The Leatherstocking Tales II

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Nor, in them that sail on both? I was afraid, Mabel, your uncle has said so much against us fresh-water sailors, that you had begun to look upon us as little better than pretenders.”

  “Give yourself no uneasiness on that account, Jasper, for I know my uncle, and he says as many things against those who live ashore, when at York, as he now says against those who sail on fresh water. No—no—; neither my father, nor myself think any thing of such opinions! My uncle Cap, if he spoke openly, would be found to have even a worse notion of a soldier, than of a sailor who never saw the sea.”

  “But your father, Mabel, has a better opinion of soldiers, than of any one else; he wishes you to be the wife of a soldier.”

  “Jasper Eau douce!—I, the wife of a soldier!—My father wishes it?—Why should he wish any such thing—what soldier is there in the garrison that I could marry—that he could wish me to marry.”

  “One may love a calling so well, as to fancy it will cover a thousand imperfections.”

  “But one is not likely to love his own calling so well, as to cause him to overlook every thing else. You say my father wishes me to marry a soldier, and yet there is no soldier at Oswego, that he would be likely to give me to. I am in an awkward position, for while I am not good enough to be the wife of one of the gentlemen of the garrison, I think, even you will admit, Jasper, I am too good to be the wife of one of the common soldiers?”

  As Mabel spoke thus frankly, she blushed, she knew not why, though the obscurity concealed the fact from her companion, and she laughed faintly, like one who felt that the subject, however embarrassing it might be, deserved to be treated fairly. Jasper, it would seem, viewed her position differently from herself.

  “It is true, Mabel,” he said, “you are not what is called a lady, in the common meaning of the word—”

  “Not in any meaning, Jasper,” the generous girl eagerly interrupted; “on that head, I have no vanities, I hope. Providence has made me the daughter of a serjeant, and I am content to remain in the station in which I was born.”

  “But all do not remain in the stations in which they were born, Mabel, for some rise above them, and some fall below them. Many serjeants have become officers; even generals; and why may not serjeants’ daughters become officers’ ladies?”

  “In the case of Serjeant Dunham’s daughter, I know no better reason than the fact that no officer is likely to wish to make her his wife,” returned Mabel, laughing.

  “You may think so, but there are some in the 55th, that know better. There is certainly one officer in that regiment, Mabel, who does wish to make you his wife.”

  Quick as the flashing lightning, the rapid thoughts of Mabel Dunham glanced over the five or six subalterns of the corps, who by age and inclinations, would be the most likely to form such a wish, and we should do injustice to her habits, perhaps, were we not to say that a lively sensation of pleasure rose momentarily in her bosom, at the thought of being raised above a station, which, whatever might be her professions of contentment, she felt that she had been too well educated to fill with perfect satisfaction. But this emotion was as transient as it was sudden, for Mabel Dunham was a girl of too much pure and womanly feeling, to view the marriage tie, through any thing so worldly as the mere advantages of station. The passing emotion, was a thrill produced by habit, while the more settled opinion which remained, was the offspring of nature and principles.

  “I know no officer in the 55th, or any other regiment, who would be likely to do so foolish a thing; nor do I think I, myself, would do so foolish a thing, as to marry an officer.”

  “Foolish, Mabel!”

  “Yes, foolish, Jasper. You know, as well as I can know, what the world would think of such matters, and I should be sorry, very sorry, to find that my husband ever regretted that he had so far yielded to a fancy for a face, or a figure, as to have married the daughter of one so much his inferior as a serjeant.”

  “Your husband, Mabel, will not be so likely to think of the father, as to think of the daughter.”

  The girl was talking with spirit, though feeling evidently entered into her part of the discourse, but she paused for near a minute after Jasper had made the last observation, before she uttered another word. Then she continued, in a manner less playful, and one critically attentive might have fancied in a manner that was slightly melancholy:

  “Parent and child ought so to live, as not to have two hearts, or two modes of feeling and thinking. A common interest in all things, I should think as necessary to happiness, in man and wife, as between the other members of the same family. Most of all, ought neither the man nor the woman to have any unusual cause for unhappiness, the world furnishing so many of itself.”

  “Am I to understand, then, Mabel, you would refuse to marry an officer, merely because he was an officer?”

  “Have you a right to ask such a question, Jasper?” said Mabel, smiling.

  “No other right, than what a strong desire to see you happy can give, which, after all, may be very little. My anxiety has been increased, from happening to know that it is your father’s intention to persuade you to marry Lt. Muir.”

  “My dear, dear father, can entertain no notion so ridiculous; no notion so cruel!”

  “Would it then be cruel to wish you the wife of a quarter master?”

  “I have told you what I think on that subject, and cannot make my words stronger. Having answered you so frankly, Jasper, I have a right to ask how you know that my father thinks of any such thing.”

  “That he has chosen a husband for you, I know from his own mouth; for he has told me this much, during our frequent conversations, while he has been superintending the shipment of the stores; and that Mr. Muir is to offer for you, I know from the officer himself, who has told me as much. By putting the two things together, I have come to the opinion, mentioned.”

  “May not, my dear father, Jasper—” Mabel’s face glowed like fire, while she spoke, though her words escaped her slowly and by a sort of involuntary impulse—“May not my dear father, have been thinking of another?—It does not follow from what you say, that Mr. Muir was in his mind.”

  “Is it not probable, Mabel, from all that has passed? What brings the Quarter Master here? He has never found it necessary, before, to accompany the parties that have gone below; he thinks of you for his wife, and your father has made up his own mind that you shall be so. You must see, Mabel, that Mr. Muir follows you.”

  Mabel made no answer. Her feminine instinct had indeed told her that she was an object of admiration with the Quarter Master, though she had hardly supposed to the extent that Jasper believed, and she, too, had even gathered from the discourse of her father, that he thought seriously of having her disposed of, in marriage; but, by no process of reasoning, could she ever have arrived at the inference that Lt. Muir was to be the man. She did not believe it now, though she was far from suspecting the truth. Indeed, it was her opinion that those casual remarks of her father which had struck her, had proceeded from a general wish to have her settled, rather than from any desire to see her united to any particular individual. These thoughts, however, she kept secret, for self respect and feminine reserve showed her the impropriety of making them the subject of discussion with her present companion. By way of changing the conversation, therefore, after the pause had lasted long enough to be embarrassing to both parties, she said—

  “Of one thing you may be certain, Jasper, and that is all I wish to say on the subject—Lt. Muir, though he were a colonel, will never be the husband of Mabel Dunham. And now, tell me of our voyage—when will it end?”

  “That is uncertain. Once afloat, we are at the mercy of the winds and waves. Pathfinder will tell you that he who begins to chase the deer in the morning, cannot tell where he will sleep at night.”

  “But we are not chasing a deer, nor is it morning; so Pathfinder’s moral is thrown away.”

  “Although we are not chasing a deer, we are after that which may be as hard to catch. I ca
n tell you no more than I have said already, for it is our duty to be close-mouthed, whether any thing depends on it, or not. I am afraid, however, I shall not keep you long enough in the Scud, to show you what she can do in fair and foul.”

  “I think a woman unwise who ever marries a sailor,” said Mabel abruptly, and almost involuntarily.

  “This is a strange opinion; why do you hold it?”

  “Because a sailor’s wife is certain to have a rival in his vessel. My uncle Cap, too, says, that a sailor should never marry.”

  “He means salt-water sailors,” returned Jasper laughing. “If he thinks wives not good enough for those who sail on the ocean, he will fancy them just suited to those who sail on the lakes. I hope, Mabel, you do not take your opinions of us fresh-water mariners from all that Master Cap says?”

  “Sail ho!” exclaimed the very individual of whom they were conversing—“or, boat ho! would be nearer the truth.”

  Jasper ran forward, and, sure enough, a small object was discernible about a hundred yards ahead of the cutter, and nearly on her lee bow. At the first glance, he saw it was a bark canoe, for though the darkness prevented hues from being distinguished, the eye that had got to be accustomed to the night, might discern forms, at some little distance; and the eye, which, like Jasper’s, had long been familiar with things aquatic, could not be at a loss in discovering the outlines necessary to come to the conclusion he did.

  “This may be an enemy,” the young man coolly remarked, “and it may be well to overhaul him.”

  “He is paddling with all his might, lad,” observed the Pathfinder, “and means to cross your bows and get to windward, when you might as well chase a full-grown buck on snow shoes!”

  “Let her luff!—” cried Jasper, to the man at the helm—“Luff up, ’till she shakes.—There, steady and hold all that.”

  The helmsman complied, and, as the Scud was now dashing the water aside, merrily, a minute, or two, put the canoe so far to leeward as to render escape impracticable. Jasper now sprang to the helm, himself, and by judicious and careful handling, he got so near his chase that it was secured by a boat hook. On receiving an order, the two persons who were in the canoe, left it, and no sooner had they reached the deck of the cutter, than they were found to be Arrowhead and his wife.

  Chapter XV

  “What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,

  That learning is too proud to gather up;

  But which the poor and the despised of all

  Seek and obtain, and often find unsought?

  Tell me—and I will tell thee what is truth.”

  —Cowper, The Task, III.285–89.

  * * *

  THE MEETING with the Indian and his wife excited no surprise in the majority of those who witnessed the occurrence, but Mabel, and all who knew of the manner in which this chief had been separated from the party of Cap, simultaneously entertained suspicions, which it was far easier to feel, than to follow out, by any plausible clue, to certainty. Pathfinder, who, alone, could converse freely with the prisoners, for such they might now be considered, took Arrowhead aside, and held a long conversation with him, concerning the reasons of the latter for having deserted his charge, and the manner in which he had been since employed.

  The Tuscarora met these inquiries, and he gave his answers, with the stoicism of an Indian. As respects the separation, his excuses were very simply made, and they seemed to be sufficiently plausible. When he found that the party was discovered in its place of concealment, he naturally sought his own safety, which he secured by plunging into the woods, for he made no doubt that all who could not effect this much, would be massacred on the spot. In a word, he had run away, in order to save his life.

  “This is well,” returned Pathfinder, affecting to believe the other’s apologies; “my brother did very wisely; but his woman followed?”

  “Do not the Pale Faces’ women follow their husbands? Would not Pathfinder have looked back to see if one he loved was coming?”

  This appeal was made to the guide, while he was in a most fortunate frame of mind to admit its force, for Mabel, and her blandishments and constancy, were getting to be images familiar to his thoughts. The Tuscarora, though he could not trace the reason, saw that his excuse was admitted, and he stood, with quiet dignity, awaiting the next inquiry.

  “This is reasonable and nat’ral,” returned Pathfinder in English, passing from one language to the other, insensibly to himself, as his feelings, or habit dictated, “this is nat’ral, and may be so. A woman would be likely to follow the man to whom she had plighted faith, and husband and wife are one flesh. Mabel, herself, would have been likely to follow the sarjeant, had he been present, and retreated in this manner, and no doubt, no doubt, the warm-hearted girl would have followed her husband! Your words are honest, Tuscarora,” changing the language to the dialect of the other, “your words are honest, and very pleasant, and just. But, why has my brother been so long from the fort; his friends have thought of him often, but have never seen him!”

  “If the doe follows the buck, ought not the buck to follow the doe!” answered the Tuscarora smiling, and laying a finger significantly on the shoulder of his interrogator. “Arrowhead’s wife followed Arrowhead; it was right in Arrowhead to follow his wife. She lost her way, and they made her cook in a strange wigwam.”

  “I understand you, Tuscarora. The woman fell into the hands of the Mingos, and you kept upon their trail.”

  “Pathfinder can see a reason, as easily as he can see the moss on the trees. It is so.”

  “And how long have you got the woman back, and in what manner has it been done?”

  “Two suns. The Dew of June was not long in coming, when her husband whispered to her the path.”

  “Well, well, all this seems nat’ral, and according to materimony—But, Tuscarora, how did you get that canoe, and why are you paddling towards the St. Lawrence, instead of the garrison?”

  “Arrowhead can tell his own from that of another. This canoe is mine; I found it on the shore, near the fort.”

  “That sounds reasonable, too, for the canoe does belong to the man, and an Injin would make few words about taking it. Still, it is extr’ord’nary that we saw nothing of the fellow and his wife, for the canoe must have left the river before we did ourselves.”

  This idea, which passed rapidly through the mind of the guide, was now put to the Indian in the shape of a question.

  “Pathfinder knows that a warrior can have shame. The father would have asked me for his daughter, and I could not give her to him. I sent the Dew of June for the canoe, and none spoke to the woman. A Tuscarora woman would not be free in speaking to strange men.”

  All this, too, was plausible, and in conformity with Indian character, and Indian customs. As was usual, Arrowhead had received one half of his compensation, previously to quitting the Mohawk, and his refraining to demand the residue was a proof of that conscientious consideration of mutual rights that quite as often distinguishes the morality of a savage as that of a christian. To one as upright as Pathfinder, Arrowhead had conducted himself with delicacy and propriety, though it would have been more in accordance with his own frank nature, to have met the father, and abided by the simple truth. Still, accustomed to the ways of Indians, he saw nothing out of the ordinary track of things, in the course the other had taken.

  “This runs like water flowing down hill, Arrowhead,” he answered, after a little reflection, “and truth obliges me to own it. It was the gift of a red skin to act in this way, though I do not think it was the gift of a Pale Face. You would not look upon the grief of the girl’s father.”

  Arrowhead made a quiet inclination of the body, as if to assent.

  “One thing more my brother will tell me,” continued Pathfinder, “and there will be no cloud between his wigwam and the strong house of the Yengeese. If he can blow away this bit of fog, his friends will look at him, as he sits by his own fire, and he can look at them, as they lay aside their arms,
and forget that they are warriors. Why was the head of Arrowhead’s canoe, looking towards the St. Lawrence, where there are none but inimies to be found?”

  “Why were the Pathfinder and his friends looking the same way?” asked the Tuscarora calmly. “A Tuscarora may look in the same direction as a Yengeese.”

  “Why, to own the truth, Arrowhead, we are out scouting, like;—that is sailing—in other words, we are on the King’s business, and we have a right to be here, though we may not have a right to say why we are here.”

  “Arrowhead saw the big canoe, and he loves to look on the face of Eau douce. He was going towards the sun at evening, in order to seek his wigwam, but finding that the young sailor was going the other way, he turned that he might look in the same direction. Eau douce and Arrowhead were together, on the last trail.”

  “This may all be true, Tuscarora, and you are welcome. You shall eat of our venison, and then we must separate. The setting sun is behind us, and both of us move quick, my brother will get too far from that which he seeks, unless he turns round.”

  Pathfinder now returned to the others, and reported the result of his examination. He appeared himself to believe that the account of Arrowhead might be true, though he admitted that caution would be prudent with one he disliked; but his auditors, Jasper excepted, seemed less disposed to put faith in the explanations.

  “This chap must be ironed at once, Brother Dunham,” said Cap, as soon as Pathfinder finished his narration; “he must be turned over to the Master at Arms, if there is any such officer on fresh water, and a court martial ought to be ordered, as soon as we reach port.”

  “I think it wisest to detain the fellow,” the serjeant answered, “but irons are unnecessary so long as he remains in the cutter. In the morning, the matter shall be inquired into.”

  Arrowhead was now summoned, and told the decision. The Indian listened gravely and made no objections. On the contrary, he submitted with the calm and reserved dignity with which the American Aborigines are known to yield to fate, and he stood apart, an attentive but calm observer of what was passing. Jasper caused the cutter’s sails to be filled, and the Scud resumed her course.