Wyandotte; or, the Hutted Knoll . . . Volume 2

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Nick alway dry--Wyandotté know no thirst. Nick, beggar--ask for rum--pray for rum--t’ink of rum, talk of rum, laugh for rum, cry for rum. Wyandotté don’t know rum, when he see him. Wyandotté beg not’in’; no, not his scalp.”

  “All this sounds well, and I am both willing and glad, chief, to receive you in the character in which you give me to understand you have now come. A warrior of Wyandotté’s high name is too proud to carry a forked tongue in his mouth, and I shall hear nothing but truth. Tell me, then, all you know about this party at the mill; what has brought it here, how you came to meet my son, and what will be the next step of his captors. Answer the questions in the order in which I put them.”

  “Wyandotté not newspaper to tell ebbery t’ing at once. Let cap’in talk like one chief speaking to anoder.”

  “Then, tell me first, what you know of this party at the mill. Are there many pale-faces in it?”

  “Put ’em in the river,” answered the Indian, sententiously; “water tell the trut’.”

  “You think that there are many among them that would wash white?”

  “Wyandotté know so. When did red warriors ever travel on their path like hogs in drove? One red-man there, as Great Spirit make him; by his side two red-men as paint make ’em. This soon told on trail.”

  “You struck their trail, then, and joined their company, in that manner?”

  Another nod indicated the assent of the Indian. Perceiving that the Tuscarora did not intend to speak, the captain continued his interrogatories.

  “And how did the trail betray this secret, chief?” he asked.

  “Toe turn out--step too short--trail too broad--trail too plain--march too short.”

  “You must have followed them some distance, Wyandotté, to learn all this?”

  “Follow from Mohawk -- join ’em at mill. Tuscarora don’t like too much travel with Mohawk.”

  “But, according to your account, there cannot be a great many red-skins in the party, if the white men so much out-number them.”

  Nick, now, raised his right hand, showing all the fingers and the thumb, at each exhibition, four several times. Then he raised it once, showing only the fore-finger and thumb.

  “This makes twenty-two, Nick -- Do you include yourself in the number?”

  “Wyandotté, a Tuscarora--he count Mohawks.”

  “True--Are there any other red-men among them?”

  “Oneida, so”--holding up four fingers only. After which he held up a single finger, adding--“Onondaga, so.”

  “Twenty-two Mohawks, four Oneidas, and a single Onondaga, make twenty-seven in all. To these, how many whites am I to add?--You counted them, also?”

  The Indian now showed both hands, with all the fingers extended, repeating the gestures four times; then he showed one hand entire, and two fingers on the other.

  “Forty-seven. Add these to the red-skins, and we get seventy-four for the total. I had supposed them rather stronger than this, Wyandotté?”

  “No stronger -- no weaker -- just so. Good many ole womans, too, among pale-faces.”

  “Old women! -- You are not speaking literally, Nick? All that I have seen appear to be men.”

  “Got beard; but ole woman, too. Talk--talk--talk;-- do not’in’. Dat what Injin call ole woman. Party, poor party; cap’in beat ’em, if he fight like ole time.”

  “Well, this is encouraging, Wilhelmina, and Nick seems to be dealing fairly with us.”

  “Now, inquire more about Robert, Hugh”--said the wife, in whose maternal heart her children were always uppermost.

  “You hear, Nick; my wife is desirous of learning something about her son, next.”

  During the preceding dialogue, there had been something equivocal in the expression of the Indian’s face. Every word he uttered about the party, its numbers, and his own manner of falling in with it, was true, and his countenance indicated that he was dealing fairly. Still, the captain fancied that he could detect a covert fierceness in his eye and air, and he felt uneasiness even while he yielded him credence. As soon as Mrs. Willoughby, however, interposed, the gleam of ferocity that passed so naturally and readily athwart the swarthy features of the savage, melted into a look of gentleness, and there were moments when it might be almost termed softness.

  “Good to have moder”--said Nick, kindly. “Wyandotté got no squaw--wife dead, moder dead, sister dead--all gone to land of spirits--by’m bye, chief follow. No one throw stone on his grave! Been on death-path long ago, but cap’in’s squaw say ‘stop, Nick; little too soon, now; take medicine, and get well.’ Squaw made to do good. Chief alway like ’e squaw, when his mind not wild with war.”

  “And your mind, Wyandotté, is not wild with war, now,” answered Mrs. Willoughby, earnestly. “You will help a mother, then, to get her son out of the hands of merciless enemies?”

  “Why you t’ink merciless? Because pale-face dress like Injin, and try to cheat?”

  “That may be one reason; but I fear there are many others. Tell me, Wyandotté, how came you to discover that Robert was a prisoner, and by what means did he contrive to give you his letter?”

  The Indian assumed a look of pride, a little blended with hauteur; for he felt that he was manifesting the superiority of a red-man over the pale-face, as he related the means through which he had made his discoveries.

  “Read book on ground,” Nick answered gravely. “Two book alway open before chief; one in sky, t’other on ground. Book in sky, tell weather -- snow, rain, wind, thunder, lightning, war -- book on ground, tell what happen.”

  “And what had this book on the ground to do with my son, Wyandotté?”

  “Tell all about him. Major’s trail first seen at mill. No moccasin--much boot. Soldier boot like letter--say great deal, in few word. First t’ink it cap’in; but it too short. Den know it Major.”

  “This sounds very well, Nick,” interrupted the captain, “though you will excuse me if I say it is going a little too far. It seems impossible that you should know that the print of the foot was that of my son. How could you be certain of this?”

  “How could, eh? Who follow trail from house, here, to Hudson river? T’ink Nick blind, and can’t see? Tuscarora read his book well as pale-face read bible.” Here Nick looked round him a moment, raised his fore-finger, dropped his voice, and added earnestly--“see him at Bunker Hill-- know him among ten, six, two t’ousand warrior. Know dat foot, if meet him in Happy Hunting Ground.”

  “And why my son’s foot, in particular? The boot is often changed, can never be exactly like its predecessor, and one boot is so much like another, that to me the thing seems impossible. This account of the boot, Nick, makes me distrust your whole story.”

  “What distrust?” demanded the Indian like lightning.

  “It means doubt, uncertainty--distrust.”

  “Don’t believe, ha?”

  “Yes, that is it, substantially. Don’t more than half believe, perhaps, would be nearer to the mark.”

  “Why, ole soldier alway distrust; squaw nebber? Ask moder--ha!--you t’ink Nick don’t know son’s trail--handsome trail, like young chief’s?”

  “I can readily believe Nick might recognise Bob’s trail, Hugh”--expostulated Mrs. Willoughby. “He has a foot in a thousand--you may remember how every one was accustomed to speak of his beautiful foot, even when he was a boy. As a man, I think it still more remarkable.”

  “Ay, go on, Nick, in this way, and my wife will believe all you say. There is no distrust in a mother’s partiality, certainly. You are an old courtier, and would make your way at St. James’s.”

  “Major nebber tell about foot?” asked Nick, earnestly.

  “I remember nothing; and had he spoken of any such thing, I must have heard it. But, never mind the story, now; you saw the foot-print, and knew it for my son’s. Did you ask to be admitted to his prison? or was your intercourse secret?”

  “Wyandotté too wise to act like squaw, or boy. See him, widout look. Talk, widout speak--he
ar, widout ear. Major write letter, Nick take him. All done by eye and hand; not’in’ done by tongue, or at Council Fire. Mohawk blind like owl!”

  “May I believe you, Tuscarora; or, incited by demons, do you come to deceive me?”

  “Ole warrior look two time before he go; t’ink ten time before he say, yes. All good. Nick no affronted. Do so himself, and t’ink it right. Cap’in may believe all Nick say.”

  “Father!” cried Maud, with simple energy, “I will answer for the Indian’s honesty. He has guided Robert so often, and been with him in so many trying scenes, he never can have the heart to betray him, or us. Trust him, then; he may be of infinite service.”

  Even captain Willoughby, little disposed as he was to judge Nick favourably, was struck with the gleam of manly kindness that shot across the dark face of the Indian, as he gazed at the glowing cheek and illuminated countenance of the ardent and beautiful girl.

  “Nick seems disposed to make a truce with you, at least, Maud,” he said, smiling, “and I shall now know where to look for a mediator, whenever any trouble arises between us.”

  “I have known Wyandotté, dear sir, from childhood, and he has ever been my friend. He promised me, in particular, to be true to Bob, and I am happy to say he has ever kept his word.”

  This was telling but half the story. Maud had made the Indian many presents, and most especially had she attended to his wants, when it was known he was to be the major’s guide, the year previously, on his return to Boston. Nick had known her real father, and was present at his death. He was consequently acquainted with her actual position in the family of the Hutted Knoll; and, what was of far more consequence in present emergencies, he had fathomed the depths of her heart, in a way our heroine could hardly be said to have done herself. Off her guard with such a being, Maud’s solicitude, however, had betrayed her, and the penetrating Tuscarora had discerned that which had escaped the observation of father, and mother, and sister. Had Nick been a pale-face, of the class of those with whom he usually associated, his discovery would have gone through the settlement, with scoffings and exaggerations; but this forest gentleman, for such was Wyandotté, in spite of his degradation and numerous failings, had too much consideration to make a woman’s affections the subject of his coarseness and merriment. The secrets of Maud would not have been more sacred with her own brother, had such a relative existed to become her confidant, than it was with Saucy Nick.

  “Nick gal’s friend,” observed the Indian, quietly; “dat enough; what Nick say, Nick mean. What Nick mean, he do. Come, cap’in; time to quit squaw, and talk about war.”

  At this hint, which was too plain to be misunderstood, captain Willoughby bade the Indian withdraw to the court, promising to follow him, as soon as he could hold a short conference with Joyce, who was now summoned to the council. The subject of discussion was the manner in which the Tuscarora had passed the stockade, and the probability of his being true. The serjeant was disposed to distrust all red-men, and he advised putting Nick under arrest, and to keep him in durance, until the return of light, at least.

  “I might almost say, your honour, that such are orders, sir. The advice to soldiers carrying on war with savages, tells us that the best course is to pay off treachery with treachery; and treachery is a red-skin’s manual exercise. There is O’Hearn will make a capital sentinel, for the fellow is as true as the best steel in the army. Mr. Woods’ room is empty, and it is so far out of the way that nothing will be easier than to keep the savage snug enough. Besides, by a little management, he might fancy we were doing him honour all the while.”

  “We will see, serjeant,” answered the captain. “It has a bad appearance, and yet it may be the wisest thing we can do. Let us first go the rounds, taking Nick with us for safety, and determine afterwards.”

  CHAPTER V.

  “His hand was stay’d--he knew not why;

  ’Twas a presence breathed around--

  A pleading from the deep-blue sky,

  And up from the teeming ground.

  It told of the care that lavish’d had been

  In sunshine and in dew--

  Of the many things that had wrought a screen

  When peril round it grew.”

  Mrs. Seba Smith The desertions gave not only the captain, but his great support and auxiliary, the serjeant, the gravest apprehensions. A disposition of that nature is always contagious, men abandoning a failing cause much as rats are known to quit a sinking ship. It is not a matter of surprise, therefore, that the distrust which accompanied the unexpected appearance of the Tuscarora, became associated with this falling off in the loyalty of the garrison, in the minds of the two old soldiers.

  “I do think, your honour,” said Joyce, as they entered the court together, “that we may depend on O’Hearn, and Jamie, and Strides. The latter, as a matter of course, being a corporal, or serjeant as he calls himself; and the two first, as men who have no ties but such as would be likely to keep them true to this family. But here is the corporal to speak for himself.”

  As this was said, corporal Strides, as the serjeant persisted in terming Joel, on the ground that being but one step higher himself, the overseer could justly claim no rank of greater pretension, approached the captain, taking care to make the military salute which Joyce had never succeeded before in extracting from him, notwithstanding a hundred admonitions on the subject.

  “This is a distressing affair, captain Willoughby,” observed Joel, in his most jesuitical manner; “and to me it is altogether onaccountable! It does seem to me ag’in natur’, for a man to desart his own household and hum’ (Joel meant ‘home’) in the hour of trial. If a fellow-being wunt (Anglice ‘wont’) stand by his wife and children, he can hardly be expected to do any of his duties.”

  “Quite true, Strides,” answered the confiding captain, “though these deserters are not altogether as bad as you represent, since, you will remember, they have carried their wives and children with them.”

  “I believe they have, sir--yes, that must be allowed to be true, and that it is, which to me seems the most extr’or’nary. The very men that a person would calcilate on the most, or the heads of families, have desarted, while them that remain behind are mostly single!”

  “If we single men have no wives and children of our own to fight for, Strides,” observed Joyce, with a little military stiffness, “we have the wife and children of captain Willoughby; no man who wishes to sell his life dearly, need look for a better motive.”

  “Thank you, serjeant,” the captain said, feelingly--“On you, I can rely as on myself. So long as I have you, and Joel, here, and Mike and the blacks, and the rest of the brave fellows who have stood by me thus far, I shall not despair. We can make good the house against ten times our own number. But, it is time to look to the Indians.”

  “I was going to speak to the captain about Nick,” put in Joel, who had listened to the eulogium on his own fidelity with some qualms of conscience. “I can’t say I like the manner he has passed between the two parties; and that fellow has always seemed to me as if he owed the captain a mortal grudge; when an Injin does owe a grudge, he is pretty sartain to pay it, in full.”

  “This has passed over my mind, too, I will confess, Joel; yet Nick and I have been on reasonably good terms, when one comes to remember his character, on the one side, and the fact that I have commanded a frontier garrison on the other. If I have had occasion to flog him a few times, I have also had occasion to give him more rum than has done him good, with now and then a dollar.”

  “There I think the captain miscalcilates,” observed Joel, with a knowledge of human nature that would have been creditable to him, had he practised on it himself. “No man is thankful for rum when the craving is off, sin’ he knows he has been taking an inimy into his stomach; and as for the money, it was much the same as giving the liquor, seein’ that it went for liquor as soon as he could trot down to the mill. A man will seek his revenge for rum, as soon as for anything else, when he get
s to feel injuries uppermost. Besides, I s’pose the captain knows an injury will be remembered long a’ter a favour is forgotten.”

  “This may be true, Strides, and certainly I shall keep my eyes on the Indian. Can you mention any particular act, that excites your suspicion?”

  “Don’t the captain think Nick may have had suthin’ to do with the desartions?--A dozen men would scarce desart all at once, as it might be, onless some one was at the bottom of it.”

  This was true enough, certainly, though Joel chose to keep out of view all his own machinations and arts on the subject. The captain was struck by the suggestion, and he determined to put his first intention in respect to Nick in force immediately. Still, it was necessary to proceed with caution, the state of the Hut rendering a proper watch and a suitable prison difficult to be obtained. These circumstances were mentioned to the overseer, who led the way to the part of the buildings occupied by his own family; and, throwing open the doors, ostentatiously exhibited Phœbe and her children in their customary beds, at a moment when so many others had proved recreant. His professed object was to offer a small closet in his own rooms as a prison for Nick, remarking he must be an ingenious savage indeed, if he could escape the vigilance of as many watchful eyes as would then be on him.

  “I believe you, Strides,” said the captain, smiling as he walked away from the place; “if he can escape Phœbe and her children, the fellow must be made of quicksilver. Still, I have a better prison in view. I am glad to see this proof, however, of your own fidelity, by finding all your family in their beds; for those are not wanting who would have me suspect even you.”

  “Me!--Well, if the captain can’t count on his own overseer, I should like to ask such persons on whom he can count? Madam Willoughby and the young ladies isn’t more likely to remain true than I am, myself, I should think. What in reason, or natur’, or all lawful objects, could make me--”

  Joel was about to run into that excess of vindication that is a little apt to mark guilt; but, the captain cut him short, by telling him it was unnecessary, recommending vigilance, and walking away in search of Nick.