Wyandotte - James Fenimore Cooper
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It was necessary to make the remainder of the journey on horseback. A
large, untenanted estate lay between the highway and the valley, across
which no public road had yet been made. Foot-paths, however, abounded,
and the rivulet was found without any difficulty. It was, perhaps,
fortunate for the privacy of the Knoll, that it lay in the line of no
frequented route, and, squatters being rare in that day, Willoughby
saw, the instant he struck the path that followed the sinuosities of
the stream, that it had been seldom trodden in the interval of the
nineteen-years which had occurred since he had last seen it himself.
The evidences of this fact increased, as the stream was ascended, until
the travellers reached the mill, when it was found that the spirit of
destruction, which so widely prevails in the loose state of society
that exists in all new countries, had been at work. Every one of the
buildings at the falls had been burnt; probably as much because it was
in the power of some reckless wanderer to work mischief, as for any
other reason. That the act was the result of some momentary impulse,
was evident in the circumstance that the mischief went no further. Some
of the machinery had been carried away, however, to be set up in other
places, on a principle that is very widely extended through all border
settlements, which considers the temporary disuse of property as its
virtual abandonment.
It was a moment of pain and pleasure, strangely mingled, when
Willoughby and Maud reached the rocks, and got a first view of the
ancient Beaver Dam. All the buildings remained, surprisingly little
altered to the eye by the lapse of years. The gates had been secured
when they left the place, in 1776; and the Hut, having no accessible
external windows, that dwelling remained positively intact. It is true,
quite half the palisadoes were rotted down; but the Hut, itself, had
resisted the ravages of time. A fire had been kindled against its side,
but the stone walls had opposed an obstacle to its ravages; and an
attempt, by throwing a brand upon the roof, had failed of its object,
the shingles not igniting. On examination, the lock of the inner gate
was still secure. The key had been found, and, on its application, an
entrance was obtained into the court.
What a moment was that, when Maud, fresh from the luxuries of an
English home, entered this long and well remembered scene of her youth!
Rank grasses were growing in the court, but they soon disappeared
before the scythes that had been brought, in expectation of the
circumstance. Then, all was clear for an examination of the house. The
Hut was exactly in the condition in which it had been left, with the
exception of a little, and a very little, dust collected by time.
Maud was still in the bloom of womanhood, feminine, beautiful, full of
feeling, and as sincere as when she left these woods, though her
feelings were tempered a little by intercourse with the world. She went
from room to room, hanging on Willoughby's arm, forbidding any to
follow. All the common furniture had been left in the house, in
expectation it would be inhabited again, ere many years; and this
helped to preserve the identity. The library was almost entire; the
bed-rooms, the parlours, and even the painting-room, were found very
much as they would have appeared, after an absence of a few months.
Tears flowed in streams down the cheeks of Lady Willoughby, as she went
through room after room, and recalled to the mind of her husband the
different events of which they had been the silent witnesses. Thus
passed an hour or two of unutterable tenderness, blended with a species
of holy sorrow. At the end of that time, the attendants, of whom many
had been engaged, had taken possession of the offices, &c., and were
bringing the Hut once more into a habitable condition. Soon, too, a
report was brought that the mowers, who had been brought in
anticipation of their services being wanted, had cut a broad swathe to
the ruins of the chapel, and the graves of the family.
It was now near the setting of the sun, and the hour was favourable for
the melancholy duty that remained. For bidding any to follow,
Willoughby proceeded with Maud to the graves. These had been dug within
a little thicket of shrubs, planted by poor Jamie Allen, under Maud's
own directions. She had then thought that the spot might one day be
wanted. These bushes, lilacs, and ceringos, had grown to a vast size,
in that rich soil. They completely concealed the space within, an area
of some fifty square feet, from the observation of those without. The
grass had been cut over all, however, and an opening made by the mowers
gave access to the graves. On reaching this opening, Willoughby started
at hearing voices within the inclosure; he was about to reprove the
intruders, when Maud pressed his arm, and whispered--
"Listen, Willoughby--those voices sound strangely to my ears! We have
heard them before."
"I tell ye, Nick--ould Nicky, or Saucy Nick, or whatever's yer name,"
said one within in a strong Irish accent "that Jamie, the mason that
was, is forenent ye, at this minute, under that bit of a sod--and, it's
his honour, and Missus, and Miss Beuly, that is buried here. Och! ye're
a cr'ature, Nick; good at takin' scalps, but ye knows nothin' of
graves; barrin' the quhantity ye've helped to fill."
"Good"--answered the Indian. "Cap'in here; squaw here; darter here.
Where son?--where t'other gal?"
"Here," answered Willoughby, leading Maud within the hedge. "I am
Robert Willoughby, and this is Maud Meredith, my wife."
Mike fairly started; he even showed a disposition to seize a musket
which lay on the grass. As for the Indian, a tree in the forest could
not have stood less unmoved than he was at this unexpected
interruption. Then all four stood in silent admiration, noting the
changes which time had, more or less, wrought in all.
Willoughby was in the pride of manhood. He had served with distinction,
and his countenance and frame both showed it, though neither had
suffered more than was necessary to give him a high military air, and a
look of robust vigour. As for Maud, with her graceful form fully
developed by her riding-habit, her soft lineaments and polished
expression, no one would have thought her more than thirty, which was
ten years less than her real age. With Mike and Nick it was very
different. Both had grown old, not only in fact, but in appearance. The
Irishman was turned of sixty, and his hard, coarse-featured face, burnt
as red as the sun in a fog, by exposure and Santa Cruz, was getting to
be wrinkled and a little emaciated. Still, his frame was robust and
powerful. His attire was none of the best, and it was to be seen at a
glance that it was more than half military. In point of fact, the poor
fellow had been refused a reinlistment in the army, on account of his
infirmities and years, and America was not then a country to provide
retreats for her veterans. Still, Mike had an ample pension for wounds,
and could not be said to be in want. He had suffered in the same battle
with Joyce, in whose company he had actually been corporal O'Hearn,
though his gallant commander had not risen to fight again, as had been
the case with the subordinate.
Wyandotte exhibited still greater changes. He had seen his threescore
and ten years; and was fast falling into the "sere and yellow leaf."
His hair was getting grey, and his frame, though still active and
sinewy, would have yielded under the extraordinary marches he had once
made. In dress, there was nothing to remark; his ordinary Indian attire
being in as good condition as was usual for the man. Willoughby
thought, however, that his eye was less wild than when he knew him
before; and every symptom of intemperance had vanished, not only from
his countenance, but his person.
From the moment Willoughby appeared, a marked change came over the
countenance of Nick. His dark eye, which still retained much of its
brightness, turned in the direction of the neighbouring chapel, and he
seemed relieved when a rustling in the bushes announced a footstep.
There had not been another word spoken when the lilacs were shoved
aside, and Mr. Woods, a vigorous little man, in a green old age,
entered the area. Willoughby had not seen the chaplain since they
parted at Albany, and the greetings were as warm as they were
unexpected.
"I have lived a sort of hermit's life, my dear Bob, since the death of
your blessed parents," said the divine, clearing his eyes of tears;
"now and then cheered by a precious letter from yourself and Maud--I
call you both by the names I gave you both in baptism--and it was, 'I,
_Maud_, take thee, _Robert_,' when you stood before the
altar in that little edifice--you will pardon me if I am too familiar
with a general officer and his lady"
"Familiar!" exclaimed both in a breath;--and Maud's soft, white hand
was extended towards the chaplain, with reproachful earnestness;--"We,
who were made Christians by you, and who have so much reason to
remember and love you always!"
"Well, well; I see you are Robert and Maud, still"--dashing streaming
tears from his eyes now. "Yes, I did bring you both into God's visible
church on earth, and you were baptised by one who received his
ordination from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself,"--Maud smiled a
little archly--"and who has never forgotten his ordination vows, as he
humbly trusts. But you are not the only Christians I have made--I now
rank Nicholas among the number"--
"Nick!" interrupted Sir Robert--"Wyandotte!" added his wife, with a
more delicate tact.
"I call him Nicholas, now, since he was christened by that name--there
is no longer a Wyandotte, or a Saucy Nick. Major Willoughby, I have a
secret to communicate--I beg pardon, Sir Robert--but you will excuse
old habits--if you will walk this way."
Willoughby was apart with the chaplain a full half-hour, during which
time Maud wept over the graves, the rest standing by in respectful
silence. As for Nick, a stone could scarcely have been more fixed than
his attitude. Nevertheless, his mien was rebuked, his eye downcast;
even his bosom was singularly convulsed. He knew that the chaplain was
communicating to Willoughby the manner in which he had slain his
father. At length, the gentlemen returned slowly towards the graves;
the general agitated, frowning, and flushed. As for Mr. Woods, he was
placid and full of hope. Willoughby had yielded to his expostulations
and arguments a forgiveness, which came reluctantly, and perhaps as
much for the want of a suitable object for retaliation, as from a sense
of Christian duty.
"Nicholas," said the chaplain, "I have told the general all."
"He know him!" cried the Indian, with startling energy.
"I do, Wyandotte; and sorry have I been to learn it. You have made my
heart bitter."
Nick was terribly agitated. His youthful and former opinions maintained
a fearful struggle with those which had come late in life; the result
being a wild admixture of his sense of Indian justice, and submission
to the tenets of his new, and imperfectly-comprehended faith. For a
moment, the first prevailed. Advancing, with a firm step, to the
general, he put his own bright and keen tomahawk into the other's
hands, folded his arms on his bosom, bowed his head a little, and said,
firmly--
"Strike--Nick kill cap'in--Major kill Nick."
"No, Tuscarora, no," answered Sir Robert Willoughby, his whole soul
yielding before this act of humble submission--"May God in heaven
forgive the deed, as I now forgive you."
There was a wild smile gleaming on the face of the Indian; he grasped
both hands of Willoughby in his own. He then muttered the words, "God
forgive," his eye rolled upward at the clouds, and he fell dead on the
grave of his victim. It was thought, afterwards, that agitation had
accelerated the crisis of an incurable affection of the heart.
A few minutes of confusion followed. Then Mike, bare-headed, his old
face flushed and angry, dragged from his pockets a string of strange-
looking, hideous objects, and laid them by the Indian's side. They were
human scalps, collected by himself, in the course of many campaigns,
and brought, as a species of hecatomb, to the graves of the fallen.
"Out upon ye, Nick!" he cried. "Had I known the like of that, little
would I have campaigned in yer company! Och! 'twas an undacent deed,
and a hundred confessions would barely wipe it from yer sowl. It's a
pity, too, that ye've died widout absolution from a praist, sich as
I've tould ye off. Barrin' the brache of good fellieship, I could have
placed yer own scalp wid the rest, as a p'ace-offering, to his Honour,
the Missus and Miss Beuly----"
"Enough," interrupted Sir Robert Willoughby, with an authority of
manner that Mike's military habits could not resist; "the man has
repented, and is forgiven. Maud, love, it is time to quit this
melancholy scene; occasions will offer to revisit it."
In the end, Mr. Woods took possession of the Hut, as a sort of
hermitage, in which to spend the remainder of his days. He had toiled
hard for the conversion of Nick, in gratitude for the manner in which
he had fought in defence of the females. He now felt as keen a desire
to rescue the Irishman from the superstitions of what he deemed an
error quite as fatal as heathenism. Mike consented to pass the
remainder of his days at the Knoll, which was to be, and in time,
_was_, renovated, under their joint care.
Sir Robert and Lady Willoughby passed a month in the valley. Nick had
been buried within the bushes; and even Maud had come to look upon this
strange conjunction of graves, with the eye of a Christian, blended
with the tender regrets of a woman. The day that the general and his
wife left the valley for ever, they paid a final visit to the graves.
Here Maud wept for an hour. Then her husband, passing an arm around her
waist, drew her gently away; saying, as they were quitting the
inclosure--
"They are in Heaven, dearest--looking down in love, quite likely, on
us, the objects of so much of their earthly affection. As for
Wyandotte, he lived according to his habits and intelligence, and
happily died under the convictions of a conscience directed by the
lights of divine grace. Little will the deeds of this life be
remembered, among those who have been the true subjects of its blessed
influence. If this man were unmerciful in his revenge, he also
remembered my mother's kindnesses, and bled for her and her daughters.
Without his care, my life would have remained unblessed with your love,
my ever-precious Maud! He never forgot a favour, or forgave an injury."