The sun had actually set, no intelligence had been received from the boats, and Mabel ascended to the roof, to take a last look, hoping that the party would arrive in the darkness, which would at least prevent the Indians from rendering their ambuscade as fatal as it might otherwise prove, and which possibly might enable her to give some more intelligible signal, by means of fire, than it would otherwise be in her power to do. Her eye had turned carefully round the whole horizon, and she was just on the point of drawing in her person, when an object that struck her as new, caught her attention. The islands lay grouped so closely, that six or eight different channels, or passages between them were in view, and in one of the most covered, concealed in a great measure by the bushes of the shore, lay, what a second look assured her, was a bark canoe. It contained a human being beyond a question. Confident that, if an enemy, her signal could do no harm, and, if a friend, that it might do good, the eager girl waved a little flag towards the stranger, which she had prepared for her father, taking care that it should not be seen from the island.
Mabel had repeated her signal eight or ten times in vain, and she began to despair of its being noticed, when a sign was given in return, by the wave of a paddle, and the man so far discovered himself, as to let her see it was Chingachgook. Here, then, at last, was a friend; one, too, who was able, and she doubted not would be willing, to aid her! From that instant her courage and her spirits revived. The Mohican had seen her; must have recognised her, as he knew that she was of the party, and no doubt, as soon as it was sufficiently dark, he would take the steps necessary to release her. That he was aware of the presence of the enemy was apparent by the great caution he observed, and she had every reliance on his prudence and address. The principal difficulty now existed with June, for Mabel had seen too much of her fidelity to her own people, relieved as it was by sympathy for herself, to believe she would consent to a hostile Indian’s entering the block-house, or indeed to her leaving it, with a view to defeat Arrowhead’s plans. The half hour that succeeded the discovery of the presence of the Great Serpent, was the most painful of Mabel Dunham’s life. She saw the means of effecting all she wished, as it might be within reach of her hand, and yet it eluded her grasp. She knew June’s decision and coolness, notwithstanding all her gentleness and womanly feeling, and at last she came reluctantly to the conclusion that there was no other way of attaining her end, than by deceiving her tried companion and protector. It was revolting to one as sincere and natural, as pure of heart and as much disposed to ingenuousness as Mabel Dunham, to practice deception on a friend like June, but her own father’s life was at stake, her companion would receive no positive injury, and she had feelings and interests directly touching herself, that would have removed greater scruples.
As soon as it was dark, Mabel’s heart began to beat with violence, and she adopted and changed her plan of proceedings, at least a dozen times, in the course of a single hour. June was always the source of her greatest embarrassment, for she did not well see firstly how she was to ascertain when Chingachgook was at the door, where she doubted not he would soon appear, and, secondly, how she was to admit him, without giving the alarm to her watchful companion. Time pressed, however, for the Mohican might come and go away again, unless she was ready to receive him. It would be too hazardous to the Delaware to remain long on the island, and it became absolutely necessary to determine on some course, even at the risk of choosing one that was indiscreet. After running over various projects, in her mind, therefore, Mabel came to her companion and said with as much calmness as she could assume—
“Are you not afraid, June, now your people believe Pathfinder is in the block-house, that they will come and try to set it on fire?”
“No t’ink such t’ing. No burn block-house. Block-house good; got no scalp.”
“June, we cannot know. They hid, because they believed what I told them of Pathfinder’s being with us.”
“Believe fear. Fear come quick; go quick. Fear make run away; wit make come back. Fear make warrior fool, as well as young girl.”
Here June laughed, as her sex is apt to laugh when any thing particularly ludicrous crosses their youthful fancies.
“I feel uneasy, June, and wish you yourself would go up again to the roof, and look out upon the island, to make certain that nothing is plotting against us; you know the signs of what your people intend to do, better than I.”
“June go, Lily wish; but very well know, that Injin asleep; wait for ’e fader. Warrior eat, drink, sleep all time, when don’t fight, and go on war trail. Den never sleep, eat, drink—never feel. Warrior sleep now.”
“God send it may be so—but go up, dear June, and look well about you; danger may come when we least expect it.”
June arose and prepared to ascend to the roof, but she paused with her foot on the first round of the ladder. Mabel’s heart beat so violently, that she was fearful its throbs would be heard, and she fancied that some gleamings of her real intentions had crossed the mind of her friend. She was right in part; the Indian woman having actually stopped to consider whether there was any indiscretion in what she was about to do. At first, the suspicion that Mabel intended to escape flashed across her mind; then she rejected it, on the ground that the pale face had no means of getting off the island, and that the block-house was much the most secure place she could find. The next thought was, that Mabel had detected some sign of the near approach of her father. This idea lasted but an instant, for June entertained some such opinion of her companion’s ability to understand symptoms of this sort, symptoms that had escaped her own sagacity, as a woman of high fashion entertains of the accomplishments of her maid. Nothing else in the same way offering, she began slowly to mount the ladder. Just as she reached the upper floor, a lucky thought suggested itself to our heroine, and by expressing it in a hurried but natural manner she gained a great advantage in executing her projected scheme.
“I will go down,” she said, “and listen by the door, June, while you are on the roof, and we will thus be on our guard at the same time, above and below.”
Though June thought this savored of unnecessary caution, well knowing no one could enter the building unless aided from within, nor any serious danger menace them from the exterior, without giving sufficient warning, she attributed the proposition to Mabel’s ignorance and alarm; and, as it was apparently made with frankness, it was received without distrust. By these means our heroine was enabled to descend to the door, as her friend ascended to the roof, and June felt no unusual inducement to watch her. The distance between the two, was now too great to admit of conversation, and for three or four minutes one was occupied in looking about her, as well as the darkness would allow, and the other in listening at the door, with as much intentness, as if all her senses were absorbed in the single faculty of hearing.
June discovered nothing from her elevated stand. The obscurity indeed almost forbade the hope of such a result; but it would not be easy to describe the sensation with which Mabel thought she perceived a slight and guarded push against the door. Fearful that all might not be as she wished, and anxious to let Chingachgook know that she was near, she began, though in tremulous and low notes to sing. So profound was the stillness at the moment, that the sound of the unsteady warbling ascended to the roof, and in a minute June began to descend. A slight tap at the door was heard immediately after. Mabel was bewildered, for there was no time to lose. Hope proved stronger than fear, and with unsteady hands, she commenced unbarring the door. The moccasin of June was heard on the floor above her, when only a single bar was turned. The second was released as her form reached half-way down the lower ladder.
“What you do!” exclaimed June angrily.—“Run away—mad—leave block-house? Block-house good.”—The hands of both were on the last bar, and it would have been cleared from the fastenings, but for a vigorous shove from without, which jammed the wood. A short struggle ensued, though both were disinclined to violence. June would probably have prevailed, had not
another and more vigorous push from without forced the bar past the trifling impediment that held it, when the door opened. The form of a man was seen to enter, and both the females rushed up the ladder, as if equally afraid of the consequences. The stranger secured the door, and, first examining the lower room with great care, he cautiously ascended the ladder. June, as soon as it became dark, had closed the loops of the principal floor, and lighted a candle. By means of this dim taper then, the two females stood in expectation, waiting to ascertain the person of their visiter, whose wary ascent of the ladder was distinctly audible though sufficiently deliberate. It would not be easy to say which was the most astonished on finding, when the stranger had got through the trap, that Pathfinder stood before them!
“God be Praised!” Mabel exclaimed, for the idea that the block-house would be impregnable with such a garrison, at once crossed her mind. “Oh! Pathfinder, what has become of my father?”
“The sarjeant is safe, as yet, and victorious, though it is not in the gift of man to say what will be the ind of it. Is not that the wife of Arrowhead, skulking in the corner, there?”
“Speak not of her reproachfully, Pathfinder; I owe her my life—my present security. Tell me what has happened to my father’s party, why you are here, and I will relate all the horrible events that have passed upon this island.”
“Few words will do the last, Mabel, for one used to Indian deviltries needs but little explanations on such a subject. Every thing turned out as we had hoped with the expedition, for the Sarpent was on the look out, and he met us with all the information heart could desire. We ambushed three boats, druv’ the Frenchers out of them, got possession and sunk them, according to orders, in the deepest part of the channel, and the Savages of Upper Canada will fare badly for Indian goods this winter. Both powder and ball, too, will be scarcer among them, than keen hunters and actyve warriors may relish. We did not lose a man, or have even a skin barked, nor do I think the inimy suffered to speak of. In short, Mabel, it has been just such an expedition as Lundie likes; much harm to the foe, and little harm to ourselves.”
“Ah! Pathfinder, I fear when Major Duncan comes to hear the whole of the sad tale, he will find reason to regret he ever undertook the affair!”
“I know what you mean—I know what you mean, but, by telling my story straight, you will understand it better. As soon as the sarjeant found himself successful, he sent me and the Sarpent off in canoes, to tell you how matters had turned out, and he is following with the two boats; which being so much heavier, cannot arrive afore morning. I parted from Chingachgook this forenoon, it being agreed that he should come up one set of channels, and I another, to see that the path was clear. I’ve not seen the chief since.”
Mabel now explained the manner in which she had discovered the Mohican, and her expectation that he would yet come to the block-house.
“Not he—not he—A regular scout will never get behind walls, or logs, so long as he can keep the open air, and find useful employment. I should not have come myself, Mabel, but I promised the sarjeant to comfort you, and to look a’ter your safety. Ah’s! me. I reconnoitred the island with a heavy heart, this forenoon, and there was a bitter hour, when I fancied you might be among the slain!”
“By what lucky accident were you prevented from paddling up boldly to the island, and from falling into the hands of the enemy?”
“By such an accident, Mabel, as Providence employs to tell the hound where to find the deer, and the deer how to throw off the hound. No—no—these artifices and deviltries with dead bodies, may deceive the soldiers of the 55th, and King’s officers, but they are all lost upon men who have passed their days in the forest. I came down the channel in face of the pretended fisherman, and, though the riptyles have set up the poor wretch with art, it was not ingenious enough to take in a practysed eye. The rod was held too high, for the 55th have learned to fish at Oswego, if they never knew how afore, and then the man was too quiet for one who got neither prey nor bite. But we never come in upon a post blindly, and I have lain outside a garrison a whole night, because they had changed their sentries and their mode of standing guard. Neither the Sarpent, nor myself, would be likely to be taken in, by these contrivances, which were most probably intended for the Scotch, who are cunning enough in some particulars, though any thing but witches, when Indian sarcumventions are in the wind.”
“Do you think my father and his men may yet be deceived?” said Mabel, quickly.
“Not if I can prevent it, Mabel. You say the Sarpent is on the look-out, too; so there is a double chance of our succeeding in letting him know his danger; though it is by no means sartain by which channel the party may come.”
“Pathfinder—” said our heroine solemnly, for the frightful scenes she had witnessed had clothed death with unusual horrors—“Pathfinder, you have professed love for me—a wish to make me your wife?”
“I did ventur’ to speak on that subject, Mabel, and the sarjeant has even lately said that you are kindly disposed; but I am not a man to parsecute the thing I love.”
“Hear me, Pathfinder—I respect you—honor you—revere you—save my father from this dreadful death, and I can worship you. Here is my hand, as a solemn pledge for my faith, when you come to claim it.”
“Bless you—bless you, Mabel; this is more than I desarve—more, I fear, than I shall know how to profit by, as I ought. It was not wanting, howsever, to make me sarve the sarjeant. We are old comrades, and owe each other a life—though I fear me, Mabel, being a father’s comrade is not always the best recommendation with the daughter!”
“You want no other recommendation than your own acts—your courage—your fidelity—all that you do and say, Pathfinder, my reason approves, and the heart will, nay, it shall follow.”
“This is a happiness I little expected this night, but we are in God’s hands, and he will protect us, in his own way. These are sweet words, Mabel, but they were not wanting to make me do all that man can do, in the present sarcumstances; they will not lessen my endivors, neither.”
“Now we understand each other, Pathfinder—” Mabel added, hoarsely, “let us not lose one of the precious moments, which may be of incalculable value. Can we not get into your canoe, and go and meet my father?”
“That is not the course I advise. I do’n’t know by which channel the sarjeant will come, and there are twenty; rely on it, the Sarpent will be winding his way through them all. No—no—my advice is to remain, here. The logs of this block-house are still green, and it will not be easy to set them on fire, and I can make good the place, bating a burning, ag’in a tribe. The Iroquois nation cannot dislodge me from this fortress, so long as we can keep the flames from it. The Sarjeant is now ’camped on some island, and will not come in, until morning. If we hold the block, we can give him timely warning, by firing rifles for instance; and should he determine to attack the savages, as a man of his temper will be very likely to do, the possession of this building will be of great account in the affair. No—no—my judgment says remain, if the object be to sarve the sarjeant; though escape for our two selves, will be no very difficult matter.”
“Stay—” murmured Mabel—“Stay, for God’s sake, Pathfinder. Any thing, every thing, to save my father.”
“Yes, that is natur’. I am glad to hear you say this, Mabel, for I own a wish to see the sarjeant fairly supported. As the matter now stands he has gained himself credit, and could he once drive off these miscreants, and make an honorable retreat, laying the huts and block in ashes, no doubt, no doubt, Lundie would remember it, and sarve him accordingly—Yes, yes, Mabel, we must not only save the sarjeant’s life, but we must save his ripitation.”
“No blame can rest on my father, on account of the surprise of this island?”
“There’s no tellin’—there’s no tellin’. Military glory is a most unsartain thing. I’ve seen the Delawares routed when they desarved more credit, than, at other times, when they’ve carried the day. A man is wrong to set his hea
rt on success of any sort, and worst of all, on success in war. I know little of the settlements or of the notions that men hold in them, but, up hereaway, even the Indians rate a warrior’s character according to his luck. The principal thing with a soldier is never to be whipt; not do I think mankind stops long to consider how the day was won, or lost. For my part, Mabel, I make it a rule when facing the inimy, to give him as good as I can send, and to try to be moderate as I can, when we get the better; as for feeling moderate, after a defeat, little need be said on that score, as a flogging is one of the most humbling things in natur’. The parsons preach about humility in the garrisons; but if humility would make christians, the King’s troops ought to be saints, for they’ve done little, as yet, this war, but take lessons from the French, beginning at Fort du Quesne, and ending at Ty!”
“My father could not have suspected that the position of the island was known to the enemy!” resumed Mabel, whose thoughts were running on the probable effect of the recent events on the Serjeant.
“That is true; nor do I well see how the Frenchers found it out. The spot is well chosen, and it is not an easy matter even for one who has travelled the road to and from it, to find it again. There has been treachery I fear; yes, yes there must have been treachery!”
“Oh! Pathfinder, can this be!”
“Nothing is easier, Mabel, for treachery comes as nat’ral to some men as eating. Now, when I find a man all fair words, I look close to his deeds; for when the heart is right and raally intends to do good, it is generally satisfied to let the conduct speak, instead of the tongue.”
“Jasper Western is not one of these,” said Mabel impetuously. “No youth can be more sincere in his manner, or less apt to make the tongue act for the heart!”
“Jasper Western!—Tongue and heart are both right with that lad, depend on it, Mabel, and the notion taken up by Lundie, and the Quarter Master, and the Sarjeant, and your uncle too, is as wrong as it would be to think that the sun shone by night, and the stars shone by day. No—no—I’ll answer for Eau douce’s honesty, with my own scalp, or, at need, with my own rifle.”
The Leatherstocking Tales II Page 44