Wyandotte - James Fenimore Cooper
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Ten years are a century in the history of a perfectly new settlement.
The changes they produce are even surprising, though in ordinary cases
they do not suffice to erase the signs of a recent origin. The forest
is opened, and the light of day admitted, it is true; but its remains
are still to be seen in multitudes of unsightly stumps, dead standing
trees, and ill-looking stubs. These vestiges of the savage state
usually remain a quarter of a century; in certain region they are to be
found for even more than twice that period. All this, however, had
captain Willoughby escaped, in consequence of limiting his clearing, in
a great measure, to that which had been made by the beavers, and from
which time and natural decay had, long before his arrival, removed
every ungainly object. It is true, here and there a few acres had been
cleared on the firmer ground, at the margin of the flats, where barns
and farm buildings had been built, and orchards planted; but, in order
to preserve the harmony of his view, the captain had caused all the
stumps to be pulled and burnt, giving to these places the same air of
agricultural finish as characterized the fields on the lower land.
To this sylvan scene, at a moment which preceded the setting of the sun
by a little more than an hour, and in the first week of the genial
month of May, we must now bring the reader in fancy. The season had
been early, and the Beaver Manor, or the part of it which was
cultivated, lying low and sheltered, vegetation had advanced
considerably beyond the point that is usual, at that date, in the
elevated region of which we have been writing. The meadows were green
with matted grasses, the wheat and rye resembled rich velvets, and the
ploughed fields had the fresh and mellowed appearance of good husbandry
and a rich soil. The shrubbery, of which the captain's English taste
had introduced quantities, was already in leaf, and even portions of
the forest began to veil their sombre mysteries with the delicate
foliage of an American spring.
The site of the ancient pond was a miracle of rustic beauty. Everything
like inequality or imperfection had disappeared, the whole presenting a
broad and picturesquely shaped basin, with outlines fashioned
principally by nature, an artist that rarely fails in effect. The flat
was divided into fields by low post-and-rail fences, the captain making
it a law to banish all unruly animals from his estate. The barns and
out-buildings were neatly made and judiciously placed, and the three or
four roads, or lanes, that led to them, crossed the low-land in such
graceful curves, as greatly to increase the beauty of the landscape.
Here and there a log cabin was visible, nearly buried in the forest,
with a few necessary and neat appliances around it; the homes of
labourers who had long dwelt in them, and who seemed content to pass
their lives in the same place. As most of these men had married and
become fathers, the whole colony, including children, notwithstanding
the captain's policy not to settle, had grown to considerably more than
a hundred souls, of whom three-and-twenty were able-bodied men. Among
the latter were the millers; but, their mills were buried in the ravine
where they had been first placed, quite out of sight from the picture
above, concealing all the unavoidable and ungainly-looking objects of a
saw-mill yard.
As a matter of course, the object of the greatest interest, as it was
the most conspicuous, was the Hutted Knoll, as the house was now
altogether called, and the objects it contained. Thither, then, we will
now direct our attention, and describe things as they appeared ten
years after they were first presented to the reader.
The same agricultural finish as prevailed on the flats pervaded every
object on the Knoll, though some labour had been expended to produce
it. Everything like a visible rock, the face of the cliff on the
northern end excepted, had disappeared, the stones having been blasted,
and either worked into walls for foundations, or walls for fence. The
entire base of the Knoll, always excepting the little precipice at the
rivulet, was encircled by one of the latter, erected under the
superintendence of Jamie Allen, who still remained at the Hut, a
bachelor, and as he said himself, a happy man. The southern-face of the
Knoll was converted into lawn, there being quite two acres intersected
with walks, and well garnished with shrubbery. What was unusual in
America, at that day, the captain, owing to his English education, had
avoided straight lines, and formal paths; giving to the little spot the
improvement on nature which is a consequence of embellishing her works
without destroying them. On each side of this lawn was an orchard,
thrifty and young, and which were already beginning to show signs of
putting forth their blossoms.
About the Hut itself, the appearance of change was not so manifest.
Captain Willoughby had caused it to be constructed originally, as he
intended to preserve it, and if formed no part of his plan to cover it
with tawdry colours. There it stood, brown above, and grey beneath, as
wood or stone was the material, with a widely projecting roof. It had
no piazzas, or stoups, and was still without external windows, one
range excepted. The loops had been cut, but it was more for the benefit
of lighting the garrets, than for any other reason, all of them being
glazed, and serving the end for which they had been pierced. The gates
remained precisely in the situation in which they were, when last
presented to the eye of the reader! There they stood, each leaning
against the wall on its own side of the gateway, the hinges beginning
to rust, by time and exposure. Ten years had not produced a day of
sufficient leisure in which to hang them: though Mrs. Willoughby
frequently spoke of the necessity of doing so, in the course of the
first summer. Even she had got to be so familiarized to her situation,
and so accustomed to seeing the leaves where they stood, that she now
regarded them as a couple of sleeping lions in stone, or as
characteristic ornaments, rather than as substantial defences to the
entrance of the dwelling.
The interior of the Hut, however, had undergone many alterations. The
western half had been completed, and handsome rooms had been fitted up
for guests and inmates of the family, in the portion of the edifice
occupied by the latter. Additional comforts had been introduced, and,
the garners, cribs and lodgings of the labourers having been
transferred to the skirts of the forest, the house was more strictly
and exclusively the abode of a respectable and well-regulated family.
In the rear, too, a wing had been thrown along the verge of the cliff,
completely enclosing the court. This wing, which overhung the rivulet,
and had, not only a most picturesque site, but a most picturesque and
lovely view, now contained the library, parlour and music-room,
together with other apartments devoted to the uses of the ladies,
during the day; the old portions of the house that had once been
similarly occupied being now converted into sleeping apartments. The
new wing was constructed entirely of massive squared logs, so as to
render it bullet-proof, here being no necessity for a stone foundation,
standing, as it did, on the verge of a cliff some forty feet in height.
This was the part of the edifice which had external windows, the
elevation removing it from the danger of inroads, or hostile shot,
while the air and view were both grateful and desirable. Some extra
attention had been paid to the appearance of the meadows on this side
of the Knoll, and the captain had studiously kept their skirts, as far
as the eye could see from the windows, in virgin forest; placing the
barns, cabins, and other detached buildings, so far south as to be
removed from view. Beulah Willoughby, a gentle, tranquil creature, had
a profound admiration of the beauties of nature; and to her, her
parents had yielded the control of everything that was considered
accessary to the mere charms of the eye; her taste had directed most of
that which had not been effected by the noble luxuriance of nature.
Wild roses were already putting forth their leaves in various fissures
of the rocks, where earth had been placed for their support, and the
margin of the little stream, that actually washed the base of the
cliff, winding off in a charming sweep through the meadows, a rivulet
of less than twenty feet in width, was garnished with willows and
alder. Quitting this sylvan spot, we will return to the little shrub-
adorned area in front of the Hut. This spot the captain called his
_glacis_, while his daughters termed it the lawn. The hour, it will
be remembered, was shortly before sunset, and thither nearly all the
family had repaired to breathe the freshness of the pure air, and bathe
in the genial warmth of a season, which is ever so grateful to those
who have recently escaped from the rigour of a stern winter. Rude, and
sufficiently picturesque garden-seats, were scattered about, and on one
of these were seated the captain and his wife; he, with his hair
sprinkled with grey, a hale, athletic, healthy man of sixty, and she a
fresh-looking, mild-featured, and still handsome matron of forty-eight.
In front, stood a venerable-looking personage, of small stature,
dressed in rusty black, of the cut that denoted the attire of a
clergyman, before it was considered aristocratic to wear the outward
symbols of belonging to the church of God. This was the Rev. Jedidiah
Woods, a native of New England, who had long served as a chaplain in
the same regiment with the captain, and who, being a bachelor, on
retired pay, had dwelt with his old messmate for the last eight years,
in the double capacity of one who exercised the healing art as well for
the soul as for the body. To his other offices, he added that of an
instructor, in various branches of knowledge, to the young people. The
chaplain, for so he was called by everybody in and around the Hut, was,
at the moment of which we are writing, busy in expounding to his
friends certain nice distinctions that existed, or which he fancied to
exist, between a tom-cod and a chub, the former of which fish he very
erroneously conceived he held in his hand at that moment; the Rev. Mr.
Woods being a much better angler than naturalist. To his dissertation
Mrs. Willoughby listened with great good-nature, endeavouring all the
while to feel interested; while her husband kept uttering his "by all
means," "yes," "certainly," "you're quite right, Woods," his gaze, at
the same time, fastened on Joel Strides, and Pliny the elder, who were
unharnessing their teams, on the flats beneath, having just finished a
"land," and deeming it too late to commence another.
Beulah, her pretty face shaded by a large sun-bonnet, was
superintending the labours of Jamie Allen, who, finding nothing just
then to do as a mason, was acting in the capacity of gardener; his hat
was thrown upon the grass, with his white locks bare, and he was
delving about some shrubs with the intention of giving them the benefit
of a fresh dressing of manure. Maud, however, without a hat of any
sort, her long, luxuriant, silken, golden tresses covering her
shoulders, and occasionally veiling her warm, rich cheek, was
exercising with a battledore, keeping Little Smash, now increased in
size to quite fourteen stone, rather actively employed as an assistant,
whenever the exuberance of her own spirits caused her to throw the
plaything beyond her reach. In one of the orchards, near by, two men
were employed trimming the trees. To these the captain next turned all
his attention, just as he had encouraged the chaplain to persevere, by
exclaiming, "out of all question, my dear sir"--though he was
absolutely ignorant that the other had just advanced a downright
scientific heresy. At this critical moment a cry from Little Smash,
that almost equalled a downfall of crockery in its clamour, drew every
eye in her direction.
"What is the matter, Desdemona?" asked the chaplain, a little tartly,
by no means pleased at having his natural history startled by sounds so
inapplicable to the subject. "How often have I told you that the Lord
views with displeasure anything so violent and improper as your
outcries?"
"Can't help him, dominie--nebber can help him, when he take me sudden.
See, masser, dere come Ole Nick!"
There was Nick, sure enough. For the first time, in more than two
years, the Tuscarora was seen approaching the house, on the long,
loping trot that he affected when he wished to seem busy, or honestly
earning his money. He was advancing by the only road that was ever
travelled by the stranger as he approached the Hut; or, he came up the
valley. As the woman spoke, he had just made his appearance over the
rocks, in the direction of the mills. At that distance, quite half a
mile, he would not have been recognised, but for this gait, which was
too familiar to all at the Knoll, however, to be mistaken.
"That is Nick, sure enough!" exclaimed the captain. "The fellow comes
at the pace of a runner; or, as if he were the bearer of some important
news!"
"The tricks of Saucy Nick are too well known to deceive any here,"
observed Mrs. Willoughby, who, surrounded by her husband and children,
always felt so happy as to deprecate every appearance of danger.
"These savages will keep that pace for hours at a time," observed the
chaplain; "a circumstance that has induced some naturalists to fancy a
difference in the species, if not in the genus."
"Is he chub or tom-cod, Woods?" asked the captain, throwing back on the
other all he recollected of the previous discourse.
"Nay," observed Mrs. Willoughby, anxiously, "I _do_ think he may
have some intelligence! It is now more than a twelvemonth since we have
seen Nick."
"It is more than twice twelvemonth, my dear; I have not seen the
fellow's face since I denied him the keg of rum for his 'discovery' of
another beaver pond. He has tried to sell me a new pond every season
since the purchase of this."
"Do you think he took serious offence, Hugh, at that refusal? If so,
would it not be better to give him what he asks?"
"I have thought little about it, and care less, my dear. Nick and I
know each other pretty well. It is an acquaintance of thirty years'
standing, and one that has endured trials by flood and field, and even
by the horse-whip. No less than three times have I been obliged to make
these salutary applications to Nick's back, with my own hands; though
it is, now, more than ten years since a blow has passed between us."
"Does a savage ever forgive a blow?" asked the chaplain, with a grave
air, and a look of surprise.
"I fancy a _savage_ is quite as apt to forgive it, as a
_civilized_ man, Woods. To you, who have served so long in His
Majesty's army, a blow, in the way of punishment, can be no great
novelty."
"Certainly not, as respects the soldiers; but I did not know Indians
were ever flogged."
"That is because you never happened to be present at the ceremony--but,
this is Nick, sure enough; and by his trot I begin to think the fellow
has some message, or news."
"How old is the man, captain? Does an Indian never break down?"
"Nick must be fairly fifty, now. I have known him more than half that
period, and he was an experienced, and, to own the truth, a brave and
skilful warrior, when we first met. I rate him fifty, every day of it."
By this time the new-comer was so near, that the conversation ceased,
all standing gazing at him, as he drew near, and Maud gathering up her
hair, with maiden bashfulness, though certainly Nick was no stranger.
As for Little Smash, she waddled off to proclaim the news to the
younger Pliny, Mari, and Great Smash, all of whom were still in the
kitchen of the Hut, flourishing, sleek and glistening.
Soon after, Nick arrived. He came up the Knoll on his loping trot,
never stopping until he was within five or six yards of the Captain,
when he suddenly halted, folded his arms, and stood in a composed
attitude, lest he should betray a womanish desire to tell his story. He
did not even pant but appeared as composed and unmoved, as if he had
walked the half-mile he had been seen to pass over on a trot.
"Sago--Sago," cried the captain, heartily--"you are welcome back, Nick;
I am glad to see you still so active."
"Sago"--answered the guttural voice of the Indian, who quietly nodded
his head.
"What will you have to refresh you, after such a journey, Nick--our
trees give us good cider, now."
"Santa Cruz better,"--rejoined the sententious Tuscarora.
"Santa Cruz is certainly _stronger_" answered the captain
laughing, "and, in that sense, you may find it better. You shall have a
glass, as soon as we go to the house. What news do you bring, that you
come in so fast?"
"Glass won't do. Nick bring news worth _jug_. Squaw give _two_
jug for Nick's news. Is it barg'in?"
"I!" cried Mrs. Willoughby--"what concern can I have with your news. My
daughters are both with me, and Heaven be praised! both are well. What
_can_ I care for your news, Nick?"
"Got no pap-poose but gal? T'ink you got boy--officer--great chief--up
here, down yonder--over dere."
"Robert!--Major Willoughby! What can _you_ have to tell me of my
son?"
"Tell all about him, for _one_ jug. Jug out yonder; Nick's story
out here. One good as t'other."
"You shall have all you ask, Nick."--These were not temperance days,
when conscience took so firm a stand between the bottle and the
lips.--"You shall have all you ask, Nick, provided you can really give
me good accounts of my noble boy. Speak, then; what have you to say?"
"Say you see him in ten, five minute. Sent Nick before to keep moder
from too much cry."
An exclamation from Maud followed; then the ardent girl was seen
rushing down the lawn, her hat thrown aside; and her bright fair hair
again flowing in ringlets on her shoulders. She flew rather than ran,
in the direction of the mill, where the figure of Robert Willoughby was
seen rushing forward to meet her. Suddenly the girl stopped, threw
herself on a log, and hid her face. In a few minutes she was locked in
her brother's arms. Neither Mrs. Willoughby nor Beulah imitated this
impetuous movement on the part of Maud; but the captain, chaplain, and
even Jamie Allen, hastened down the road to meet and welcome the young
major. Ten minutes later, Bob Willoughby was folded to his mother's
heart; then came Beulah's turn; after which, the news having flown
through the household, the young man had to receive the greetings of
_Mari'_, both the Smashes, the younger Pliny, and all the dogs. A
tumultuous quarter of an hour brought all round, again, to its proper
place, and restored something like order to the Knoll. Still an
excitement prevailed the rest of the day, for the sudden arrival of a
guest always produced a sensation in that retired settlement; much more
likely, then, was the unexpected appearance of the only son and heir to
create one. As everybody bustled and was in motion, the whole family
was in the parlour, and major Willoughby was receiving the grateful
refreshment of a delicious cup of tea, before the sun set. The chaplain
would have retired out of delicacy, but to this the captain would not
listen; he would have everything proceed as if the son were a customary
guest, though it might have been seen by the manner in which his
mother's affectionate eye was fastened on his handsome face, as well as
that in which his sister Beulah, in particular, hung about him, under
the pretence of supplying his wants, that the young man was anything
but an every-day inmate.
"How the lad has grown!" said the captain, tears of pride starting into
his eyes, in spite of a very manful resolution to appear composed and
soldier-like.
"I was about to remark that myself, captain," observed the chaplain. "I
do think Mr. Robert has got to his full six feet--every inch as tall as
you are yourself, my good sir."
"That is he, Woods--and taller in one sense. He is a major, already, at
twenty-seven; it is a step I was not able to reach at near twice the
age."
"That is owing, my dear sir," answered the son quickly, and with a
slight tremor in his voice, "to your not having as kind a father as has
fallen to my share--or at least one not as well provided with the means
of purchasing."
"Say none at all, Bob, and you can wound no feeling, while you will
tell the truth. _My_ father died a lieutenant-colonel when I was a
school-boy; I owed my ensigncy to my uncle Sir Hugh, the father of the
present Sir Harry Willoughby; after that I owed each step to hard and
long service. Your mother's legacies have helped you along, at a faster
rate, though I do trust there has been some merit to aid in the
preferment."
"Speaking of Sir Harry Willoughby, sir, reminds me of one part of my
errand to the Hut," said the major, glancing his eye towards his
father, as if to prepare him for some unexpected intelligence.
"What of my cousin?" demanded the captain, calmly. "We have not met in
thirty years, and are the next thing to strangers to each other. Has he
made that silly match of which I heard something when last in York? Has
he disinherited his daughter as he threatened? Use no reserve here; our
friend Woods is one of the family."
"Sir Harry Willoughby is not married, sir, but dead."
"Dead!" repeated the captain, setting down his cup, like one who
received a sudden shock. "I hope not without having been reconciled to
his daughter, and providing for her large family?"
"He died in her arms, and escaped the consequences of his silly
intention to marry his own housekeeper. With one material exception, he
has left Mrs. Bowater his whole fortune."
The captain sat thoughtful, for some time; every one else being silent
and attentive. But the mother's feelings prompted her to inquire as to
the nature of the exception.
"Why, mother, contrary to all my expectations, and I may say wishes, he
has left _me_ twenty-five thousand pounds in the fives. I only
hold the money as my father's trustee."
"You do no such thing, Master Bob, I can tell you!" said the captain,
with emphasis.
The son looked at the father, a moment, as if to see whether he was
understood, and then he proceeded--
"I presume you remember, sir," said the major, "that _you_ are the
heir to the title?"
"I have not forgot that, major Willoughby; but what is an empty
baronetcy to a happy husband and father like me, here in the wilds of
America? Were I still in the army, and a colonel, the thing might be of
use; as I am, I would rather have a tolerable road from this place to
the Mohawk than the duchy of Norfolk, without the estate."
"Estate there is none, certainly," returned the major, in a tone of a
little disappointment, "except the twenty-five thousand pounds; unless
you include that which you possess where you are; not insignificant, by
the way, sir."
"It will do well enough for old Hugh Willoughby, late a captain in His
Majesty's 23d Regiment of Foot, but not so well for _Sir_ Hugh.
No, no, Bob. Let the baronetcy sleep awhile; it has been used quite
enough for the last hundred years or more. Out of this circle, there
are probably not ten persons in America, who know that I have any
claims to it."
The major coloured, and he played with the spoon of his empty cup,
stealing a glance or two around, before he answered.
"I beg your pardon, Sir Hugh--my dear father, I mean--but--to own the
truth, never anticipating such a decision on your part, I have spoken
of the thing to a good many friends--I dare say, if the truth were
known, I've called you the baronet, or Sir Hugh, to others, at least a
dozen times."
"Well, should it be so, the thing will be forgotten. A parson can be
unfrocked, Woods, and a baronet can be unbaroneted, I suppose."
"But, Sir William"--so everybody called the well-known Sir William
Johnson, in the colony of New York--"But, Sir William found it useful,
Willoughby, and so, I dare say, will his son and successor, Sir John,"
observed the attentive wife and anxious mother; "and if _you_ are
not now in the army, Bob is. It will be a good thing for our son one
day, and ought not to be lost."
"Ah, I see how it is, Beulah; your mother has no notion to lose the
right of being called Lady Willoughby."
"I am sure my mother, sir, wishes to be called nothing that does not
become _your_ wife; if you remain Mr. Hugh Willoughby, she will
remain Mrs. Hugh Willoughby. But papa, it _might_ be useful to
Bob."
Beulah was a great favourite with the captain, Maud being only his
darling; he listened always to whatever the former said, therefore,
with indulgence and respect. He often told the chaplain that his
daughter Beulah had the true feelings of her sex, possessing a sort of
instinct for whatever was right and becoming, in woman.
"Well, Bob may have the baronetcy, then," he said, smiling. "Major Sir
Robert Willoughby will not sound amiss in a despatch."
"But, Bob _cannot_ have it, father," exclaimed Maud--"No one _can_
have it but _you_; and it's a pity it should be lost."