Wyandotte - James Fenimore Cooper
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Major Wilioughby, however, had now sufficient inducements to move,
without reference to the hostile intentions of his late captors. That
his escape would excite a malignant desire for vengeance, he could
easily believe; but his mother, his revered heart-broken mother, and
the patient, afflicted Beulah, were constantly before him, and gladly
did he press on, Maud leaning on his arm, the instant Nick led the way.
To say that the lovely, confiding being who clung to his side, as the
vine inclines to the tree, was forgotten, or that he did not retain a
vivid recollection of all that she had so ingenuously avowed in his
favour, would not be rigidly accurate, though the hopes thus created
shone in the distance, under the present causes of grief, as the sun's
rays illumine the depths of the heavens, while his immediate face is
entirely hidden by an eclipse.
"Did you see any signs of a movement against the house, Nick?" demanded
the major, when the three had been busily making their way, for several
minutes, round the margin of the forest.
The Tuscarora turned, nodded his head, and glanced at Maud.
"Speak frankly, Wyandotte--"
"Good!" interrupted the Indian with emphasis, assuming a dignity of
manner the major had never before witnessed. "Wyandotte come--Nick gone
away altogeder. Nebber see Sassy Nick, ag'in, at Dam."
"I am glad to hear this, Tuscarora, and as Maud says, you may speak
plainly."
"T'ink, den, best be ready. Mohawk feel worse dan if he lose ten,
t'ree, six scalp. Injin know Injin feelin'. Pale-face can't stop red-
skin, when blood get up."
"Press on, then, Wyandotte, for the sake of God--let me, at least, die
in defence of my beloved mother!"
"Moder; good!--Doctor Tuscarora, when death grin in face! She _my_
moder, too!"
This was said energetically, and in a manner to assure his listeners
that they had a firm ally in this warlike savage. Little did either
dream, at that instant, that this same wayward being--the creature of
passion, and the fierce avenger of all his own fancied griefs, was the
cause of the dreadful blow that had so recently fallen on them.
The sun still wanted an hour of setting, when Nick brought his
companions to the fallen tree, by which they were again to cross the
rivulet. Here he paused, pointing to the roofs of the Hut, which were
then just visible through the trees; as much as to say that his duty,
as a guide, was done.
"Thank you, Wyandotte," said Willoughby; "if it be the will of God to
carry us safely through the crisis, you shall be well rewarded for this
service."
"Wyandotte chief--want no dollar. Been Injin runner--now be Injin
warrior. Major follow--squaw follow--Mohawk in hurry."
This was enough. Nick passed out of the forest on a swift walk--but for
the female, it would have been his customary, loping trot--followed by
Willoughby; his arm, again, circling the waist of Maud, whom he bore
along scarce permitting her light form to touch the earth. At this
instant, four or five conches sounded, in the direction of the mills,
and along the western margin of the meadows. Blast seemed to echo
blast; then the infernal yell, known as the war-whoop, was heard all
along the opposite face of the buildings. Judging from the sounds, the
meadows were alive with assailants, pressing on for the palisades.
At this appalling moment, Joyce appeared on the ridge of the roof,
shouting, in a voice that might have been heard to the farthest point
in the valley--
"Stand to your arms, my men," he cried; "here the scoundrels come; hold
your fire until they attempt to cross the stockade."
To own the truth, there was a little bravado in this, mingled with the
stern courage that habit and nature had both contributed to lend the
serjeant. The veteran knew the feebleness of his garrison, and fancied
that warlike cries, from himself, might counterbalance the yells that
were now rising from all the fields in front of the house.
As for Nick and the major, they pressed forward, too earnest and
excited, to speak. The former measured the distance by his ear; and
thought there was still time to gain a cover, if no moment was lost. To
reach the foot of the cliff, took just a minute; to ascend to the hole
in the palisade, half as much time; and to pass it, a quarter. Maud was
dragged ahead, as much as she ran; and the period when the three were
passing swiftly round to the gate, was pregnant with imminent risk.
They were seen, and fifty rifles were discharged, as it might be, at a
command. The bullets pattered against the logs of the Hut, and against
the palisades, but no one was hurt. The voice of Willoughby opened the
gate, and the next instant the three were within the shelter of the
court.
Chapter XXVIII.
"They have not perish'd--no!
Kind words, remembered voices, once so sweet,
Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat;
"All shall come back, each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall evil die,
And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.
"And then shall I behold
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her, who still and cold,
Fills the next grave--the beautiful and young."
Bryant's Past.
The scene that followed passed like a hurricane sweeping over the
valley. Joyce had remained on the ridge of the roof, animating his
little garrison, and endeavouring to intimidate his enemies, to the
last moment. The volley of bullets had reached the palisades and the
buildings, and he was still unharmed. But the sound of the major's
voice below, and the cry that Miss Maud and Nick were at the gate,
produced a sudden change in all his dispositions for the defence. The
serjeant ran below himself, to report and receive his orders from the
new commander, while all the negroes, females as well as males, rushed
down into the court, to meet their young master and mistress.
It is not easy to describe the minute that succeeded, after Willoughby
and Maud were surrounded by the blacks. The delight of these untutored
beings was in proportion to their recent sorrow. The death of their
master, and the captivity of Master Bob and Miss Maud, had appeared to
them like a general downfall of the family of Willoughby; but here was
a revival of its hopes, that came as unexpectedly as its previous
calamities. Amid the clamour, cries, tears, lamentations, and bursts of
uncontrollable delight, Joyce could scarce find a moment in which to
discharge his duty.
"I see how it is, serjeant," exclaimed Willoughby; "the assault is now
making, and you desire orders."
"There is not an instant to lose, Major Willoughby; the enemy are at
the palisades already, and there is no one at his station but Jamie and
young Blodget."
"To your posts, men--to your posts, everybody. The house shall be made
good at all hazards. For God's sake, Joyce, give me arms. I feel that
my father's wrongs are to be revenged."
"Robert--dear, dear Robert," said Maud, throwing her arms on his
shoulders, "this is no moment for such bitter feelings. Defend us, as I
know you will, but defend us like a Christian."
One kiss was all that the time allowed, and Maud rushed into the house
to seek her mother and Beulah, feeling as if the tidings of Bob's
return might prove some little alleviation to the dreadful blow under
which they must be suffering.
As for Willoughby, he had no time for pious efforts at consolation. The
Hut was to be made good against a host of enemies; and the cracking of
rifles from the staging and the fields, announced that the conflict had
begun in earnest. Joyce handed him a rifle, and together they ascended
rapidly to the roofs. Here they found Jamie Allen and Blodget, loading
and firing as fast as they could, and were soon joined by all the
negroes. Seven men were now collected on the staging; and placing three
in front, and two on each wing, the major's dispositions were made;
moving, himself, incessantly, to whatever point circumstances called.
Mike, who knew little of the use of fire-arms, was stationed at the
gate, as porter and warder.
It was so unusual a thing for savages to attack by daylight, unless
they could resort to surprise, that the assailants were themselves a
little confused. The assault was made, under a sudden feeling of
resentment at the escape of the prisoner, and contrary to the wishes of
the principal white men in the party, though the latter were dragged in
the train of events, and had to seem to countenance that of which they
really disapproved. These sudden outbreakings were sufficiently common
in Indian warfare, and often produced memorable disasters. On the
present occasion, however, the most that could occur was a repulse, and
to this the leaders, demagogues who owed their authority to the
excesses and necessities of the times, were fain to submit, should it
happen.
The onset had been fierce and too unguarded. The moment the volley was
fired at the major, the assailants broke cover, and the fields were
alive with men. This was the instant when the defence was left to Allen
and Blodget, else might the exposure have cost the enemy dear. As it
was, the last brought down one of the boldest of the Indians while the
mason fired with good will, though with less visible effect. The yell
that followed this demonstration of the apparent force of the garrison,
was a wild mixture of anger and exultation, and the rush at the
palisades was general and swift. As Willoughby posted his
reinforcement, the stockade was alive with men, some ascending, some
firing from its summit, some aiding others to climb, and one falling
within the enclosure, a second victim to Blodget's unerring aim.
The volley that now came from the roofs staggered the savages, most of
whom fell outward, and sought cover in their usual quick and dexterous
manner. Three or four, however, thought it safer to fall within the
palisades, seeking safety immediately under the sides of the buildings.
The view of these men, who were perfectly safe from the fire of the
garrison so long as the latter made no sortie, gave an idea to those
without, and produced, what had hitherto been wanting, something like
order and concert in the attack. The firing now became desultory and
watchful on both sides, the attacking party keeping themselves covered
by the trees and fences as well as they could, while the garrison only
peered above the ridge of the roof, as occasions required.
The instant the outbreak occurred, all the _ci-devant_ dependants
of captain Willoughby, who had deserted, abandoned their various
occupations in the woods and fields, collecting in and around the
cabins, in the midst of their wives and children. Joel, alone, was not
to be seen. He had sought his friends among the leaders of the party,
behind a stack of hay, at a respectful distance from the house, and to
which there was a safe approach by means of the rivulet and its fringe
of bushes. The little council that was held at this spot took place
just as the half-dozen assailants who had fallen within the palisades
were seen clustering along under the walls of the buildings.
"Natur' gives you a hint how to conduct," observed Joel, pointing out
this circumstance to his principal companions, as they all lay peering
over the upper portions of the stack, at the Hut. "You see them men
under the eaves--they're a plaguy sight safer up there, than we be down
here; and; if 'twere'n't for the look of the thing, I wish I was with
'em. That house will never be taken without a desperate sight of
fightin'; for the captain is an old warrior, and seems to like to snuff
gunpowder"--the reader will understand none knew of the veteran's death
but those in the house--"and won't be for givin' up while he has a
charge left. If I had twenty men--no, thirty would be better, where
these fellows be, I think the place could be carried in a few minutes,
and then liberty would get its rights, and your monarchy-men would be
put down as they all desarve."
"What do then?" demanded the leading Mohawk, in his abrupt guttural
English. "No shoot--can't kill log."
"No, chief, that's reasonable, an' ongainsayable, too; but only one-
half the inner gate is hung, and I've contrived matters so, on purpose,
that the props of the half that isn't on the hinges can be undone, all
the same as onlatching the door. If I only had the right man here, now,
the business should be done, and that speedily."
"Go 'self," answered the Mohawk, not without an expression of distrust
and contempt.
"Every man to his callin', chief. My trade is peace, and politics, and
liberty, while your's is war. Howsever, I can put you, and them that
likes fightin', on the trail, and then we'll see how matters can be
done. Mortality! How them desperate devils on the roof do keep blazin'
away! It wouldn't surprise me if they shot somebody, or get hurt
themselves!"
Such were the deliberations of Joel Strides on a battle. The Indian
leaders, however, gave some of their ordinary signals, to bring their
'young men' more under command and, sending messengers with orders in
different directions, they left the haystack, compelling Joel to
accompany them.
The results of these movements were soon apparent. The most daring of
the Mohawks made their way into the rivulet, north of the buildings,
and were soon at the foot of the cliff. A little reconnoitring told
them that the hole which Joel had pointed out, had not been closed
since the entrance of Willoughby and his companions. Led by their
chief, the warriors stole up the ascent, and began to crawl through the
same inlet which had served as an outlet to so many deserters, the
previous night, accompanied by their wives and children.
The Indians in front had been ordered to occupy the attention of the
garrison, while this movement was in the course of execution. At a
signal, they raised a yell, unmasked them, fired one volley, and seemed
to make another rush at the works. This was the instant chosen for the
passage of the hole, and the seven leading savages effected their
entrance within the stockade, with safety. The eighth man was shot by
Blodget, in the hole itself. The body was instantly withdrawn by the
legs, and all in the rear fell back under the cover of the cliff.
Willoughby now understood the character of the assault. Stationing
Joyce, with a party to command the hole, he went himself into the
library, accompanied by Jamie and Blodget, using a necessary degree of
caution. Fortunately the windows were raised, and a sudden volley
routed all the Indians who had taken shelter beneath the rocks. These
men, however, fled no further than the rivulet, where they rallied
under cover of the bushes, keeping up a dropping fire at the windows.
For several minutes, the combat was confined to this spot; Willoughby,
by often shifting from window to window along the rear of the house,
getting several volleys that told, at the men under the cover.
As yet, all the loss had been on the side of the assailants, though
several of the garrison, including both Willoughby and Joyce, had
divers exceedingly narrow escapes. Quite a dozen of the assailants had
suffered, though only four were killed outright. By this time, the
assault had lasted an hour, and the shades of evening were closing
around the place. Daniel, the miller, had been sent by Joel to spring
the mine they had prepared together, but, making the mistake usual with
the uninitiated, he had hung back, to let others pass the hole first,
and was consequently carried down in the crowd, within the cover of the
bushes of the rivulet.
Willoughby had a short consultation with Joyce, and then he set
seriously about the preparations necessary for a light defence. By a
little management, and some persona, risk, the bullet-proof shutters of
the north wing of the Hut were all closed, rendering the rear of the
buildings virtually impregnable. When this was done, and the gates of
the area were surely shut, the place was like a ship in a gale, under
short canvass and hove-to. The enemy within the palisades were
powerless, to all appearance, the walls of stone preventing anything
like an application of fire. Of the last, however, there was a little
danger on the roof, the Indians frequently using arrows for this
purpose, and water was placed on the staging in readiness to be used on
occasion.
All these preparations occupied some time, and it was quite dark ere
they were completed. Then Willoughby had a moment for reflection; the
firing having entirely ceased, and nothing further remaining to do.
"We are safe for the present, Joyce," the major observed, as he and the
serjeant stood together on the staging, after having consulted on the
present aspect of things; "and I have a solemn duty, yet, to perform--
my dear mother--and the body of my father--"
"Yes, sir; I would not speak of either, so long as it was your honour's
pleasure to remain silent on the subject. Madam Willoughby is sorely
cut down, as you may imagine, sir; and, as for my gallant old
commander, he died in his harness, as a soldier should."
"Where have you taken the body?--has my mother seen it?"
"Lord bless you, sir, Madam Willoughby had his honour carried into her
own room, and there she and Miss Beulah"--so all of the Hut still
called the wife of Evert Beekman--"she and Miss Beulah, kneel, and
pray, and weep, as you know, sir, ladies will, whenever anything severe
comes over their feelings--God bless them both, we all say, and think,
ay, and pray, too, in our turns, sir."
"Very well, Joyce. Even a soldier may drop a tear over the dead body of
his own father. God only knows what this night will bring forth, and I
may never have a moment as favourable as this, for discharging so
solemn a duty."
"Yes, your honour"--Joyce fancied that the major had succeeded to this
appellation by the decease of the captain--"yes, your honour, the
commandments, that the Rev. Mr. Woods used to read to us of a Sunday,
tell us all about that; and it is quite as much the duty of a Christian
to mind the commandments, I do suppose, as it is for a soldier to obey
orders. God bless you, sir, and carry you safe through the affair. I
had a touch of it with Miss Maud, myself, and know what it is. It's bad
enough to lose an old commander in so sudden a way like, without having
to _feel_ what has happened in company with so sweet ladies, as
these we have in the house. As for these blackguards down inside the
works, let them give you no uneasiness; it will be light work for us to
keep them busy, compared to what your honour has to do."
It would seem by the saddened manner in which Willoughby moved away,
that he was of the same way of thinking as the serjeant, on this
melancholy subject. The moment, however, was favourable for the object,
and delay could not be afforded. Then Willoughby's disposition was to
console his mother, even while he wept with her over the dead body of
him they had lost.
Notwithstanding the wild uproar that had so prevailed, not only
without, but within the place, the portion of the house that was
occupied by the widowed matron and her daughters, was silent as the
grave. All the domestics were either on the staging, or at the loops,
leaving the kitchens and offices deserted. The major first entered a
little ante-chamber, that opened between a store-room, and the
apartment usually occupied by his mother; this being the ordinary means
of approach to her room. Here he paused, and listened quite a minute,
in the hope of catching some sound from within that might prepare him
for the scene he was to meet. Not a whisper, a moan, or a sob could be
heard; and he ventured to tap lightly at the door. This was unheeded;
waiting another minute, as much in dread as in respect, he raised the
latch with some such awe, as one would enter into a tomb of some
beloved one. A single lamp let him into the secrets of this solemn
place.
In the centre of the room, lay stretched on a large table, the manly
form of the author of his being. The face was uppermost, and the limbs
had been laid, in decent order, as is usual with the dead that have
been cared for. No change had been made in the dress, however, the
captain lying in the hunting-shirt in which he had sallied forth; the
crimson tint which disfigured one breast, having been sedulously
concealed by the attention of Great Smash. The passage from life to
eternity had been so sudden, as to leave the usual benignant expression
on the countenance of the corpse; the paleness which had succeeded the
fresh ruddy tint of nature, alone denoting that the sleep was not a
sweet repose, but that of death.
The body of his father was the first object that met the gaze of the
major. He advanced, leaned forward, kissed the marble-like forehead,
with reverence, and groaned in the effort to suppress an unmanly
outbreaking of sorrow. Then he turned to seek the other well-beloved
faces. There sat Beulah, in a corner of the room, as if to seek shelter
for her infant, folding that infant to her heart, keeping her look
riveted, in anguish, on the inanimate form that she had ever loved
beyond a daughter's love. Even the presence of her brother scarce drew
a glance away from the sad spectacle; though, when it at length did,
the youthful matron bowed her face down to that of her child, and wept
convulsively. She was nearest to the major, who moved to her side, and
kissed the back of her neck, with kind affection. The meaning was
understood; and Beulah, while unable to look up, extended a hand to
meet the fraternal pressure it received.
Maud was near, kneeling at the side of the bed. Her whole attitude
denoted the abstraction of a mind absorbed in worship and solicitation.
Though Willoughby's heart yearned to raise her in his arms; to console
her, and bid her lean on himself, in future, for her earthly support,
he too much respected her present occupation, to break in upon it with
any irreverent zeal of his own. His eye turned from this loved object,
therefore, and hurriedly looked for his mother.
The form of Mrs. Willoughby had escaped the first glances of her son,
in consequence of the position in which she had placed herself. The
stricken wife was in a corner of the room, her person partly concealed
by the drapery of a window-curtain; though this was evidently more the
effect of accident, than of design. Willoughby started, as he caught
the first glance of his beloved parent's face; and he felt a chill pass
over his whole frame. There she sat upright, motionless, tearless,
without any of the alleviating weaknesses of a less withering grief,
her mild countenance exposed to the light of the lamp, and her eyes
riveted on the face of the dead. In this posture had she remained for
hours; no tender cares on the part of her daughters; no attentions from
her domestics; no outbreaking of her own sorrows, producing any change.
Even the clamour of the assault had passed by her like the idle wind.
"My mother--my poor--dear--heart-broken mother!" burst from Willoughby,
at this sight, and he stepped quickly forward, and knelt at her feet.
But Bob--the darling Bob--his mother's pride and joy, was unheeded. The
heart, which had so long beaten for others only; which never seemed to
feel a wish, or a pulsation, but in the service of the objects of its
affection, was not sufficiently firm to withstand the blow that had
lighted on it so suddenly. Enough of life remained, however, to support
the frame for a while; and the will still exercised its power over the
mere animal functions. Her son shut out the view of the body, and she
motioned him aside with an impatience of manner he had never before
witnessed from the same quarter. Inexpressibly shocked, the major took
her hands, by gentle compulsion, covering them with kisses, and
literally bathing them in tears.
"Oh! mother--dearest, dearest mother!" he cried, "_will_ you
not--_do_ you not know _me_--Robert--Bob--your much-indulged,
grateful, affectionate son. If father is gone into the immediate
presence of the God he revered and served, I am still left to be a
support to your declining years. Lean on me, mother, next to your
Father in Heaven."
"Will he ever get up, Robert?" whispered the widowed mother. "You speak
too loud, and may rouse him before his time. He promised me to bring
you back; and he ever kept his promises. He had a long march, and is
weary, See, how sweetly he sleeps!"
Robert Willoughby bowed his head to his mother's knees, and groaned
aloud. When he raised his face again, he saw the arms of Maud elevated
towards heaven, as if she would pluck down that consolation for her
mother, that her spirit was so fervently asking of the Almighty. Then
he gazed into the face of his mother again; hoping to catch a gleam of
some expression and recognition, that denoted more of reason. It was in
vain; the usual placidity, the usual mild affection were there; but
both were blended with the unnatural halo of a mind excited to disease,
if not to madness. A slight exclamation, which sounded like alarm, came
from Beulah; and turning towards his sister, Willoughby saw that she
was clasping Evert still closer to her bosom, with her eyes now bent on
the door. Looking in the direction of the latter, he perceived that
Nick had stealthily entered, the room.