Wyandotte - James Fenimore Cooper
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"Let him wait, then, until I am out of the way; when he may claim his
own."
"_Can_ that be done?" inquired the mother, to whom nothing was
without interest that affected her children. "How is it, Mr. Woods?--
may a title be dropped, and then picked up again?--how is this,
Robert?"
"I believe it may, my dear mother--it will always exist, so long as
there is an heir, and my father's disrelish for it will not be binding
on me."
"Oh! in that case, then, all will come right in the end--though, as
your father does not want it, I wish you could have it, now."
This was said with the most satisfied air in the world, as if the
speaker had no possible interest in the matter herself, and it closed
the conversation, for that time. It was not easy to keep up an interest
in anything that related to the family, where Mrs. Willoughby was
concerned, in which heart did not predominate. A baronetcy was a
considerable dignity in the colony of New York in the year of our Lord,
1775, and it gave its possessor far more importance than it would have
done in England. In the whole colony there was but one, though a good
many were to be found further south; and he was known as "Sir John,"
as, in England, Lord Rockingham, or, in America, at a later day, La
Fayette, was known as "_The_ Marquis." Under such circumstances,
then, it would have been no trifling sacrifice to an ordinary woman to
forego the pleasure of being called "my lady." But the sacrifice cost
our matron no pain, no regrets, no thought even: The same attachments
which made her happy, away from the world, in the wilderness where she
dwelt, supplanted all other feelings, and left her no room, or leisure,
to think of such vanities. When the discourse changed, it was
understood that "Sir Hugh" was not to be "Sir Hugh," and that "Sir
Robert" must bide his time.
"Where did you fall in with the Tuscarora, Bob?" suddenly asked the
captain, as much to bring up another subject, as through curiosity.
"The fellow had been so long away, I began to think we should never see
him again.
"He tells me, sir, he has been on a war path, somewhere out among the
western savages. It seems these Indians fight among themselves, from
time to time, and Nick has been trying to keep his hand in. I found him
down at Canajoharie, and took him for a guide, though he had the
honesty to own he was on the point of coming over here, had I not
engaged him."
"I'll answer for it he didn't tell you _that_, until you had paid
him for the job."
"Why, to own the truth, he did not, sir. He pretended something about
owing money in the village, and got his pay in advance. I learned his
intentions only when we were within a few miles of the Hut."
"I'm glad to find, Bob, that you give the place its proper name. How
gloriously Sir Hugh Willoughby, Bart., of The _Hut_, Tryon county,
New York, would sound, Woods!--Did Nick boast of the scalps he has
taken from the Carthaginians?"
"He lays claim to three, I believe, though I have seen none of his
trophies."
"The Roman hero!--Yet, I have known Nick rather a dangerous warrior. He
was out against us, in some of my earliest service, and our
acquaintance was made by my saving his life from the bayonet of one of
my own grenadiers. I thought the fellow remembered the act for some
years; but, in the end, I believe I flogged all the gratitude out of
him. His motives, now, are concentrated in the little island of Santa
Cruz."
"Here he is, father," said Maud, stretching her light, flexible form
out of a window. "Mike and the Indian are seated at the lower spring,
with a jug between them, and appear to be in a deep conversation."
"Ay, I remember on their first acquaintance, that Mike mistook
_Saucy_ Nick, for _Old_ Nick. The Indian was indignant for a
while, at being mistaken for the Evil Spirit, but the worthies soon
found a bond of union between them, and, before six months, he and the
Irishman became sworn friends. It is said whenever two human beings
love a common principle, that it never fails to make them firm allies."
"And what was the principle, in this case, captain Willoughby?"
inquired the chaplain, with curiosity.
"Santa Cruz. Mike renounced whiskey altogether, after he came to
America, and took to rum. As for Nick, he was never so vulgar as to
find pleasure in the former liquor."
The whole party had gathered to the windows, while the discourse was
proceeding, and looking out, each individual saw Mike and his friend,
in the situation described by Maud. The two _amateurs_--
_connoisseurs_ would not be misapplied, either--had seated themselves
at the brink of a spring of delicious water, and removing the corn-cob
that Pliny the younger had felt it to be classical to affix to the
nozzle of a quart jug, had, some time before, commenced the delightful
recreation of sounding the depth, not of the spring, but of the vessel.
As respects the former, Mike, who was a wag in his way, had taken a
hint from a practice said to be common in Ireland, called "potatoe and
point," which means to eat the potatoe and point at the butter;
declaring that "rum and p'int" was every bit as entertaining as a
"p'int of rum." On this principle, then, with a broad grin on a face
that opened from ear to ear whenever he laughed, the county Leitrim-man
would gravely point his finger at the water, in a sort of mock-homage,
and follow up the movement with such a suck at the nozzle, as, aided by
the efforts of Nick, soon analyzed the upper half of the liquor that
had entered by that very passage. All this time, conversation did not
flag, and, as the parties grew warm, confidence increased, though
reason sensibly diminished. As a part of this discourse will have some
bearing on what is to follow, it may be in place to relate it, here.
"Ye're a jewel, ye be, _ould_ Nick, or _young_ Nick!" cried
Mike, in an ecstasy of friendship, just after he had completed his
first half-pint. "Ye're as wilcome at the Huts, as if ye owned thim,
and I love ye as I did my own brother, before I left the county
Leitrim--paice to his sowl!"
"He dead?" asked Nick, sententiously; for he had lived enough among the
pale-faces to have some notions of then theory about the soul.
"That's more than I know--but, living or dead, the man must have a
sowl, ye understand, Nicholas. A human crathure widout a sowl, is what
I call a heretick; and none of the O'Hearns ever came to _that_."
Nick was tolerably drunk, but by no means so far gone, that he had not
manners enough to make a grave, and somewhat dignified gesture; which
was as much as to say he was familiar with the subject.
"All go ole fashion here?" he asked, avoiding every appearance of
curiosity, however.
"That does it--that it does, Nicholas. All goes ould enough. The
captain begins to get ould; and the missus is oulder than she used to
be; and Joel's wife looks a hundred, though she isn't t'irty; and Joel,
himself, the spalpeen--he looks--" a gulp at the jug stopped the
communication.
"Dirty, too?" added the sententious Tuscarora, who did not comprehend
more than half his friend said.
"Ay, dir-r-ty--he's always _that_. He's a dirthy fellow, that
thinks his yankee charactur is above all other things."
Nick's countenance became illuminated with an expression nowise akin to
that produced by rum, and he fastened on his companion one of his fiery
gazes, which occasionally seemed to penetrate to the centre of the
object looked at.
"Why pale-face hate one anoder? Why Irishman don't love yankee?"
"Och! love the crathure, is it? You'd betther ask me to love a to'd"--
for so Michael would pronounce the word 'toad.' "What is there to love
about him, but skin and bone! I'd as soon love a skiliten. Yes--an
immortal skiliten."
Nick made another gesture, and then he endeavoured to reflect, like one
who had a grave business in contemplation. The Santa Cruz confused his
brain, but the Indian never entirely lost his presence of mind; or
never, at least, so long as he could either see or walk.
"Don't like him"--rejoined Nick. "Like anybody?"
"To be sure I does--I like the capt'in--och, _he_'s a jontleman--
and I likes the missus; she's a laddy--and I likes Miss Beuly, who's a
swate young woman--and then there's Miss Maud, who's the delight of my
eyes. Fegs, but isn't _she_ a crathure to relish!"
Mike spoke like a good honest fellow, as he was at the bottom, with all
his heart and soul. The Indian did not seem pleased, but he made no
answer.
"You've been in the wars then, Nick!" asked the Irishman, after a short
pause.
"Yes--Nick been chief ag'in--take scalps."
"Ach! That's a mighty ugly thrade! If you'd tell 'em that in Ireland,
they'd not think it a possibility."
"No like fight in Ireland, hah?"
"I'll not say that--no, I'll not say that; for many's the jollification
at which the fighting is the chafe amusement. But we likes
_thumping_ on the head--not _skinning_ it."
"That your fashion--my fashion take scalp. You thump; I skin--which
best?"
"Augh! skinnin' is a dreadthful operation; but shillaleh-work comes
nately and nat'rally. How many of these said scalps, now, may ye have
picked up, Nick, in yer last journey?"
"T'ree--all man and woman--no pappoose. One big enough make _two_;
so call him _four_."
"Oh! Divil burn ye, Nick; but there's a spice of your namesake in ye,
afther all. T'ree human crathures skinned, and you not satisfied, and
so ye'll chait a bit to make 'em four! D'ye never think, now, of yer
latther ind? D'ye never confess?"
"T'ink every day of _dat_. Hope to find more, before last day
come. Plenty scalp _here_; ha, Mike?"
This was said a little incautiously, perhaps, but it was said under a
strong native impulse. The Irishman, however, was never very logical or
clear-headed; and three gills of rum had, by no means, helped to purify
his brain. He heard the word "plenty," knew he was well fed and warmly
clad, and just now, that Santa Cruz so much abounded, the term seemed
peculiarly applicable.
"It's a plinthiful place it is, is this very manor. There's all sorts
of things in it that's wanted. There's food and raiment, and cattle,
and grain, and porkers, and praiching--yes, divil burn it, Nick, but
there's what _goes_ for praiching, though it's no more like what
_we_ calls praiching than yer'e like Miss Maud in comeliness, and
ye'll own, yourself, Nick, yer'e no beauty."
"Got handsome hair," said Nick, surlily--"How she look widout scalp?"
"The likes of her, is it! Who ever saw one of her beauthy without the
finest hair that ever was! What do you get for your scalps?--are they
of any use when you find 'em?"
"Bring plenty bye'm-by. Whole country glad to see him before long--den
beavers get pond ag'in."
"How's that--how's that, Indian? Baiver get pounded? There's no pound,
hereabouts, and baivers is not an animal to be shut up like a hog!"
Nick perceived that his friend was past argumentation, and as he
himself was approaching the state when the drunkard receives delight
from he knows not what, it is unnecessary to relate any more of the
dialogue. The jug was finished, each man very honestly drinking his
pint, and as naturally submitting to its consequences; and this so much
the more because the two were so engrossed with the rum that both
forgot to pay that attention to the spring that might have been
expected from its proximity.
Chapter V.
The soul, my lord, is fashioned--like the lyre.
Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate.
Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,
A word let fall touching your youthful passion,
Suffused her cheek, call'd to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre, made her pulse
Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate.
Hillhouse.
The approach of night, at sea and in a wilderness, has always something
more solemn in it, than on land in the centre of civilization. As the
curtain is drawn before his eyes, the solitude of the mariner is
increased, while even his sleepless vigilance seems, in a measure,
baffled, by the manner in which he is cut off from the signs of the
hour. Thus, too, in the forest, or in an isolated clearing, the
mysteries of the woods are deepened, and danger is robbed of its
forethought and customary guards. That evening, Major Willoughby stood
at a window with an arm round the slender waist of Beulah, Maud
standing a little aloof; and, as the twilight retired, leaving the
shadows of evening to thicken on the forest that lay within a few
hundred feet of that side of the Hut, and casting a gloom over the
whole of the quiet solitude, he felt the force of the feeling just
mentioned, in a degree he had never before experienced.
"This is a _very_ retired abode, my sisters," he said,
thoughtfully. "Do my father and mother never speak of bringing you out
more into the world?"
"They take us to New York every winter, now father is in the Assembly,"
quietly answered Beulah. "We expected to meet you there, last season,
and were greatly disappointed that you did not come."
"My regiment was sent to the eastward, as you know, and having just
received my new rank of major, it would not do to be absent at the
moment. Do you ever see any one here, besides those who belong to the
manor?"
"Oh! yes"--exclaimed Maud eagerly--then she paused, as if sorry she had
said anything; continuing, after a little pause, in a much more
moderated vein--"I mean occasionally. No doubt the place is very
retired."
"Of what characters are your visiters?--hunters, trappers, settlers--
savages or travellers?"
Maud did not answer; but, Beulah, after waiting a moment for her sister
to reply, took that office on herself.
"Some of all," she said, "though few certainly of the latter class. The
hunters are often here; one or two a month, in the mild season;
settlers rarely, as you may suppose, since my father will not sell, and
there are not many about, I believe; the Indians come more frequently,
though I think we have seen less of them, during Nick's absence than
while he was more with us. Still we have as many as a hundred in a
year, perhaps, counting the women. They come in parties, you know, and
five or six of these will make that number. As for travellers, they are
rare; being generally surveyors, land-hunters, or perhaps a proprietor
who is looking up his estate. We had two of the last in the fall,
before we went below."
"That is singular; and yet one might well look for an estate in a
wilderness like this. Who were your proprietors?"
"An elderly man, and a young one. The first was a sort of partner of
the late Sir William's, I believe, who has a grant somewhere near us,
for which he was searching. His name was Fonda. The other was one of
the Beekmans, who has lately succeeded his father in a property of
considerable extent, somewhere at no great distance from us, and came
to take a look at it. They say he has quite a hundred thousand acres,
in one body."
"And did he find his land? Tracts of thousands and tens of thousands,
are sometimes not to be discovered."
"We saw him twice, going and returning, and he was successful. The last
time, he was detained by a snow-storm, and staid with us some days--so
long, indeed, that he remained, and accompanied us out, when we went
below. We saw much of him, too, last winter, in town."
"Maud, you wrote me nothing of all this! Are visiters of this sort so
very common that you do not speak of them in your letters?"
"Did I not?--Beulah will scarce pardon me for _that_. She thinks
Mr. Evert Beekman more worthy of a place in a letter, than I do,
perhaps."
"I think him a very respectable and sensible young man," answered
Beulah quietly though there was a deeper tint on her cheek than common,
which it was too dark to see. "I am not certain, however, he need fill
much space in the letters of either of your sisters.'
"Well, this is _something_ gleaned!" said the major,
laughing--"and now, Beulah, if you will only let out a secret of the
same sort about Maud, I shall be _au fait_ of all the family
mysteries."
"All!" repeated Maud, quickly--"would there be nothing to tell of a
certain major Willoughby, brother of mine?"
"Not a syllable. I am as heart-whole as a sound oak, and hope to remain
so. At all events, all I love is in this house. To tell you the truth,
girls, these are not times for a soldier to think of anything but his
duty. The quarrel is getting to be serious between the mother country
and her colonies."
"Not so serious, brother," observed Beulah, earnestly, "as to amount to
_that_. Evert Beekman thinks there will be trouble, but he does
not appear to fancy it will go as far as very serious violence."
"Evert _Beekman_!--most of that family are loyal, I believe; how
is it with this Evert?"
"I dare say, _you_ would call him a _rebel_," answered Maud,
laughing, for now Beulah chose to be silent, leaving her sister to
explain, "He is not _fiery_; but he calls himself an _American_,
with emphasis; and that is saying a good deal, when it means he
is not an _Englishman_. Pray what do you call yourself, Bob?"
"I!--Certainly an American in one sense, but an Englishman in another.
An American, as my father was a Cumberland-man, and an Englishman as a
subject, and as connected with the empire."
"As St. Paul was a Roman. Heigho!--Well, I fear I have but one
character--or, if I have two, they are an American, and a New York
girl. Did I dress in scarlet, as you do, I might feel English too,
possibly."
"This is making a trifling misunderstanding too serious," observed
Beulah. "Nothing can come of all the big words that have been used,
than more big words. I know that is Evert Beekman's opinion."
"I hope you may prove a true prophet," answered the major, once more
buried in thought. "This place _does_ seem to be fearfully retired
for a family like ours. I hope my father may be persuaded to pass more
of his time in New York. Does he ever speak on the subject, girls, or
appear to have any uneasiness?"
"Uneasiness about what? The place is health itself: all sorts of
fevers, and agues, and those things being quite unknown. Mamma says the
toothache, even, cannot be found in this healthful spot."
"That is lucky--and, yet, I wish captain Willoughby--_Sir Hugh_
Willoughby could be induced to live more in New York. Girls of your
time of life, ought to be in the way of seeing the world, too."
"In other words, of seeing admirers, major Bob," said Maud, laughing,
and bending forward to steal a glance in her brother's face. "Good
night. _Sir Hugh_ wishes us to send you into his library when we
can spare you, and _my lady_ has sent us a hint that it is ten
o'clock, at which hour it is usual for sober people to retire."
The major kissed both sisters with warm affection--Beulah fancied with
a sobered tenderness, and Maud thought kindly--and then they retired to
join their mother, while he went to seek his father.
The captain was smoking in the library, as a room of all-_head_-
work was called, in company with the chaplain. The practice of using
tobacco in this form, had grown to be so strong in both of these old
inmates of garrisons, that they usually passed an hour, in the
recreation, before they went to bed. Nor shall we mislead the reader
with any notions of fine-flavoured Havana segars; pipes, with Virginia
cut, being the materials employed in the indulgence. A little excellent
Cogniac and water, in which however the spring was not as much
neglected, as in the orgies related in the previous chapter, moistened
their lips, from time to time, giving a certain zest and comfort to
their enjoyments. Just as the door opened to admit the major, he was
the subject of discourse, the proud parent and the partial friend
finding almost an equal gratification in discussing his fine, manly
appearance, good qualities, and future hopes. His presence was
untimely, then, in one sense; though he was welcome, and, indeed,
expected. The captain pushed a chair to his son, and invited him to
take a seat near the table, which held a spare pipe or two, a box of
tobacco, a decanter of excellent brandy, a pitcher of pure water, all
pleasant companions to the elderly gentlemen, then in possession.
"I suppose you are too much of a maccaroni, Bob, to smoke," observed
the smiling father. "I detested a pipe at your time of life; or may
say, I was afraid of it; the only smoke that was in fashion among our
scarlet coats being the smoke of gunpowder. Well, how comes on Gage,
and your neighbours the Yankees?"
"Why, sir," answered the major, looking behind him, to make sure that
the door was shut--"Why, sir, to own the truth, my visit, here, just at
this moment, is connected with the present state of that quarrel."
Both the captain and the chaplain drew the pipes from their mouths,
holding them suspended in surprise and attention.
"The deuce it is!" exclaimed the former. "I thought I owed this
unexpected pleasure to your affectionate desire to let me know I had
inherited the empty honours of a baronetcy!"
"That was _one_ motive, sir, but the least. I beg you to remember
the awkwardness of my position, as a king's officer, in the midst of
enemies."
"The devil! I say, parson, this exceeds heresy and schism! Do you call
lodging in your father's house, major Willoughby, being in the midst of
enemies? This is rebellion against nature, and is worse than rebellion
against the king."
"My dear father, no one feels more secure with _you_, than I do;
or, even, with Mr. Woods, here. But, there are others besides you two,
in this part of the world, and your very settlement may not be safe a
week longer; probably would not be, if my presence in it were known."
Both the listeners, now, fairly laid down their pipes, and the smoke
began gradually to dissipate, as it might have been rising from a field
of battle. One looked at the other, in wonder, and, then, both looked
at the major, in curiosity.
"What is the meaning of all this, my son?" asked the captain, gravely.
"Has anything new occurred to complicate the old causes of quarrel?"
"Blood has, at length, been drawn, sir; open rebellion has commenced!"
"This is a serious matter, indeed, if it be really so. But do you not
exaggerate the consequences of some fresh indiscretion of the soldiery,
in firing on the people? Remember, in the other affair, even the
colonial authorities justified the officers."
"This is a very different matter, sir. Blood has not been drawn in a
_riot_, but in a _battle_."
"Battle! You amaze me, sir! That is indeed a serious matter, and may
lead to most serious consequences!"
"The Lord preserve us from evil times," ejaculated the chaplain, "and
lead us, poor, dependent creatures that we are, into the paths of peace
and quietness! Without his grace, we are the blind leading the blind."
"Do you mean, major Willoughby, that armed and disciplined bodies have
met in actual conflict?"
"Perhaps not literally so, my dear father; but the minute-men of
Massachusetts, and His Majesty's forces, have met and fought. This I
know, full well; for my own regiment was in the field, and, I hope it
is unnecessary to add, that its second officer was not absent."
"Of course these minute-men--rabble would be the better word--could not
stand before you?" said the captain, compressing his lips, under a
strong impulse of military pride.
Major Willoughby coloured, and, to own the truth, at that moment he
wished the Rev. Mr. Woods, if not literally at the devil, at least safe
and sound in another room; anywhere, so it were out of ear-shot of the
answer.
"Why, sir," he said, hesitating, not to say stammering, notwithstanding
a prodigious effort to seem philosophical and calm--"To own the truth,
these minute-fellows are not quite as contemptible as we soldiers would
be apt to think. It was a stone-wall affair, and dodging work; and, so,
you know, sir, drilled troops wouldn't have the usual chance. They
pressed us pretty warmly on the retreat."
"_Retreat_! Major Willoughby!"
"I called it retreat, sure enough; but it was only a march _in_,
again, after having done the business on which we went out. I shall
admit, I say, sir, that we were hard pressed, until _reinforced_."
"_Reinforced_, my dear Bob! _Your_ regiment, _our_
regiment could not need a reinforcement against all the Yankees in New
England."
The major could not abstain from laughing, a little, at this exhibition
of his father's _esprit de corps_; but native frankness, and love
of truth, compelled him to admit the contrary.
"It _did_, sir, notwithstanding," he answered; "and, not to mince
the matter, it needed it confoundedly. Some of our officers who have
seen the hardest service of the last war, declare, that taking the
march, and the popping work, and the distance, altogether, it was the
warmest day _they_ remember. Our loss, too, was by no means
insignificant, as I hope you will believe, when you know the troops
engaged. We report something like three hundred casualties."
The captain did not answer for quite a minute. All this time he sat
thoughtful, and even pale; for his mind was teeming with the pregnant
consequences of such an outbreak. Then he desired his son to give a
succinct, but connected history of the whole affair. The major
complied, beginning his narrative with an account of the general state
of the country, and concluding it, by giving, as far as it was possible
for one whose professional pride and political feelings were too deeply
involved to be entirely impartial, a reasonably just account of the
particular occurrence already mentioned.