Joyce was a man of powerful frame, and, at that moment, he felt he was master of a giant’s strength. First assuring himself of the fact that the wounded man had certainly ceased to breathe, he brought the arms over his own shoulders, raised the body on his back, and walked from the place, with less attention to caution than on entering, but with sufficient care to prevent exposure. Nick stood watching his movements with a wondering look, and as soon as there was room, he aided in supporting the corpse.
In this manner the two went up the path, bearing their senseless burden. A gesture directed the party with Jamie to precede the two who had been below, and the serjeant did not pause even to breathe, until he had fairly reached the summit of the cliff; then he halted in a place removed from the danger of immediate discovery. The body was laid reverently on the ground, and Joyce renewed his examination with greater ease and accuracy, until perfectly satisfied that the captain must have ceased to breathe, nearly an hour.
This was a sad and fearful blow to the whole party. No one, at such a moment, thought of inquiring into the manner in which their excellent master had received his death-blow; but every thought was bent either on the extent of the calamity, or on the means of getting back to the Hut. Joyce was the soul of the party. His rugged face assumed a stern, commanding expression; but every sign of weakness had disappeared. He gave his orders promptly, and the men even started when he spoke, so bent on obtaining obedience did he appear to be.
The rifles were converted into a bier, the body was placed upon it, and the four men then raised the burthen, and began to retrace their footsteps, in melancholy silence. Nick led the way, pointing out the difficulties of the path, with a sedulousness of attention, and a gentleness of manner, that none present had ever before witnessed in the Tuscarora. He even appeared to have become woman, to use one of his own peculiar expressions.
No one speaking, and all the men working with good will, the retreat, notwithstanding the burthen with which it was encumbered, was made with a rapidity greatly exceeding the advance. Nick led the way with an unerring eye, even selecting better ground than that which the white men had been able to find on their march. He had often traversed all the hills, in the character of a hunter, and to him the avenues of the forest were as familiar as the streets of his native town become to the burgher. He made no offer to become one of the bearers; this would have been opposed to his habits; but, in all else, the Indian manifested gentleness and solicitude. His apprehension seemed to be, and so he expressed it, that the Mohawks might get the scalp of the dead man; a disgrace that he seemed as solicitous to avoid as Joyce himself; the serjeant, however, keeping in view the feelings of the survivors, rather than any notions of military pride.
Notwithstanding the stern resolution that prevailed among the men, that return march was long and weary. The distance, of itself, exceeded two miles, and there were the inequalities and obstacles of a forest to oppose them. Perseverance and strength, however, overcame all difficulties; and, at the end of two hours, the party approached the point where it became necessary to enter the bed of the rivulet, or expose their sad procession by marching in open view of any who might be straggling in the rear of the Hut. A species of desperate determination had influenced the men in their return march, rendering them reckless of discovery, or its consequences; a circumstance that had greatly favoured their object; the adventurous and bold frequently encountering fewer difficulties, in the affairs of war, than the cautious and timid. But an embarrassment now presented itself that was far more difficult to encounter than any which proceeded from personal risks. The loving family of the deceased was to be met; a wife and daughters apprised of the fearful loss that, in the providence of God, had suddenly alighted on their house.
“Lower the body, men, and come to a halt,” said Joyce, using the manner of authority, though his voice trembled; “we must consult together, as to our next step.”
There was a brief and decent pause, while the party placed the lifeless body on the grass, face uppermost, with the limbs laid in order, and everything about it, disposed of in a seemliness that betokened profound respect for the senseless clay, even after the noble spirit had departed. Mike alone could not resist his strong native propensity to talk. The honest fellow raised a hand of his late master, and, kissing it with strong affection, soliloquized as follows, in a tone that was more rebuked by feeling, than any apprehension of consequences.
“Little need had ye of a praist, and extreme unction,” he said. “The likes of yerself always kapes a clane breast; and the knife that went into yer heart found nothing that ye need have been ashamed of! Sorrow come over me, but yer lass is as great a one to meself, as if I had tidings of the sinking of ould Ireland into the salt say, itself; a thing that niver can happen, and niver will happen; no, not even at the last day; as all agree the wor-r-ld is to be burned and not drowned. And who’ll there be to tell this same to the Missus, and Miss Beuley, and phratty Miss Maud, and the babby, in the bargain? Divil bur-r-n me, if ’t will be Michael O’Hearn, who has too much sorrow of his own, to be running about, and d’aling it out to other people. Sarjeant, that will be yer own jewty, and I pities the man that has to perform it.”
“No man will see me shrink from a duty, O’Hearn,” said Joyce, stiffly, while with the utmost difficulty he kept the tears from breaking out of a fountain that had not opened, in this way, for twenty years. “It may bear hard on my feelings--I do not say it will not--but duty is duty, and it must be done. Corporal Allen, you see the state of things; the commanding officer is among the casualties, and nothing would be simpler than our course, were it not for Madam Willoughby -- God bless her, and have her in His holy keeping--and the young ladies. It is proper to deliberate a little about them. To you then, as an elderly and experienced man, I first apply for an opinion.”
“Sorrow’s an unwelcome guest, whether it comes expected, or without any previous knowledge. The hairts o’ the widow and fairtherless must be stricken, and it’s little that a’ our consolations and expairiments will prevail ag’in the feelin’s o’ natur’. Pheeloosophy and religion tall us that the body’s no mair than a clod o’ the valley when the speerit has fled; but the hairt is unapt to listen to wisdom while the grief is fraish, and of the severity of an unlooked-for sairtainty. I see little good, therefore, in doing mair than just sending in a messenger to clear the way a little for the arrival of truth, in the form o’ death, itsal’.”
“I have been thinking of this -- will you take the office, Jamie, as a man of years and discretion?”
“Na--na--ye’ll be doing far better by sending a younger man. Age has weakened my memory, and I’ll be overlooking some o’ the saircumstances in a manner that will be unseemly for the occasion. Here is Blodget, a youth of ready wit, and limber tongue.”
“I wouldn’t do it, mason, to be the owner of ten such properties as this!” exclaimed the young Rhode Islander, actually recoiling a step, as if he retreated before a dreaded foe.
“Well, sairjeant, ye’ve Michael here, who belangs to a kirk that has so little seempathy with protestantism as to lessen the pain o’ the office. Death is a near ally to religion, and Michael, by taking a religious view o’ the maither, might bring his hairt into such a condition of insensibility as wad give him little to do but to tell what has happened, leaving God, in his ain maircy, to temper the wind to the shorn lamb.”
“You hear, O’Hearn?” said the serjeant, stiffly--“Everybody seems to expect that you will do this duty.”
“Jewty!--D’ye call it a jewty for a man in my situation to break the hearts of Missus, and Miss Beuly, and phratty Miss Maud, and the babby? for babbies has hearts as well as the stoutest man as is going. Divil bur-r-n me, then, if ye gets out of my mout’ so much as a hint that the captain’s dead and gone from us, for ever and ever, amen! Ye may send me in, for ye’re corporals, and serjeants, and the likes of yees, and I’ll obey as a souldier, seein’ that he would have wished as much himself, had the breat’ staid in his bo
dy, which it has not, on account of its l’aving his sowl on ’arth, and departing with his corporeal part for the mansions of happiness, the Blessed Mary have mercy on him, whether here or there -- but the captain was not the man to wish a fait’ful follower to afflict his own wife; and so I’ll have not’in’ to do with such a message, at all at all.”
“Nick go” -- said the Indian, calmly -- “Used to carry message -- carry him for cap’in, once more.”
“Well, Nick, you may do it certainly, if so disposed,” answered Joyce, who would have accepted the services of a Chinese rather than undertake the office in person. “You will remember and speak to the ladies gently, and not break the news too suddenly.”
“Yes--squaw soft heart--Nick know--had moder--had wife, once--had darter.”
“Very well; this will be an advantage, men, as Nick is the only married man among us; and married men should best understand dealing with females.”
Joyce then held a private communication with the Tuscarora, that lasted some five or six minutes, when the last leaped nimbly into the bed of the stream, and was soon con cealed by the bushes of one of its reaches.
CHAPTER XI.
“Heart leaps to heart--the sacred flood
That warms us is the same; That good old man--his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.”
Sprague Although Nick commenced his progress with so much seeming zeal and activity, his speed abated, the moment he found himself beyond the sight of those he had left in the woods. Before he reached the foot of the cliff, his trot had degenerated to a walk; and when he actually found he was at its base, he seated himself on a stone, apparently to reflect on the course he ought to pursue.
The countenance of the Tuscarora expressed a variety of emotions while he thus remained stationary. At first, it was fierce, savage, exulting; then it became gentler, soft, perhaps repentant. He drew his knife from its buckskin sheath, and eyed the blade with a gaze expressive of uneasiness. Perceiving that a clot of blood had collected at the junction with the handle, it was carefully removed by the use of water. His look next passed over his whole person, in order to ascertain if any more of these betrayers of his fearful secret remained; after which he seemed more at ease.
“Wyandotté’s back don’t ache now,” he growled to himself. “Ole sore heal up. Why Cap’in touch him? T’ink Injin no got feelin’? Good man, sometime; bad man, sometime. Sometime, live; sometime, die. Why tell Wyandotté he flog ag’in, just as go to enemy’s camp? No; back feel well, now--nebber smart, any more.”
When this soliloquy was ended, Nick arose, cast a look up at the sun, to ascertain how much of the day still remained, glanced towards the Hut, as if examining the nature of its defences, stretched himself like one who was weary, and peeped out from behind the bushes, in order to see how those who were afield, still occupied themselves. All this done, with singular deliberation and steadiness, he arranged his light dress, and prepared to present himself before the wife and daughters of the man, whom, three hours before, he had remorselessly murdered. Nick had often meditated this treacherous deed, during the thirty years which had elapsed between his first flogging and the present period; but circumstances had never placed its execution safely in his power. The subsequent punishments had increased the desire, for a few years; but time had so far worn off the craving for revenge, that it would never have been actively revived, perhaps, but for the unfortunate allusions of the victim himself, to the subject. Captain Willoughby had been an English soldier, of the school of the last century. He was naturally a humane and a just man, but he believed in the military axiom that “the most flogging regiments were the best fighting regiments;” and perhaps he was not in error, as regards the lower English character. It was a fatal error, however, to make in relation to an American savage; one who had formerly exercised the functions, and who had not lost all the feelings, of a chief. Unhappily, at a moment when everything depended on the fidelity of the Tuscarora, the captain had bethought him of his old expedient for insuring prompt obedience, and, by way of a reminder, he made an allusion to his former mode of punishment. As Nick would have expressed it, “the old sores smarted;” the wavering purpose of thirty years was suddenly and fiercely revived, and the knife passed into the heart of the victim, with a rapidity that left no time for appeals to the tribunal of God’s mercy. In half a minute, Captain Willoughby had ceased to breathe.
Such had been the act of the man who now passed through the opening of the palisade, and entered the former habitation of his victim. A profound stillness reigned in and around the Hut, and no one appeared to question the unexpected intruder. Nick passed, with his noiseless step, round to the gate, which he found secured. It was necessary to knock, and this he did in a way effectually to bring a porter.
“Who dere?” demanded the elder Pliny, from within.
“Good friend--open gate. Come wid message from cap’in.”
The natural distaste to the Indians which existed among the blacks of the Knoll, included the Tuscarora. This disgust was mingled with a degree of dread; and it was difficult for beings so untutored and ignorant, at all times to draw the proper distinctions between Indian and Indian. In their wonder-loving imaginations, Oneidas, Tuscaroras, Mohawks, Onondagas, and Iroquois were all jumbled together in inextricable confusion, a red man being a red man, and a savage a savage. It is not surprising, therefore, that Pliny the elder should hesitate about opening the gate, and admitting one of the detested race, though a man so well known to them all, in the peculiar situation of the family. Luckily, Great Smash happened to be near, and her husband called her to the gate by one of the signals that was much practised between them.
“Who you t’ink out dere?” asked Pliny the elder of his consort, with a very significant look.
“How you t’ink guess, ole Plin?--You ’spose nigger wench like Albonny wise woman, dat she see t’rough a gate, and know ebbery t’ing, and little more!”
“Well, dat Sassy Nick. What you say now?”
“You sartain, ole Plin?” asked Mistress Smash, with a face ominous of evil.
“Sartain as ear. Talk wid him--he want to come in. What you t’ink?”
“Nebber open gate, ole Plin, till mistress tell you. You stay here--dere; lean ag’in gate wid all you might; dere; now I go call Miss Maud. She all alone in librarim, and will know what best. Mind you lean ag’in gate well, ole Plin.”
Pliny the elder nodded assent, placed his shoulders resolutely against the massive timbers, and stood propping a defence that would have made a respectable resistance to a battering-ram, like another Atlas, upholding a world. His duty was short, however, his ‘lady’ soon returning with Maud, who was hastening breathlessly to learn the news.
“Is it you, Nick?” called out the sweet voice of our heroine through the crevices of the timber.
The Tuscarora started, as he so unexpectedly heard those familiar sounds; for an instant, his look was dark; then the expression changed to pity and concern, and his reply was given with less than usual of the abrupt, guttural brevity that belonged to his habits.
“’Tis Nick--Sassy Nick--Wyandotté, Flower of the Woods,” for so the Indian often termed Maud.--“Got news--cap’in send him. Meet party and go along. Nobody here; only Wyandotté. Nick see major, too--say somet’ing to young squaw.”
This decided the matter. The gate was unbarred, and Nick in the court in half-a-minute. Great Smash stole a glance without, and beckoned Pliny the elder to join her, in order to see the extraordinary spectacle of Joel and his associates toiling in the fields. When they drew in their heads, Maud and her companion were already in the library. The message from Robert Willoughby had induced our heroine to seek this room; for, placing little confidence in the delicacy of the messenger, she recoiled from listening to his words in the presence of others.
But Nick was in no haste to speak. He took the chair to which Maud motioned, and he sate looking at her, in a way that soon excited her alarm.
“Tell
me, if your heart has any mercy in it, Wyandotté; has aught happened to Major Willoughby?”
“He well--laugh, talk, feel good. Mind not’ing. He prisoner; don’t touch he scalp.”
“Why, then, do you wear so ominous a look--your face is the very harbinger of evil.”
“Bad news, if trut’ must come. What you’ name, young squaw?”
“Surely, surely, you must know that well, Nick! I am Maud -- your old friend, Maud.”
“Pale-face hab two name--Tuscarora got t’ree. Sometime, Nick -- sometime, Sassy Nick -- sometime, Wyandotté.”
“You know my name is Maud Willoughby,” returned our heroine, colouring to the temples with a certain secret consciousness of her error, but preferring to keep up old appearances.
“Dat call you’ fader’s name, Meredit’; no Willoughby.”
“Merciful Providence! and has this great secret been known to you, too, Nick!”
“He no secret--know all about him. Wyandotté dere.-- See Major Meredit’ shot. He good chief -- nebber flog -- nebber strike Injin. Nick know fader, know moder--know squaw, when pappoose.”
“And why have you chosen this particular moment to tell me all this? Has it any relation to your message--to Bob -- to Major Willoughby, I mean?” demanded Maud, nearly gasping for breath.
“No relation, tell you,” said Nick, a little angrily. “Why make relation, when no relation at all. Meredit’; no Willoughby. Ask moder; ask major; ask chaplain -- all tell trut’! No need to be so feelin’; no you fader, at all.”
Wyandotte; or, the Hutted Knoll . . . Volume 2 Page 16