It was some time before Willoughby could ask, or Maud give, an explanation. Then the latter briefly recounted all she knew, her companion listening with the closest attention. The son thought the occurrence as extraordinary as it was afflicting, but there was not leisure for inquiry.
It was, perhaps, fortunate for our lovers that Nick’s employment kept him away. For nearly ten minutes longer did he continue absent; then he returned, slowly, thoughtful, and possibly a little disturbed. At the sound of his footstep, Willoughby released Maud from his arms, and both assumed an air of as much tranquillity as the state of their feetings would allow.
“Better march”--said, Nick, in his sententious manner-- “Mohawk very mad.”
“Do you see the signs of this?” asked the major, scarce knowing what he said.
“Alway make Injin mad; lose scalp. Prisoner run away, carry scalp with him.”
“I rather think, Nick, you do my captors injustice; so far from desiring anything so cruel, they treated me well enough, considering the circumstances, and that we are in the woods.”
“Yes; spare scalp, ’cause t’ink rope ready. Nebber trust Mohawk--all bad Injin.”
To own the truth, one of the great failings of the savages of the American forests, was to think of the neighbouring tribes, as the Englishman is known to think of the Frenchman, and vice versa; as the German thinks of both, and all think of the Yankee. In a word, his own tribe contains everything that is excellent, with the Pawnee, the Osage and Pottawattomie, as Paris contains all that is perfect in the eyes of the bourgeois, London in those of the cockney, and this virtuous republic in those of its own enlightened citizens; while the hostile communities are remorselessly given up to the tender solicitude of those beings which lead nations, as well as individuals, into the sinks of perdition. Thus Nick, liberalized as his mind had comparatively become by intercourse with the whites, still retained enough of the impressions of childhood, to put the worst construction on the acts of all his competitors, and the best on his own. In this spirit, then, he warned his companions against placing any reliance on the mercy of the Mohawks.
Major Willoughby, however, had now sufficient inducements to move, without reference to the hostile intentions of his late captors. That his escape would excite a malignant desire for vengeance, he could easily believe; but his mother, his revered heart-broken mother, and the patient, afflicted Beulah, were constantly before him, and gladly did he press on, Maud leaning on his arm, the instant Nick led the way. To say that the lovely, confiding being who clung to his side, as the vine inclines to the tree, was forgotten, or that he did not retain a vivid recollection of all that she had so ingenuously avowed in his favour, would not be rigidly accurate, though the hopes thus created shone in the distance, under the present causes of grief, as the sun’s rays illumine the depths of the heavens, while his immediate face is entirely hidden by an eclipse.
“Did you see any signs of a movement against the house, Nick?” demanded the major, when the three had been busily making their way, for several minutes, round the margin of the forest.
The Tuscarora turned, nodded his head, and glanced at Maud.
“Speak frankly, Wyandotté--”
“Good!” interrupted the Indian with emphasis, assuming a dignity of manner the major had never before witnessed. “Wyandotté come--Nick gone away altogeder. Nebber see Sassy Nick, ag’in, at Dam.”
“I am glad to hear this, Tuscarora, and as Maud says, you may speak plainly.”
“T’ink, den, best be ready. Mohawk feel worse dan if he lose ten, t’ree, six scalp. Injin know Injin feelin’. Pale-face can’t stop red-skin, when blood get up.”
“Press on, then, Wyandotté, for the sake of God -- let me, at least, die in defence of my beloved mother!”
“Moder; good!--Doctor Tuscarora, when death grin in face! She my moder, too!”
This was said energetically, and in a manner to assure his listeners that they had a firm ally in this warlike savage. Little did either dream, at that instant, that this same wayward being -- the creature of passion, and the fierce avenger of all his own fancied griefs, was the cause of the dreadful blow that had so recently fallen on them.
The sun still wanted an hour of setting, when Nick brought his companions to the fallen tree, by which they were again to cross the rivulet. Here he paused, pointing to the roofs of the Hut, which were then just visible through the trees; as much as to say that his duty, as a guide, was done.
“Thank you, Wyandotté,” said Willoughby; “if it be the will of God to carry us safely through the crisis, you shall be well rewarded for this service.”
“Wyandotté chief--want no dollar. Been Injin runner -- now be Injin warrior. Major follow -- squaw follow -- Mohawk in hurry.”
This was enough. Nick passed out of the forest on a swift walk--but for the female, it would have been his customary, loping trot -- followed by Willoughby; his arm, again, circling the waist of Maud, whom he bore along, scarce permitting her light form to touch the earth. At this instant, four or five conches sounded, in the direction of the mills, and along the western margin of the meadows. Blast seemed to echo blast; then the infernal yell, known as the war-whoop, was heard all along the opposite face of the buildings. Judging from the sounds, the meadows were alive with assailants, pressing on for the palisades.
At this appalling moment, Joyce appeared on the ridge of the roof, shouting, in a voice that might have been heard to the farthest point in the valley--
“Stand to your arms, my men,” he cried; “here the scoundrels come; hold your fire until they attempt to cross the stockade.”
To own the truth, there was a little bravado in this, mingled with the stern courage that habit and nature had both contributed to lend the serjeant. The veteran knew the feebleness of his garrison, and fancied that warlike cries, from himself, might counterbalance the yells that were now rising from all the fields in front of the house.
As for Nick and the major, they pressed forward, too earnest and excited, to speak. The former measured the distance by his ear; and thought there was still time to gain a cover, if no moment was lost. To reach the foot of the cliff, took just a minute; to ascend to the hole in the palisade, half as much time; and to pass it, a quarter. Maud was dragged ahead, as much as she ran; and the period when the three were passing swiftly round to the gate, was pregnant with imminent risk. They were seen, and fifty rifles were discharged, as it might be, at a command. The bullets pattered against the logs of the Hut, and against the palisades, but no one was hurt. The voice of Willoughby opened the gate, and the next instant the three were within the shelter of the court.
CHAPTER XIII.
“They have not perish’d -- no!
Kind words, remembered voices, once so sweet,
Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul’s apparent seat;
“All shall come back, each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again;
Alone shall evil die,
And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.
“And then shall I behold
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
And her, who still and cold,
Fills the next grave -- the beautiful and young.”
Bryant’s Past The scene that followed passed like a hurricane sweeping over the valley. Joyce had remained on the ridge of the roof, animating his little garrison, and endeavouring to intimidate his enemies, to the last moment. The volley of bullets had reached the palisades and the buildings, and he was still unharmed. But the sound of the major’s voice below, and the cry that Miss Maud and Nick were at the gate, produced a sudden change in all his dispositions for the defence. The serjeant ran below himself, to report and receive his orders from the new commander, while all the negroes, females as well as males, rushed down into the court, to meet their young master and mistress.
It is not easy to describe the minute that succeeded, after Willoughby and Maud were su
rrounded by the blacks. The delight of these untutored beings was in proportion to their recent sorrow. The death of their master, and the captivity of Master Bob and Miss Maud, had appeared to them like a general downfall of the family of Willoughby; but here was a revival of its hopes, that came as unexpectedly as its previous calamities. Amid the clamour, cries, tears, lamentations, and bursts of uncontrollable delight, Joyce could scarce find a moment in which to discharge his duty.
“I see how it is, serjeant,” exclaimed Willoughby; “the assault is now making, and you desire orders.”
“There is not an instant to lose, Major Willoughby; the enemy are at the palisades already, and there is no one at his station but Jamie and young Blodget.”
“To your posts, men -- to your posts, everybody. The house shall be made good at all hazards. For God’s sake, Joyce, give me arms. I feel that my father’s wrongs are to be revenged.”
“Robert--dear, dear Robert,” said Maud, throwing her arms on his shoulders, “this is no moment for such bitter feelings. Defend us, as I know you will, but defend us like a Christian.”
One kiss was all that the time allowed, and Maud rushed into the house to seek her mother and Beulah, feeling as if the tidings of Bob’s return might prove some little alleviation to the dreadful blow under which they must be suffering.
As for Willoughby, he had no time for pious efforts at consolation. The Hut was to be made good against a host of enemies; and the cracking of rifles from the staging and the fields, announced that the conflict had begun in earnest. Joyce handed him a rifle, and together they ascended rapidly to the roofs. Here they found Jamie Allen and Blodget, loading and firing as fast as they could, and were soon joined by all the negroes. Seven men were now collected on the staging; and placing three in front, and two on each wing, the major’s dispositions were made; moving, himself, incessantly, to whatever point circumstances called. Mike, who knew little of the use of fire-arms, was stationed at the gate, as porter and warder.
It was so unusual a thing for savages to attack by day-light, unless they could resort to surprise, that the assailants were themselves a little confused. The assault was made, under a sudden feeling of resentment at the escape of the prisoner, and contrary to the wishes of the principal white men in the party, though the latter were dragged in the train of events, and had to seem to countenance that of which they really disapproved. These sudden out-breakings were sufficiently common in Indian warfare, and often produced memorable disasters. On the present occasion, however, the most that could occur was a repulse, and to this the leaders, demagogues who owed their authority to the excesses and necessities of the times, were fain to submit, should it happen.
The onset had been fierce and too unguarded. The moment the volley was fired at the major, the assailants broke cover, and the fields were alive with men. This was the instant when the defence was left to Allen and Blodget, else might the exposure have cost the enemy dear. As it was, the last brought down one of the boldest of the Indians, while the mason fired with good will, though with less visible effect. The yell that followed this demonstration of the apparent force of the garrison, was a wild mixture of anger and exultation, and the rush at the palisades was general and swift. As Willoughby posted his reinforcement, the stockade was alive with men, some ascending, some firing from its summit, some aiding others to climb, and one falling within the enclosure, a second victim to Blodget’s unerring aim.
The volley that now came from the roofs staggered the savages, most of whom fell outward, and sought cover in their usual quick and dexterous manner. Three or four, however, thought it safer to fall within the palisades, seeking safety immediately under the sides of the buildings. The view of these men, who were perfectly safe from the fire of the garrison so long as the latter made no sortie, gave an idea to those without, and produced, what had hitherto been wanting, something like order and concert in the attack. The firing now became desultory and watchful on both sides, the attacking party keeping themselves covered by the trees and fences as well as they could, while the garrison only peered above the ridge of the roof, as occasions required.
The instant the outbreak occurred, all the ci-devant dependants of captain Willoughby, who had deserted, abandoned their various occupations in the woods and fields, collecting in and around the cabins, in the midst of their wives and children. Joel, alone, was not to be seen. He had sought his friends among the leaders of the party, behind a stack of hay, at a respectful distance from the house, and to which there was a safe approach by means of the rivulet and its fringe of bushes. The little council that was held at this spot took place just as the half-dozen assailants who had fallen within the palisades were seen clustering along under the walls of the buildings.
“Natur’s gives you a hint how to conduct,” observed Joel, pointing out this circumstance to his principal companions, as they all lay peering over the upper portions of the stack, at the Hut. “You see them men under the eaves--they’re a plaguy sight safer up there, than we be down here; and, if ’twere’n’t for the look of the thing, I wish I was with ’em. That house will never be taken without a desperate sight of fightin’; for the captain is an old warrior, and seems to like to snuff gunpowder”--the reader will understand none knew of the veteran’s death but those in the house--“and won’t be for givin’ up while he has a charge left. If I had twenty men--no, thirty would be better, where these fellows be, I think the place could be carried in a few minutes, and then liberty would get its rights, and your monarchy-men would be put down as they all desarve.”
“What do then?” demanded the leading Mohawk, in his abrupt guttural English. “No shoot--can’t kill log.”
“No, chief, that’s reasonable, an’ ongainsayable, too; but only one-half the inner gate is hung, and I’ve contrived matters so, on purpose, that the props of the half that is n’t on the hinges can be undone, all the same as onlatching the door. If I only had the right man here, now, the business should be done, and that speedily.”
“Go ’self,” answered the Mohawk, not without an expression of distrust and contempt.
“Every man to his callin’, chief. My trade is peace, and politics, and liberty, while your’s is war. Howsever, I can put you, and them that likes fightin’, on the trail, and then we’ll see how matters can be done. Mortality! How them desperate devils on the roof do keep blazin’ away! It would n’t surprise me if they shot somebody, or get hurt themselves!”
Such were the deliberations of Joel Strides on a battle. The Indian leaders, however, gave some of their ordinary signals, to bring their ‘young men’ more under command, and, sending messengers with orders in different directions, they left the haystack, compelling Joel to accompany them.
The results of these movements were soon apparent. The most daring of the Mohawks made their way into the rivulet, north of the buildings, and were soon at the foot of the cliff. A little reconnoitring told them that the hole which Joel had pointed out, had not been closed since the entrance of Willoughby and his companions. Led by their chief, the warriors stole up the ascent, and began to crawl through the same inlet which had served as an outlet to so many deserters, the previous night, accompanied by their wives and children.
The Indians in front had been ordered to occupy the attention of the garrison, while this movement was in the course of execution. At a signal, they raised a yell, unmasked them, fired one volley, and seemed to make another rush at the works. This was the instant chosen for the passage of the hole, and the seven leading savages effected their entrance within the stockade, with safety. The eighth man was shot by Blodget, in the hole itself. The body was instantly withdrawn by the legs, and all in the rear fell back under the cover of the cliff.
Willoughby now understood the character of the assault. Stationing Joyce, with a party to command the hole, he went himself into the library, accompanied by Jamie and Blodget, using a necessary degree of caution. Fortunately the windows were raised, and a sudden volley routed all the Indi
ans who had taken shelter beneath the rocks. These men, however, fled no further than the rivulet, where they rallied under cover of the bushes, keeping up a dropping fire at the windows. For several minutes, the combat was confined to this spot; Willoughby, by often shifting from window to window along the rear of the house, getting several volleys that told, at the men under the cover.
As yet, all the loss had been on the side of the assailants, though several of the garrison, including both Willoughby and Joyce, had divers exceedingly narrow escapes. Quite a dozen of the assailants had suffered, though only four were killed outright. By this time, the assault had lasted an hour, and the shades of evening were closing around the place. Daniel, the miller, had been sent by Joel to spring the mine they had prepared together, but, making the mistake usual with the uninitiated, he had hung back, to let others pass the hole first, and was consequently carried down in the crowd, within the cover of the bushes of the rivulet.
Willoughby had a short consultation with Joyce, and then he set seriously about the preparations necessary for a night defence. By a little management, and some personal risk, the bullet-proof shutters of the north wing of the Hut were all closed, rendering the rear of the buildings virtually impregnable. When this was done, and the gates of the area were surely shut, the place was like a ship in a gale, under short canvass and hove-to. The enemy within the palisades were powerless, to all appearance, the walls of stone preventing anything like an application of fire. Of the last, however, there was a little danger on the roof, the Indians frequently using arrows for this purpose, and water was placed on the staging in readiness to be used on occasion.
All these preparations occupied some time, and it was quite dark ere they were completed. Then Willoughby had a moment for reflection; the firing having entirely ceased, and nothing further remaining to do.
“We are safe for the present, Joyce,” the major observed, as he and the serjeant stood together on the staging, after having consulted on the present aspect of things; “and I have a solemn duty, yet, to perform--my dear mother-- and the body of my father--”
Wyandotte; or, the Hutted Knoll . . . Volume 2 Page 19