The Leatherstocking Tales II

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Capt. Flinty-heart, as Pathfinder called him, made another obeisance, but this time the smile was friendly, and not ironical, for he felt that the intention was good, whatever might have been the mode of expressing it. Too philosophical, however, to heed what a man like Cap might say, or think, he finished his breakfast without allowing his attention to be again diverted from that important pursuit.

  “My business, here, was principally with the Quarter Master,” Cap continued, as soon as he had done regarding the Frenchman’s pantomine; “the serjeant must be near his end, and I have thought he might wish to say something to his successor in authority, before he finally departed. It is too late, it would seem, and, as you say, Pathfinder, the Lieutenant has truly gone before.”

  “That he has, though on a different path. As for authority, I suppose the corporal has now a right to command what’s left of the 55th, though a small and worried, not to say frightened, party it is. But, if any thing needs to be done, the chances are greatly in favor of my being called on to do it. I suppose, howsever, we have only to bury our dead, and set fire to the block and the huts, for they stand in the inimy’s territory, by position if not by law, and must not be left for their convenience. Our using them again, is out of the question, for now the Frenchers know where the island is to be found, it would be like thrusting the hand into a wolf trap, with our eyes wide open. This part of the work, the Sarpent and I will see to, for we are as practysed in retreats, as in advances.”

  “All that is very well, my good friend; and now for my poor brother-in-law: though he is a soldier, we cannot let him slip, without a word of consolation, and a leave-taking, in my judgment. This has been an unlucky affair, on every tack, though I suppose it is what one had a right to expect, considering the state of the times, and the nature of the navigation. We must make the best of it, and try to help the worthy man to unmoor, without straining his messengers. Death is a circumstance, after all, Master Pathfinder, and one of a very general character, too, seeing that we must all submit to it, sooner or later.”

  “You say truth, you say truth, and for that reason I hold it to be wise to be always ready. I’ve often thought, Salt-water, that he is happiest who has the least to leave behind him, when the summons comes. Now, here am I, a hunter, and a scout, and a guide, although I do not own a foot of land on ’arth, yet do I enjoy and possess more than the great Albany Patroon. With the heavens over my head, to keep me in mind of the last great hunt, and the dried leaves beneath my feet, I tramp over the ground as freely as if I was its lord and owner, and what more need heart desire? I do not say, that I love nothing, that belongs to ’arth; for I do, though not much, unless it might be Mabel Dunham, that I can’t carry with me. I have some pups, at the higher fort, that I valu, considerable, though they are too noisy for warfare, and so we are compelled to live separate for a while; and, then, I think it would grieve me to part with Killdeer, but I see no reason why we should not be buried in the same grave, for we are as near as can be of the same length, six feet to a hair’s breadth; but, ’bating these, and a pipe that the Sarpent gave me, and a few tokens received from travellers, all of which might be put in a pouch, and laid under my head, when the order comes to march, I shall be ready at a minute’s warning; and, let me tell you, Master Cap, that’s what I call a circumstance, too!”

  “’Tis just so with me,” answered the sailor, as the two walked towards the block, too much occupied with their respective morality to remember, at the moment, the melancholy errand they were on—“that’s just my way, of feeling and reasoning. How often have I felt, when near shipwreck, the relief of not owning the craft! ‘If she goes,’ I have said to myself, ‘why my life goes with her, but not my property, and there’s great comfort in that.’ I’ve discovered, in the course of boxing about the world, from the Horn to Cape North, not to speak of this run on a bit of fresh water, that if a man has a few dollars, and puts them in a chest, under lock and key, he is pretty certain to fasten up his heart in the same till, and so I carry pretty much all I own, in a belt round my body, in order, as I say, to keep the vitals in the right place. D____e, Pathfinder, if I think a man without a heart, any better than a fish with a hole in his air bag.”

  “I don’t know how that may be, Master Cap, but a man without a conscience is but a poor creatur’, take my word for it, as any one will discover who has to do with a Mingo. I trouble myself but little with dollars, or half-joes, for these are the favoryte coin in this part of the world, but I can easily believe, by what I’ve seen of mankind, that if a man has a chest filled with either, he may be said to lock up his heart in the same box. I once hunted for two summers, during the last peace, and I collected so much peltry that I found my right feelings giving way to a craving after property, and if I have consarn in marrying Mabel, it is that I may get to love such things too well, in order to make her comfortable.”

  “You’re a philosopher, that’s clear, Pathfinder, and I don’t know but you’re a christian!”

  “I should be out of humour with the man that gainsayed the last, Master Cap. I have not been christianized by the Moravians, like so many of the Delawares, it is true, but I hold to Christianity and white gifts. With me, it is as oncreditable for a white man not to be a Christian, as it is for a red skin not to believe in his happy hunting grounds; indeed, after allowing for difference in traditions, and some variations about the manner in which the spirit will be occupied after death, I hold that a good Delaware is a good Christian, though he never saw a Moravian, and a good Christian a good Delaware, so far as natur’ is consarned. The Sarpent and I talk these matters over, often, for he has a hankerin’ after christianity—”

  “The d____l he has!” interrupted Cap. “And what does he intend to do in a church, with all the scalps he takes.”

  “Don’t run away with a false idee, friend Cap; don’t run away, with a false idee. These things are only skin deep and all depend on edication and nat’ral gifts. Look around you, at mankind, and tell me why you see a red warrior here, a black one there, and white armies in another place? All this, and a great deal more of the same kind, that I could point out, has been ordered for some ’special purpose, and it is not for us to fly in the face of facts, and deny their truth. No—no—each colour has its gifts, and its laws, and its traditions; and one is not to condemn another because he does not exactly comprehend it.”

  “You must have read a great deal, Pathfinder, to see things as clear as this,” returned Cap, who was not a little mystified by his companion’s simple creed—“It’s all as plain as day to me, now, though I must say I never fell in with these opinions before. What denomination do you belong to, my friend?”

  “Anan?”

  “What sect do you hold out for?—What particular church do you fetch up in?”

  “Look about you, and judge for yourself. I’m in church now; I eat in church, drink in church, sleep in church. The ’arth is the temple of the Lord, and I wait on him hourly, daily, without ceasing, I humbly hope. No—no—I’ll not deny my blood and colour, but am Christian born, and shall die in the same faith. The Moravians tried me hard, and one of the King’s chaplains has had his say, too, though that’s a class no ways strenuous on such matters, and a missionary sent from Rome talked much with me, as I guided him through the forest, during the last peace, but I’ve had one answer for them all—I’m a christian, already, and want to be neither Moravian, nor Churchman, nor Papist. No—no—I’ll not deny my birth and blood.”

  “I think a word from you might lighten the serjeant over the shoals of death, Master Pathfinder. He has no one with him but poor Mabel, and she, you know, besides being his daughter, is but a girl and a child after all.”

  “Mabel is feeble in body, friend Cap, but in matters of this natur’, I doubt if she may not be stronger than most men. But Sarjeant Dunham is my friend, and he is your brother-in-law, so, now the press of fighting and maintaining our rights is over, it is fitting we should both go and witness his departure. I’ve
stood by many a dying man, Master Cap,” continued Pathfinder, who had a besetting propensity to enlarge on his experience, stopping and holding his companion by a button—“I’ve stood by many a dying man’s side, and seen his last gasp, and heard his last breath, for when the hurry and tumult of the battle is over, it is good to bethink us of the misfortunate, and it is remarkable to witness how differently human natur’ feels at such solemn moments. Some go their way, as stupid and ignorant, as if God had never given them reason and an accountable state, while others quit us rejoicing, like men who leave heavy burthens behind them. I think that the mind sees clearly at such moments, my friend, and that past deeds stand thick before the recollection.”

  “I’ll engage they do, Pathfinder. I have witnessed something of this myself, and hope I’m the better man for it. I remember once that I thought my own time had come, and the log was overhauled with a diligence I did not think myself capable of, until that moment. I’ve not been a very great sinner, friend Pathfinder; that is to say, never on a large scale; though, I dare say, if the truth were spoken, a considerable amount of small matters might be raked up against me, as well as against another man; but, then I’ve never committed piracy, nor high treason, nor arson, nor any of them sort of things. As to smuggling, and the like of that, why I’m a seafaring man, and I suppose all callings have their weak spots. I dare say, your trade is not altogether without blemish, honorable and useful as it seems to be?”

  “Many of the scouts and guides are desperate knaves, and like the Quarter Master, here, some of them take pay of both sides. I hope I’m not one of them, though all occupations lead to temptation. Thrice have I been sorely tried in my life, and once yielded a little, though I hope it was not in a matter to disturb a man’s conscience, in his last moments. The first time was, when I found in the woods, a pack of skins that I knowed belonged to a Frencher who was hunting on our side of the lines, where he had no business to be; twenty six as handsome beavers, as ever gladdened human eyes! Well, that was a tight temptation, for I thought the law would have been almost with me, although it was in peace times. But, then I remembered that such laws was’n’t made for us hunters, and bethought me that the poor man might have built great expectations for the next winter, on the sale of his skins, and I left them where they lay. Most of our people said I did wrong, but the manner in which I slept that night, convinced me that I had done right. The next trial, was when I found the rifle that is sartainly the only one in this part of the world that can be calculated on as surely as Killdeer, and knowed that by taking it, or even hiding it, I might at once rise to be the first shot in all these parts. I was then young, and by no means as expart as I have since got to be, and youth is ambitious and striving; but, God be praised! I mastered that feeling, and, friend Cap, what is almost as good, I mastered my rival in as fair a shooting match as was ever witnessed in a garrison; he with his piece, and I with Killdeer, and before the General, in person, too!” Here Pathfinder stopped to laugh, his triumph still glittering in his eyes, and glowing on his sunburnt and browned cheek.—“Well, the next conflict with the devil, was the hardest of them all, and that was when I came suddenly, upon a camp of six Mingos, asleep in the woods, with their guns and horns piled in a way that enabled me to get possession of them without waking a miscreant of them all. What an opportunity that would have been for the Sarpent, who would have despatched them one after another with his knife, and had their six scalps at his girdle, in about the time it takes me to tell you the story. Oh! He’s a valiant warrior, that Chingachgook, and as honest as he’s brave, and as good as he’s honest.”

  “And what may you have done in this matter, Master Pathfinder,” demanded Cap, who began to be interested in the result—“It seems to me, you had made either a very lucky, or a very unlucky landfall.”

  “’Twas lucky, and ’twas unlucky, if you can understand that. ’Twas unlucky, for it proved a desperate trial, and yet ’twas lucky, all things considered, in the ind. I did not touch a hair of their heads, for a white man has no nat’ral gifts to take scalps, nor did I even make sure of one of their rifles. I distrusted myself, knowing that a Mingo is no favorite, in my own eyes.”

  “As for the scalps, I think you were right enough, my worthy friend, but as for the armament and the stores, they would have been condemned by any prize-court in Christendom!”

  “That they would—that they would, but then the Mingos would have gone clear, seeing that a white man can no more attack an unarmed, than a sleeping, inimy. No—no—I did myself, and my colour, and my religion, too, greater justice. I waited ’till their nap was over, and they well on their warpath ag’in, and by ambushing them here, and flanking them, there, I peppered the blackguards so intrinsically, like,” Pathfinder occasionally caught a fine word from his associates, and used it a little vaguely—“that only one ever got back to his village; and he came into his wigwam limping. Luckily as it turned out, the Great Delaware had only halted to jerk some venison, and was following on my trail, and when he got up, he had five of the scoundrels’ scalps hanging where they ought to be; so you see nothing was lost by doing right, either in the way of honor or in that of profit.”

  Cap grunted an assent, though the distinctions in his companion’s morality, it must be owned, were not exactly clear to his understanding. The two had occasionally moved towards the block, as they conversed, and then stopped again, as some matter of more interest than common, brought them to a halt. They were now so near the building, however, that neither thought of pursuing the subject any further, but each prepared himself for the final scene with Serjeant Dunham.

  Chapter XXVIII

  “Thou barraine ground, whom winter’s wrath hath wasted,

  Art made a mirror to behold my plight:

  Whilome thy fresh spring flowr’d; and after hasted

  Thy summer prowde, with daffodillies dight;

  And now is come thy winter’s stormy state,

  Thy mantle mar’d wherein thou maskedst late.”

  —Spenser, The Shepheardes Calender, “Januarye,” ll. 19–24.

  * * *

  ALTHOUGH THE SOLDIER may regard danger, and even death, with indifference, in the tumult of battle, when the passage of the soul is delayed to moments of tranquility and reflection, the change commonly brings with it the usual train of solemn reflection; of regrets for the past, and of doubts and anticipations for the future. Many a man has died with an heroic expression on his lips, but with heaviness and distrust at his heart; for, whatever may be the varieties of our religious creeds—let us depend on the mediation of Christ, the dogmas of Mahomet, or the elaborated allegories of the East, there is a conviction common to all men, that death is but the stepping-stone between this and a more elevated state of being. Serjeant Dunham was a brave man, but he was departing for a country in which resolution could avail him nothing, and, as he felt himself gradually loosened from the grasp of the world, his thoughts and feelings took the natural direction; for, if it be true that death is the great leveller, in nothing is it more true, than that it reduces all to the same views of the vanity of life.

  Pathfinder, though a man of quaint and peculiar habits and opinions, was always thoughtful and disposed to view the things around him, with a shade of philosophy as well as with seriousness. In him, therefore, the scene in the block house awakened no very novel feelings; but the case was different with Cap. Rude, opinionated, dogmatical and boisterous, the old sailor was little accustomed to view even death, with any approach to the gravity that its importance demands, and, notwithstanding all that had passed, and his real regard for his brother-in-law, he now entered the room of the dying man, with much of that callous unconcern which was the fruit of long training in a school, that, while it gives so many lessons in the sublimest truths, generally wastes its admonitions on scholars who are little disposed to profit by them.

  The first proof that Cap gave of his not entering as fully as those around him, into the solemnity of the moment, was by commencin
g a narration of the events which had just led to the deaths of Muir and Arrowhead. “Both tripped their anchors in a hurry, brother Dunham,” he concluded, “and you have the consolation of knowing that others have gone before you, in the great journey, and they, too, men, whom you’ve no particular reason to love; which to me, were I placed in your situation, would be a source of very great satisfaction. My mother always said, Master Pathfinder, that dying people’s spirits should not be damped, but that they ought to be encouraged by all proper and prudent means, and this news will give the poor fellow a great lift, if he feels towards them savages, any way as I feel myself.”

  June arose, at this intelligence, and stole from the block-house with a noiseless step. Dunham listened with a vacant stare, for life had already lost so many of its ties that he had really forgotten Arrowhead, and cared nothing for Muir; but he inquired, in a feeble voice, for Eau douce. The young man was immediately summoned, and soon made his appearance. The serjeant gazed at him kindly, and the expression of his eyes, was that of regret for the injury he had done him, in thought. The party in the block-house now consisted of Pathfinder, Cap, Mabel, Jasper, and the dying man. With the exception of the daughter, all stood around the serjeant’s pallet, in attendance on his last moments. Mabel kneeled at his side, now pressing a clammy hand to her heart, now applying moisture to the parched lips of her father.

  “Your case will shortly be ourn, sarjeant,” said Pathfinder, who could hardly be said to be awestruck by the scene, for he had witnessed the approach and victories of death too often for that, but who felt the full difference between his triumphs in the excitement of battle, and in the quiet of the domestic circle; “and I make no question we shall meet ag’in, hereafter. Arrowhead has gone his way ’tis true, but it can never be the way of a just Indian. You’ve seen the last of him; for his path cannot be the path of the just. Reason is ag’in the thought, in his case, as it is also, in my judgment, ag’in it, too, in the case of Lieutenant Muir. You have done your duty in life, and when a man does that, he may start on the longest journey, with a light heart, and an actyve foot.”