The Last of the Mohicans

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Runners were despatched for intelligence in different directions; spies
were ordered to approach and feel the encampment of the Delawares; the
warriors were dismissed to their lodges, with an intimation that their
services would soon be needed; and the women and children were ordered
to retire, with a warning that it was their province to be silent. When
these several arrangements were made, Magua passed through the village,
stopping here and there to pay a visit where he thought his presence
might be flattering to the individual. He confirmed his friends in their
confidence, fixed the wavering, and gratified all. Then he sought his
own lodge. The wife the Huron chief had abandoned, when he was chased
from among his people, was dead. Children he had none; and he now
occupied a hut, without companion of any sort. It was, in fact, the
dilapidated and solitary structure in which David had been discovered,
and whom he had tolerated in his presence, on those few occasions when
they met, with the contemptuous indifference of a haughty superiority.

Hither, then, Magua retired, when his labors of policy were ended. While
others slept, however, he neither knew or sought repose. Had there been
one sufficiently curious to have watched the movements of the newly
elected chief, he would have seen him seated in a corner of his
lodge, musing on the subject of his future plans, from the hour of his
retirement to the time he had appointed for the warriors to assemble
again. Occasionally the air breathed through the crevices of the hut,
and the low flame that fluttered about the embers of the fire threw
their wavering light on the person of the sullen recluse. At such
moments it would not have been difficult to have fancied the dusky
savage the Prince of Darkness brooding on his own fancied wrongs, and
plotting evil.

Long before the day dawned, however, warrior after warrior entered the
solitary hut of Magua, until they had collected to the number of twenty.
Each bore his rifle, and all the other accouterments of war, though
the paint was uniformly peaceful. The entrance of these fierce-looking
beings was unnoticed: some seating themselves in the shadows of the
place, and others standing like motionless statues, until the whole of
the designated band was collected.

Then Magua arose and gave the signal to proceed, marching himself in
advance. They followed their leader singly, and in that well-known order
which has obtained the distinguishing appellation of "Indian file."
Unlike other men engaged in the spirit-stirring business of war, they
stole from their camp unostentatiously and unobserved resembling a band
of gliding specters, more than warriors seeking the bubble reputation by
deeds of desperate daring.

Instead of taking the path which led directly toward the camp of the
Delawares, Magua led his party for some distance down the windings of
the stream, and along the little artificial lake of the beavers. The
day began to dawn as they entered the clearing which had been formed by
those sagacious and industrious animals. Though Magua, who had resumed
his ancient garb, bore the outline of a fox on the dressed skin which
formed his robe, there was one chief of his party who carried the beaver
as his peculiar symbol, or "totem." There would have been a species of
profanity in the omission, had this man passed so powerful a community
of his fancied kindred, without bestowing some evidence of his regard.
Accordingly, he paused, and spoke in words as kind and friendly as if
he were addressing more intelligent beings. He called the animals his
cousins, and reminded them that his protecting influence was the reason
they remained unharmed, while many avaricious traders were prompting the
Indians to take their lives. He promised a continuance of his favors,
and admonished them to be grateful. After which, he spoke of the
expedition in which he was himself engaged, and intimated, though with
sufficient delicacy and circumlocution, the expediency of bestowing
on their relative a portion of that wisdom for which they were so
renowned.*

* These harangues of the beasts were frequent among the
Indians. They often address their victims in this way,
reproaching them for cowardice or commending their
resolution, as they may happen to exhibit fortitude or the
reverse, in suffering.

During the utterance of this extraordinary address, the companions of
the speaker were as grave and as attentive to his language as though
they were all equally impressed with its propriety. Once or twice black
objects were seen rising to the surface of the water, and the Huron
expressed pleasure, conceiving that his words were not bestowed in vain.
Just as he ended his address, the head of a large beaver was thrust
from the door of a lodge, whose earthen walls had been much injured,
and which the party had believed, from its situation, to be uninhabited.
Such an extraordinary sign of confidence was received by the orator as
a highly favorable omen; and though the animal retreated a little
precipitately, he was lavish of his thanks and commendations.

When Magua thought sufficient time had been lost in gratifying the
family affection of the warrior, he again made the signal to proceed. As
the Indians moved away in a body, and with a step that would have been
inaudible to the ears of any common man, the same venerable-looking
beaver once more ventured his head from its cover. Had any of the Hurons
turned to look behind them, they would have seen the animal watching
their movements with an interest and sagacity that might easily have
been mistaken for reason. Indeed, so very distinct and intelligible were
the devices of the quadruped, that even the most experienced observer
would have been at a loss to account for its actions, until the moment
when the party entered the forest, when the whole would have been
explained, by seeing the entire animal issue from the lodge, uncasing,
by the act, the grave features of Chingachgook from his mask of fur.




CHAPTER 28

"Brief, I pray for you; for you see, 'tis a busy time with me."
--Much Ado About Nothing.

The tribe, or rather half tribe, of Delawares, which has been so
often mentioned, and whose present place of encampment was so nigh the
temporary village of the Hurons, could assemble about an equal number of
warriors with the latter people. Like their neighbors, they had followed
Montcalm into the territories of the English crown, and were making
heavy and serious inroads on the hunting-grounds of the Mohawks; though
they had seen fit, with the mysterious reserve so common among the
natives, to withhold their assistance at the moment when it was most
required. The French had accounted for this unexpected defection on
the part of their ally in various ways. It was the prevalent opinion,
however, that they had been influenced by veneration for the ancient
treaty, that had once made them dependent on the Six Nations for
military protection, and now rendered them reluctant to encounter their
former masters. As for the tribe itself, it had been content to announce
to Montcalm, through his emissaries, with Indian brevity, that their
hatchets were dull, and time was necessary to sharpen them. The politic
captain of the Canadas had deemed it wiser to submit to entertain a
passive friend, than by any acts of ill-judged severity to convert him
into an open enemy.

On that morning when Magua led his silent party from the settlement of
the beavers into the forests, in the manner described, the sun rose upon
the Delaware encampment as if it had suddenly burst upon a busy people,
actively employed in all the customary avocations of high noon. The
women ran from lodge to lodge, some engaged in preparing their morning's
meal, a few earnestly bent on seeking the comforts necessary to their
habits, but more pausing to exchange hasty and whispered sentences with
their friends. The warriors were lounging in groups, musing more than
they conversed and when a few words were uttered, speaking like men who
deeply weighed their opinions. The instruments of the chase were to be
seen in abundance among the lodges; but none departed. Here and there
a warrior was examining his arms, with an attention that is rarely
bestowed on the implements, when no other enemy than the beasts of the
forest is expected to be encountered. And occasionally, the eyes of a
whole group were turned simultaneously toward a large and silent lodge
in the center of the village, as if it contained the subject of their
common thoughts.

During the existence of this scene, a man suddenly appeared at the
furthest extremity of a platform of rock which formed the level of the
village. He was without arms, and his paint tended rather to soften than
increase the natural sternness of his austere countenance. When in
full view of the Delawares he stopped, and made a gesture of amity,
by throwing his arm upward toward heaven, and then letting it fall
impressively on his breast. The inhabitants of the village answered
his salute by a low murmur of welcome, and encouraged him to advance by
similar indications of friendship. Fortified by these assurances, the
dark figure left the brow of the natural rocky terrace, where it had
stood a moment, drawn in a strong outline against the blushing morning
sky, and moved with dignity into the very center of the huts. As he
approached, nothing was audible but the rattling of the light silver
ornaments that loaded his arms and neck, and the tinkling of the little
bells that fringed his deerskin moccasins. He made, as he advanced, many
courteous signs of greeting to the men he passed, neglecting to notice
the women, however, like one who deemed their favor, in the present
enterprise, of no importance. When he had reached the group in which it
was evident, by the haughtiness of their common mien, that the principal
chiefs were collected, the stranger paused, and then the Delawares saw
that the active and erect form that stood before them was that of the
well-known Huron chief, Le Renard Subtil.

His reception was grave, silent, and wary. The warriors in front stepped
aside, opening the way to their most approved orator by the action; one
who spoke all those languages that were cultivated among the northern
aborigines.

"The wise Huron is welcome," said the Delaware, in the language of the
Maquas; "he is come to eat his 'succotash'*, with his brothers of the
lakes."

* A dish composed of cracked corn and beans. It is much used
also by the whites. By corn is meant maise.

"He is come," repeated Magua, bending his head with the dignity of an
eastern prince.

The chief extended his arm and taking the other by the wrist, they once
more exchanged friendly salutations. Then the Delaware invited his guest
to enter his own lodge, and share his morning meal. The invitation was
accepted; and the two warriors, attended by three or four of the old
men, walked calmly away, leaving the rest of the tribe devoured by a
desire to understand the reasons of so unusual a visit, and yet not
betraying the least impatience by sign or word.

During the short and frugal repast that followed, the conversation was
extremely circumspect, and related entirely to the events of the hunt,
in which Magua had so lately been engaged. It would have been impossible
for the most finished breeding to wear more of the appearance of
considering the visit as a thing of course, than did his hosts,
notwithstanding every individual present was perfectly aware that
it must be connected with some secret object and that probably of
importance to themselves. When the appetites of the whole were appeased,
the squaws removed the trenchers and gourds, and the two parties began
to prepare themselves for a subtle trial of their wits.

"Is the face of my great Canada father turned again toward his Huron
children?" demanded the orator of the Delawares.

"When was it ever otherwise?" returned Magua. "He calls my people 'most
beloved'."

The Delaware gravely bowed his acquiescence to what he knew to be false,
and continued:

"The tomahawks of your young men have been very red."

"It is so; but they are now bright and dull; for the Yengeese are dead,
and the Delawares are our neighbors."

The other acknowledged the pacific compliment by a gesture of the hand,
and remained silent. Then Magua, as if recalled to such a recollection,
by the allusion to the massacre, demanded:

"Does my prisoner give trouble to my brothers?"

"She is welcome."

"The path between the Hurons and the Delawares is short and it is open;
let her be sent to my squaws, if she gives trouble to my brother."

"She is welcome," returned the chief of the latter nation, still more
emphatically.

The baffled Magua continued silent several minutes, apparently
indifferent, however, to the repulse he had received in this his opening
effort to regain possession of Cora.

"Do my young men leave the Delawares room on the mountains for their
hunts?" he at length continued.

"The Lenape are rulers of their own hills," returned the other a little
haughtily.

"It is well. Justice is the master of a red-skin. Why should they
brighten their tomahawks and sharpen their knives against each other?
Are not the pale faces thicker than the swallows in the season of
flowers?"

"Good!" exclaimed two or three of his auditors at the same time.

Magua waited a little, to permit his words to soften the feelings of the
Delawares, before he added:

"Have there not been strange moccasins in the woods? Have not my
brothers scented the feet of white men?"

"Let my Canada father come," returned the other, evasively; "his
children are ready to see him."

"When the great chief comes, it is to smoke with the Indians in their
wigwams. The Hurons say, too, he is welcome. But the Yengeese have long
arms, and legs that never tire! My young men dreamed they had seen the
trail of the Yengeese nigh the village of the Delawares!"

"They will not find the Lenape asleep."

"It is well. The warrior whose eye is open can see his enemy," said
Magua, once more shifting his ground, when he found himself unable to
penetrate the caution of his companion. "I have brought gifts to my
brother. His nation would not go on the warpath, because they did not
think it well, but their friends have remembered where they lived."

When he had thus announced his liberal intention, the crafty chief
arose, and gravely spread his presents before the dazzled eyes of his
hosts. They consisted principally of trinkets of little value, plundered
from the slaughtered females of William Henry. In the division of
the baubles the cunning Huron discovered no less art than in their
selection. While he bestowed those of greater value on the two most
distinguished warriors, one of whom was his host, he seasoned his
offerings to their inferiors with such well-timed and apposite
compliments, as left them no ground of complaint. In short, the whole
ceremony contained such a happy blending of the profitable with the
flattering, that it was not difficult for the donor immediately to read
the effect of a generosity so aptly mingled with praise, in the eyes of
those he addressed.

This well-judged and politic stroke on the part of Magua was not without
instantaneous results. The Delawares lost their gravity in a much more
cordial expression; and the host, in particular, after contemplating
his own liberal share of the spoil for some moments with peculiar
gratification, repeated with strong emphasis, the words:

"My brother is a wise chief. He is welcome."

"The Hurons love their friends the Delawares," returned Magua. "Why
should they not? they are colored by the same sun, and their just men
will hunt in the same grounds after death. The red-skins should be
friends, and look with open eyes on the white men. Has not my brother
scented spies in the woods?"

The Delaware, whose name in English signified "Hard Heart," an
appellation that the French had translated into "le Coeur-dur," forgot
that obduracy of purpose, which had probably obtained him so significant
a title. His countenance grew very sensibly less stern and he now
deigned to answer more directly.

"There have been strange moccasins about my camp. They have been tracked
into my lodges."

"Did my brother beat out the dogs?" asked Magua, without adverting in
any manner to the former equivocation of the chief.

"It would not do. The stranger is always welcome to the children of the
Lenape."

"The stranger, but not the spy."

"Would the Yengeese send their women as spies? Did not the Huron chief
say he took women in the battle?"

"He told no lie. The Yengeese have sent out their scouts. They have been
in my wigwams, but they found there no one to say welcome. Then they
fled to the Delawares--for, say they, the Delawares are our friends;
their minds are turned from their Canada father!"

This insinuation was a home thrust, and one that in a more advanced
state of society would have entitled Magua to the reputation of a
skillful diplomatist. The recent defection of the tribe had, as they
well knew themselves, subjected the Delawares to much reproach among
their French allies; and they were now made to feel that their future
actions were to be regarded with jealousy and distrust. There was no
deep insight into causes and effects necessary to foresee that such
a situation of things was likely to prove highly prejudicial to their
future movements. Their distant villages, their hunting-grounds and
hundreds of their women and children, together with a material part
of their physical force, were actually within the limits of the French
territory. Accordingly, this alarming annunciation was received, as
Magua intended, with manifest disapprobation, if not with alarm.

"Let my father look in my face," said Le Coeur-dur; "he will see no
change. It is true, my young men did not go out on the war-path; they
had dreams for not doing so. But they love and venerate the great white
chief."

"Will he think so when he hears that his greatest enemy is fed in the
camp of his children? When he is told a bloody Yengee smokes at your
fire? That the pale face who has slain so many of his friends goes in
and out among the Delawares? Go! my great Canada father is not a fool!"

"Where is the Yengee that the Delawares fear?" returned the other; "who
has slain my young men? Who is the mortal enemy of my Great Father?"

"La Longue Carabine!"

The Delaware warriors started at the well-known name, betraying by their
amazement, that they now learned, for the first time, one so famous
among the Indian allies of France was within their power.

"What does my brother mean?" demanded Le Coeur-dur, in a tone that, by
its wonder, far exceeded the usual apathy of his race.

"A Huron never lies!" returned Magua, coldly, leaning his head against
the side of the lodge, and drawing his slight robe across his tawny
breast. "Let the Delawares count their prisoners; they will find one
whose skin is neither red nor pale."

A long and musing pause succeeded. The chief consulted apart with his
companions, and messengers despatched to collect certain others of the
most distinguished men of the tribe.

As warrior after warrior dropped in, they were each made acquainted, in
turn, with the important intelligence that Magua had just communicated.
The air of surprise, and the usual low, deep, guttural exclamation, were
common to them all. The news spread from mouth to mouth, until the whole
encampment became powerfully agitated. The women suspended their
labors, to catch such syllables as unguardedly fell from the lips of
the consulting warriors. The boys deserted their sports, and walking
fearlessly among their fathers, looked up in curious admiration, as
they heard the brief exclamations of wonder they so freely expressed the
temerity of their hated foe. In short, every occupation was abandoned
for the time, and all other pursuits seemed discarded in order that the
tribe might freely indulge, after their own peculiar manner, in an open
expression of feeling.

When the excitement had a little abated, the old men disposed themselves
seriously to consider that which it became the honor and safety of
their tribe to perform, under circumstances of so much delicacy and
embarrassment. During all these movements, and in the midst of the
general commotion, Magua had not only maintained his seat, but the very
attitude he had originally taken, against the side of the lodge, where
he continued as immovable, and, apparently, as unconcerned, as if he
had no interest in the result. Not a single indication of the future
intentions of his hosts, however, escaped his vigilant eyes. With his
consummate knowledge of the nature of the people with whom he had to
deal, he anticipated every measure on which they decided; and it might
almost be said, that, in many instances, he knew their intentions, even
before they became known to themselves.

The council of the Delawares was short. When it was ended, a general
bustle announced that it was to be immediately succeeded by a solemn and
formal assemblage of the nation. As such meetings were rare, and only
called on occasions of the last importance, the subtle Huron, who still
sat apart, a wily and dark observer of the proceedings, now knew that
all his projects must be brought to their final issue. He, therefore,
left the lodge and walked silently forth to the place, in front of the
encampment, whither the warriors were already beginning to collect.

It might have been half an hour before each individual, including even
the women and children, was in his place. The delay had been created
by the grave preparations that were deemed necessary to so solemn and
unusual a conference. But when the sun was seen climbing above the tops
of that mountain, against whose bosom the Delawares had constructed
their encampment, most were seated; and as his bright rays darted from
behind the outline of trees that fringed the eminence, they fell upon
as grave, as attentive, and as deeply interested a multitude, as was
probably ever before lighted by his morning beams. Its number somewhat
exceeded a thousand souls.

In a collection of so serious savages, there is never to be found any
impatient aspirant after premature distinction, standing ready to move
his auditors to some hasty, and, perhaps, injudicious discussion, in
order that his own reputation may be the gainer. An act of so much
precipitancy and presumption would seal the downfall of precocious
intellect forever. It rested solely with the oldest and most experienced
of the men to lay the subject of the conference before the people. Until
such a one chose to make some movement, no deeds in arms, no natural
gifts, nor any renown as an orator, would have justified the slightest
interruption. On the present occasion, the aged warrior whose privilege
it was to speak, was silent, seemingly oppressed with the magnitude
of his subject. The delay had already continued long beyond the usual
deliberative pause that always preceded a conference; but no sign of
impatience or surprise escaped even the youngest boy. Occasionally an
eye was raised from the earth, where the looks of most were riveted,
and strayed toward a particular lodge, that was, however, in no manner
distinguished from those around it, except in the peculiar care that had
been taken to protect it against the assaults of the weather.

At length one of those low murmurs, that are so apt to disturb a
multitude, was heard, and the whole nation arose to their feet by
a common impulse. At that instant the door of the lodge in question
opened, and three men, issuing from it, slowly approached the place of
consultation. They were all aged, even beyond that period to which the
oldest present had reached; but one in the center, who leaned on his
companions for support, had numbered an amount of years to which the
human race is seldom permitted to attain. His frame, which had once been
tall and erect, like the cedar, was now bending under the pressure of
more than a century. The elastic, light step of an Indian was gone, and
in its place he was compelled to toil his tardy way over the ground,
inch by inch. His dark, wrinkled countenance was in singular and wild
contrast with the long white locks which floated on his shoulders, in
such thickness, as to announce that generations had probably passed away
since they had last been shorn.

The dress of this patriarch--for such, considering his vast age, in
conjunction with his affinity and influence with his people, he might
very properly be termed--was rich and imposing, though strictly after
the simple fashions of the tribe. His robe was of the finest
skins, which had been deprived of their fur, in order to admit of a
hieroglyphical representation of various deeds in arms, done in former
ages. His bosom was loaded with medals, some in massive silver, and one
or two even in gold, the gifts of various Christian potentates during
the long period of his life. He also wore armlets, and cinctures above
the ankles, of the latter precious metal. His head, on the whole of
which the hair had been permitted to grow, the pursuits of war having so
long been abandoned, was encircled by a sort of plated diadem, which, in
its turn, bore lesser and more glittering ornaments, that sparkled amid
the glossy hues of three drooping ostrich feathers, dyed a deep black,
in touching contrast to the color of his snow-white locks. His tomahawk
was nearly hid in silver, and the handle of his knife shone like a horn
of solid gold.