oh, it was cruel—cruel—cruel! Think not that I cannot forgive
him, but it is folly to seek to justify his acts.”
“Emily, dear cousin, do not talk thus; indeed he is not in fault;
mine rather is the blame, and it is a fearful responsibility to feel at
such a time! Ah! would that you had returned when I besought
you to do so. Can you forgive me, Emily—Henrich?”
“Nay, we have nothing to forgive you, cousin Blanche,” answered
Emily, hastily; while Huntington replied to the question
only with a look of gentle reproach.
“You will not admit it, I know,” said Blanche, “and I thank
you for your forbearance; but, alas! what avails now either censure
or exculpation on such a point? We all did what we then
believed right: let us think, rather, of more serious matters.”
During this conversation, the Lynx remained standing on the margin
of the water, looking upon that part of the distant island where
the little boat had disappeared, with a singular steadiness of gaze,
when it is remembered that he had expressed an entire want of confidence
in the experiment. But his views had undergone somewhat
of a change. Why was it, he mentally inquired, that the good
Manitou had sent the little bark so unerringly on its course, unless
to effect some good end? The slightest change in the force or
direction of the breeze might have either sent it wide of its
mark, or whelmed it in the turbulent waters, yet it had pressed gallantly
forward, uninterrupted, to its intended goal. Besides this,
there was something so incomprehensible to his untutored mind in
the art of conveying ideas by writing, that he fully expected the
talking paper would, in some way, succeed in making itself understood
by those to whom it was sent, whether they were civilized or
savage, and that a response of some kind would be made, either
amicable or hostile.
About ten minutes elapsed while he thus gazed, when a quick
ejaculation from his lips, and his upward-pointing arm, directed the
attention of his companions to an arrow, shot with seeming defiance
towards them from the enemy's camp. It rose to a considerable
height, and describing a wide curve, fell into the water thirty rods
from where the little party were standing, but scarcely had it struck
the wave before the venturous Huron had plunged into the lake,
and was swimming rapidly towards it. That his quick eye had discerned
something unusual in the missile was evident by his actions,
no attempt was made to fire upon him by the enemy, and in a few
minutes he returned to the shore bearing the weapon in his mouth.
Henrich ran to meet him, and trembled with the intensity of his
emotions as he discovered a slip of paper secured in the feathery
haft; eagerly seizing the desired, yet dreaded document, he read
the following words, which were written in French:
“I cannot read your message; you must surrender, or I cannot
answer for your lives; we are thirty-five strong, French and
Hurons.”
“God of mercy!” exclaimed Blanche, “they are our friends!
They are probably searching for us! My father has sent them!”
As she spoke, she glanced gratefully upwards, leaving in beautiful
ambiguity the meaning of her closing sentence.
There was indeed every reason to believe that Miss Montaigne's
conjectures were correct, and so unbounded was the transport of delight
which prevailed among the little party, that for a while they
were incapable of taking the necessary means of ascertaining the
certainty of their new and exciting hopes. But Henrich, at length,
prepared another note in the French language, as follows:
“If you are a French party, we are your friends; this is Count
Carlton's command, and is the escort of Miss Montaigne. Attested
by the totum of the Lynx, a Huron Chief, who is with us.”
Underneath these lines, the Lynx drew a rough sketch of his
namesake of the forest, as also of a hand, extended in amity, and
the paper was at once transmitted by the same mode of conveyance
by which the other had arrived, for although the arrow must fall
far short of the opposing shore, attention would now be fixed upon
it and it could readily be procured by the other party. A boat
indeed was sent out without hesitation, almost before the weapon
had touched the water, no fear seeming to be evinced by its occupant
of any evil during the implied armistice that was now existing.
No sooner had this new document reached the northern camp
the whole party rushed to the beach, uttering prolonged shouts,
flinging up their arms and running rapidly about. In a few minutes
the boats were got out, and the whole company embarked and set
out for the smaller island, while Blanche and Emily, divested of their
last fear, scarcely refrained from fainting with the excess of their
delight. Mutual congratulations were exchanged, and the Lynx was
about to despatch a messenger to bear the joyous tidings to the
count, when the latter was seen rapidly approaching in the distance.
The shouts had reached his ears and leaving his companions to guard
the southern post he hastened across the island, half dead with
affright, and anxious to learn the extent of the new calamity. As he
came near the northern shore, he caught sight of the approaching
batteaux, which were now midway between the islands, and the
crowded occupants of which were still making the air ring with their
vociferous cries. He rushed up to the Lynx and Beaver, who, as
they were standing as usual, gun in hand, he supposed were
preparing to fire upon their invaders, and exclaimed to the former:
“Ah! this is horrible! thrice horrible! but do not fire; it will
only exasperate them—they are too many; perhaps they will be
merciful.”
“They are our friends!” replied the Huron.
“Yes—yes—tell them we are their friends,” replied Carlton,
whose terror prevented him from comprehending the imperfect
French of the Indian—“yes, yes, tell them we are harmless
travellers with ladies, and that we do not want to hurt them—nor—
nor—to have them hurt us, will you?” he added eagerly.
“They are our friends!” repeated the Lynx, quietly.
“Ah misericorde!” exclaimed the count, still unheeding the words
of the other—“ah ladies, this will be sad for you, too; you had
better hide—it is very dreadful: ah, how fast they come—how fast
they come: don't forget to tell them we are their friends, and that
we can ransom ourselves with a whole boat-load of money—and they
don't you think you had better begin to speak—see how near they
are—”
“They are—”
“Ah, I am sorry we killed those poor fellows this morning: that
will make them very fierce I fear—but it was the Beaver, yes, aha!
it was the Beaver did it—tell them so, you know, and if they must
kill somebody, they had better kill him, of course, for these Indians
are more used to such things.”
So rapid and earnest had been the count's language that it would
have been difficult for any one to check its impetuous course: the
calm, dignified Indian, too courteous to interrupt, would have waited
for the torrent of words to flow by, before replying, if it had lasted
an hour.
“These are our friends,” he now said, once more, scarcely concealing
his contempt—“see! they are our brothers! they have come to
help us!”
“What? what?” exclaimed Carlton, “our friends? Is it true,
my dear friend? Is it really true? Are we really, really safe?”
“I have said,” replied the Lynx, coldly.
“Ah, this is most delightful then!” he added, breathing freely,
and advancing nearer to the ladies—“ah, ladies! do you hear?
you are safe; these are the Lynx's friends; do not be alarmed: in
a few minutes you will have the pleasure of seeing us exterminate
those fiends on the other island: keep up good courage—you are
quite safe, I assure you.”
The batteaux had now approached to within sixty yards of the
shore, and the Lynx, advanced to the water's edge, was already
conversing with some of their inmates; in another minute the whole
party were on the beach, crowding around the Huron, and manifesting
the most lively joy at meeting him.
Their leader was a French sergeant, named Grill, who at once
advanced to Carlton, and modestly resigned his command into the
pleasure at having discovered his mistake in time to prevent serious
consequences. The Baron Montaigne, he said, had become uneasy at
the prolonged absence of the party, and had despatched him with
instructions to proceed as far as the head of the upper lake, if necessary,
in search of them. Their own safety, he said, required that
they should destroy or capture any small parties of the enemy whom
they might encounter, lest intelligence of their expedition should get
abroad, and their return be intercepted. This was the reason of
their having pursued the count in a hostile manner, being prevented
from once suspecting his true character by his change of the canoes
in which he had left home for batteaux, and by his quick flight.
“But how is it,” he added, “that your number is so largely
increased? Your boats seemed to contain eight or ten each!”
“Is it possible that you do not yet understand?” replied the
count, earnestly—“I have but one boat: the others are Iroquois;
they were in pursuit of us when you came in sight: they mistook
you, as we did, for their friends, fired a salute to attract your notice,
and are even now on an adjoining island, kept at bay by a few of
our men!”
“What a tissue of blunders is this!” replied the sergeant: “I
mistook the firing for a warning from one of your boats to the other
to give notice of our approach: we had not seen you until then,
when you both seemed to fly in the same direction and we pursued;
but we will have them at any rate, that is to say,” he added in a
less animated tone, “I must beg pardon for forgetting that I am no
longer in command.”
“Oh, take them! yes, take them, of course,” said the count—
“that is just what I was saying to the ladies—surround them—cut
them down—show no quarter!”
“Do I understand that your honor allows me to command an
expedition against them with my own men?” inquired Grill, eagerly,
and fearful he was in error: “we can do it up in a few minutes, sir,
fresh, I assure you, sir.”
“Yes—certainly—of course,” answered Carlton; “I give you the
command; we are a little fatigued, all of us.”
“The Lynx is not tired,” said that personage, who had approached
during the colloquy, and stood listening to it.
“Very well, you may go if you choose,” said Carlton, taking snuff,
and seeming a little disconcerted.
“And the Beaver?” added the Huron, answering an animated
look from his friend, who, since the count's return, had again been
struck dumb.
“We cannot spare all our guard,” interposed Blanche—“let the
Beaver and the soldiers remain with us, I pray; there certainly are
enough without them.”
“Enough, enough, certainly, too many if the count pleases,” said
the sergeant.
“Very well,” answered Carlton—“let the Beaver and the soldiers
remain; go now, and see that you give us a good account of them.”
“Let me implore,” said Blanche, addressing the count—“that
there be no useless waste of life: they are human beings, and let us
remember what were our feelings a few minutes since in view of such
destruction as now threatens them. We have received mercy, let us
impart it. It is the law of civilized warfare, the world over, to spare
the foe who surrenders; instruct the men, I beseech you, Count
Carlton, not to kill the prisoners.”
Carlton informed the sergeant that he might consider Miss
Montaigne's request as an order, and directed him to communicate
it to his men, whereupon the party hastened at once to their boats,
and set out on their errand; a messenger having been first despatched
to the Algonquin to inform him of the changed state of affairs, and
to request him to co-operate with the attack in any way that his
position would permit.
But a short time elapsed before the sound of guns was heard in a
attend an Indian battle, and in less than an hour the canoes returned
accompanied by the captured batteau, with seven of the Iroquois as
prisoners. Three only had been killed, and the victory had been
achieved without the loss of a man to the Hurons, although a few
of both parties had been wounded.
The captives were guarded on both sides by the attendant canoes,
and their hands were also bound together at the wrist, yet their
leader, a large powerful man, succeeded in drawing his arms apart
as they drew near the island, and, determined to make an effort for
the life which he supposed forfeited, he plunged suddenly into the
water, and sank, like lead, beneath the boats. Twenty guns were
instantly presented to await his approach to the surface, and every
eye was scanning the water to watch the place of his reappearance;
more than a minute elapsed, when the shout, “there he is!” was
heard, and a head was seen thirty rods distant towards the eastern
shore, partly protruding above the wave. An irregular discharge
succeeded, but with the first report of a gun the Indian again
disappeared, and the volley proved harmless. Exhaustion, however,
evidently forbade his continuance beneath the water, and he almost
immediately rose a second time, when the Lynx, mindful of the
Beaver's accurate aim, called to him to fire at the fugitive.
“No—no—no—for mercy's sake, let the poor fellow go—it is too
horrible!” exclaimed Blanche, who with Henrich and the count,
stood watching the scene from the beach.
“Fire!” shouted Carlton, gesticulating to the disguised Henrich—
“fire—I command you; Miss Montaigne will have the goodness not
to interfere: Fire!” he repeated, himself raising the Beaver's gun, and
pointing with his finger to the swimmer.
Henrich, who could no longer affect to misunderstand his orders,
glanced expressively at Blanche, and levelled his gun towards the
Iroquois, making the prisoners tremble for their now seemingly
doomed comrade, for too well they knew the fatal marksman and
exultation as the dreaded ball was seen to strike the water about
three feet distant from their friend. Carlton looked angrily at the
mute stranger, but a grateful smile from Blanche met his eye, convincing
him that she comprehended his forbearance, which, indeed,
had been no less in compliance with his own sympathies for the
fugitive than with her wishes.
The confusion was now a little abated, and a boat was sent in
pursuit, but as the swimmer, having fully recovered his breath, soon
went down again and took care to change his direction while
beneath the water, it was no easy matter to follow his course, and
after several hair-breadth escapes from the shots of his pursuers, he
finally succeeded in gaining the land, and making good his escape
in the forest.
Carlton resumed his voyage on the same evening, rejoicing in the
security which his increased numbers imparted, exulting in his victory
over the Iroquois, and believing himself altogether a hero after
Mars' own fashioning. Never did returning general enter the gates
of world-ruling Rome, after desolating some distant nation, and adding
a new province to the empire, with a loftier sense of his achievements
than that with which the self-satisfied Gaul now embarked
for Castle Montaigne. He resolved to lose no time by delay, and
not again to jeopard the glory which he had acquired. Nightlong
he travelled, and at meridian of the ensuing day the converging
shores of the lake were seen closing around its northern extremity;
the blue waters of the Sorelle gleamed in the distance, and soon the
vessels were gliding upon its tranquil surface.
A few hours later the rejoicing voyagers beheld the rugged turrets
of Castle Montaigne gleaming through the thinned forests, and
saw a welcoming cortége thronging to the river's bank, to hail their
approach. The woodlands rang with acclamations as the coming
vessels were seen to contain the prominent objects of solicitude, the
Baron's daughter and niece, the Lynx, the Algonquin, and the
pressing forward into the very water to grasp the hand of his sobbing
daughter, and imprint an unexpected kiss upon her cheek. In
the background the timid Myrtle was seen peering with innocent
and wondering face at the strangers, clinging with one hand to the
dusky baroness, and seeming like a rose beside its root.
Carlton saw her, and trembled.
| CHAPTER XXVI. The King of the Hurons | |