The above letter may indicate, but it feebly expresses, the character and state of mind of the writer. She never magnified her love by words, but expressed it by that self-devoting, self-sacrificing conduct to her husband and children, which characterizes, in all ages and circumstances, faithful and devoted woman. She was too generous to communicate all her fears (about which a woman is generally least reserved) to her husband.
Some occurrences of the preceding day had given her just cause of alarm. At a short distance from Bethel (the name that Mr. Fletcher had given his residence) there lived an old Indian woman, one of the few survivers of a tribe who had been faithful allies of the Pequods. After the destruction of her people, she had strayed up the banks of the Connecticut, and remained in Springfield. She was in the habit of supplying Mrs. Fletcher with wild berries and herbs, and receiving favours in return, and on that day went thither, as it appeared, on her customary errand. She had made her usual barter, and had drawn her blanket around her as if to depart, but still she lingered, standing before Mrs. Fletcher, and looking fixedly at her. Mrs. Fletcher did not at first observe her; her head was bent over her infant sleeping on her lap, in the attitude of listening to its soft breathing. As she perused its innocent face, a mother’s beautiful visions floated before her; but as she raised her eye, and met the piercing glance of the old woman, a dark cloud came over the clear heaven of her thoughts. Nelema’s brow was contracted, her lips drawn in, and her little sunken eye gleamed like a diamond from its dark recess.
“Why do you look at my baby thus?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.
The old woman replied in her own dialect, in a hurried, inarticulate manner. “What says she, Magawisca?” asked Mrs. Fletcher of the Indian girl, who stood beside her, and seemed to listen with unwonted interest.
“She says, madam, the baby is like a flower just opened to the sun, with no stain upon it; that he better pass now to the Great Spirit. She says this world is all a rough place—all sharp stones, and deep waters, and black clouds!”
“Oh, she is old, Magawisca, and the days have come to her that have no pleasure in them. Look there,” she said, “Nelema, at my son Everell!”—the boy was at the moment passing the window, flushed with exercise, and triumphantly displaying a string of game that he had just brought from the forest—“is there not sunshine in my boy’s face? To him every day is bright, and every path is smooth.”
“Ah!” replied the old woman, with a heavy groan, “I had sons too, and grandsons; but where are they? They trod the earth as lightly as that boy; but they have fallen, like our forest trees, before the stroke of the English axe. Of all my race, there is not one now in whose veins my blood runs. Sometimes, when the spirits of the storm are howling about my wigwam, I hear the voices of my children crying for vengeance, and then I could myself deal the death-blow.” Nelema spoke with vehemence and wild gestures; and her language, though interpreted by Magawisca’s soft voice, had little tendency to allay the feeling her manner inspired. Mrs. Fletcher recoiled from her, and instinctively drew her baby closer to her breast.
“Nay,” said the old woman, “fear me not; I have had kindness from thee; thy blankets have warmed me, I have been fed from thy table, and drank of thy cup; and what is this arm,” and she threw back her blanket, and stretched out her naked, shrivelled, trembling arm, “what is this to do the work of vengeance?”
She paused for an instant, glanced her eye wildly around the room, and then again fixed it on Mrs. Fletcher and her infant. “They spared not our homes,” she said; “there, where our old men spoke, where was heard the song of the maiden and the laugh of our children, there now all is silence, dust, and ashes. I can neither harm thee nor help thee. When the stream of vengeance rolls over the land, the tender shoot must be broken, and the goodly tree uprooted that gave its pleasant shade and fruits to all.”
“It is a shame and a sin,” said Jennet, who entered the room just as Magawisca was conveying Nelema’s speech to Mrs. Fletcher, “a crying shame, for this heathen hag to be pouring forth here as if she were gifted like the prophets of old—she that can only see into the future by reading the devil’s book; and, if that be the case, as more than one has mistrusted, it were best forthwith to deliver her to the judges, and cast her into prison.”
“Peace, Jennet,” said Mrs. Fletcher, alarmed less Nelema should hear her, and her feelings, which were then at an exalted pitch, should be wrought to phrensy; but her apprehensions were groundless; the old woman saw nothing but the visions of her imagination; heard nothing but the fancied voices of the spirits of her race. She continued for a few moments to utter her thoughts in low, articulate murmurs, and then, without again addressing Mrs. Fletcher, or raising her eyes, she left the house.
A few moments after her departure, Mrs. Fletcher perceived that she had dropped at her feet a little roll, which she found, on examination, to be an arrow, and the rattle of a rattlesnake, enveloped in a skin of the same reptile. She knew it was the custom of the savages to express much meaning by these symbols, and she turned to demand an explanation of Magawisca, who was deeply skilled in all the ways of her people.
Magawisca had disappeared; and Jennet, who had ever looked on the poor girl with a jealous and an evil eye, took this occasion to give vent to her feelings. “It is a pity,” she said, “the child is out of the way the first time she was like to do a service; she may be skilled in snake’s rattles and bloody arrows, for I make no doubt she is as used to them as I am to my broom and scrubbing-cloth.”
“Will you call Magawisca to me?” said Mrs. Fletcher, in a voice that from her would have been a silencing reproof to a more sensitive ear than Jennet’s; but she, no ways daunted, replied, “Ah! that will I, madam, if I can find her; but where to look for her no mere mortal can tell; for she does not stay longer on a perch than a butterfly, unless, indeed, it be when she is working on Mr. Everell’s moccasins, or filling his ears with wild fables about those rampaging Indians. Ah, there she is!” she exclaimed, looking through the window, “talking with Nelema, just a little way into the wood; there, I see their heads above those scrub-oaks; see their wild motions; see, Magawisca starts homeward—now the old woman pulls her back—now she seems entreating Nelema; the old hag shakes her head—Magawisca covers her eyes: what can all this mean? no good, I am sure. The girl is ever going to Nelema’s hut, and of moonlight nights too, when they say witches work their will: birds of a feather flock together. Well, I know one thing, that if Master Everell was mine, I would sooner, in faith, cast him into the lion’s den or the fiery furnace, than leave him to this crafty offspring of a race that are the children and heirs of the Evil One.”
“Jennet,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “thy tongue far outruns thy discretion. Restrain thy foolish thoughts, and bid Magawisca come to me.”
Jennet sullenly obeyed, and soon after Magawisca entered. Mrs. Fletcher was struck with her changed aspect. She turned away, as one conscious of possessing a secret, and fearful that the eye will speak unbidden. Her air was troubled and anxious, and instead of her usual light and lofty step, she moved timidly and dejectedly.
“Come to me, Magawisca,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “and deal truly by me, as I have ever dealt by thee.”
She obeyed, and as she stood by Mrs. Fletcher, the poor girl’s tears dropped on her benefactor’s lap. “Thou hast been more than true,” she said; “thou hast been kind to me as the mother-bird that shelters the wanderer in her nest.”
“Then, Magawisca, if it concerneth me to know it, thou wilt explain the meaning of this roll which Nelema dropped at my feet.”
The girl started and became very pale: to an observing eye, the changes of the olive skin are as apparent as those of a fairer complexion. She took the roll from Mrs. Fletcher, and shut her eyes fast. Her bosom heaved convulsively; but, after a short struggle with conflicting feelings, she said deliberately, in a low voice, “That which I may speak without bringing down on me the curse of my father’s race, I will speak. This,” she added, unfolding the snake’s skin, “this betokeneth the unseen and silent approach of an enemy. This, you know,” and she held up the rattle, “is the warning voice that speaketh of danger near. And this,” she concluded, taking the arrow in her trembling hand, “this is the symbol of death.”
“And why, Magawisca, are these fearful tokens given to me? Dost thou know, girl, aught of a threatening enemy—of an ambushed foe?”
“I have said all that I may say,” she replied.
Mrs. Fletcher questioned farther, but could obtain no satisfaction. Magawisca’s lips were sealed; and it was certain that, if her resolution did not yield to the entreaties of her own heart, it would resist every other influence.
Mrs. Fletcher summoned Everell, and bade him urge Magawisca to disclose whatever Nelema had communicated. He did so, but sportively, for he said “the old woman was cracked, and Magawisca’s head was turned. If there were indeed danger,” he continued, “and Magawisca was apprized of it, think you, mother, she would permit us to remain in ignorance?” He turned an appealing glance to Magawisca, but her face was averted. Without suspecting this was intentional, he continued, “You ought to do penance, Magawisca, for the alarm you have given mother. You and I will act as her patrol to-night.”
Magawisca assented, and appeared relieved by the proposition, though her gloom was not lightened by Everell’s gayety. Mrs. Fletcher did not, of course, acquiesce in this arrangement, but she deemed it prudent to communicate her apprehensions to her trusty Digby. After a short consultation, it was agreed that Digby should remain on guard during the night, and that the two other men-servants should have their muskets in order, and be ready at a moment’s warning. Such precautions were not unfrequent, and caused no unusual excitement in the household. Mrs. Fletcher had it, as she expressed herself, “borne in upon her mind, after the evening exercise, to make some remarks upon the uncertainty of life.” She then dismissed the family to their several apartments, and herself retired to endite the epistle given above.
Everell observed Magawisca closely through the evening, and he was convinced, from the abstraction of her manner, and from the efforts she made (which were now apparent to him) to maintain a calm demeanour, that there was more ground for his mother’s apprehensions than he at first supposed. He determined to be the companion of Digby’s watch; and, standing high in that good fellow’s confidence, he made a private arrangement with him, which he easily effected without his mother’s knowledge; for his youthful zeal did not render him regardless of the impropriety of heightening her fears.
“It would have been happy if they had converted some before they had killed any.”—Robinson.
The house at Bethel had, both in front and in rear, a portico, or, as it was more humbly, and therefore more appropriately named, a shed; that in the rear was a sort of adjunct to the kitchen, and one end of it was enclosed for the purpose of a bedroom, and occupied by Magawisca. Everell found Digby sitting at the other extremity of this portico; his position was prudently chosen. The moon was high and the heavens clear, and there, concealed and sheltered by the shadow of the roof, he could, without being seen, command the whole extent of cleared ground that bordered on the forest, whence the foe would come, if he came at all.
Everell, like a good knight, had carefully inspected his arms, and just taken his position beside Digby, when they heard Magawisca’s window cautiously opened, and saw her spring through it. Everell would have spoken to her, but Digby made a signal of silence; and she, without observing them, hastened with a quick and light step towards the wood, and entered it, taking the path that led to Nelema’s hut.
“Confound her!” exclaimed Digby, “she is in a plot with the old woman.”
“No, no. On my life she is not, Digby.”
“Some mischief—some mischief,” said Digby, shaking his head. “They are a treacherous race. Let’s follow her. No, we had best keep clear of the wood. Do you call after her; she will hearken to you.”
Everell hesitated. “Speak quickly, Mr. Everell,” urged Digby; “she will be beyond the reach of your voice. It is no light matter that could take her to Nelema’s hut at this time of the night.”
“She has good reason for going, Digby. I am sure of it; and I will not call her back.”
“Reason,” muttered Digby; “reason is but a jack-o’-lantern light in most people’s minds. You trust her too far, Mr. Everell; but there, she is returning! See how she looks all around her, like a frightened bird that hears an enemy in every rustling leaf. Stand close; observe her; see, she lays her ear to the earth—it is their crafty way of listening; there, she is gone again!” he exclaimed, as Magawisca darted away into the wood. “It is past doubt she holds communication with some one. God send us a safe deliverance. I had rather meet a legion of Frenchmen than a company of these savages. They are a kind of beast we don’t comprehend—out of the range of God’s creatures—neither angel, man, nor yet quite devil. I would have sent to the fort for a guard to-night, but I liked not being driven hither and yon by that old hag’s tokens, nor yet quite to take counsel from your good mother’s fears, she being but a woman.”
“I think you have caught the fear, Digby, without taking its counsel,” said Everell, “which does little credit to your wisdom; the only use of fear being to provide against danger.”
“That is true, Mr. Everell; but don’t think I am afraid. It is one thing to know what danger is, and wish to shun it, and another thing to feel like you fear-naught lads, that have never felt a twinge of pain, and have scarce a sense of your own mortality. You would be the boldest at an attack, Mr. Everell, and I should stand a siege best. A boy’s courage is a keen weapon that wants temper.”
“Apt to break at the first stroke from the enemy, you mean, Digby?” Digby nodded assent. “Well, I should like, at any rate, to prove it,” added Everell.
“Time enough this half dozen years yet, my young master. I should be loath to see that fair skin of thine stained with blood; and, besides, you have yet to get a little more worldly prudence than to trust a young Indian girl just because she takes your fancy.”
“And why does she take my fancy, Digby? because she is true and noble-minded. I am certain, that if she knows of any danger approaching us, she is seeking to avert it.”
“I don’t know that, Mr. Everell; she’ll be first true to her own people. The old proverb holds fast with these savages, as well as with the rest of the world: ‘hawks won’t pick out hawks’ eyes.’ Like to like, throughout all nature. I grant you, she hath truly a fair seeming.”
“And all that’s foul is our own suspicion, is it not, Digby?”
“Not exactly; there’s plainly some mystery between Magawisca and the old woman: and we know these Pequods were famed above all the Indian tribes for their cunning.”
“And what is superior cunning among savages but superior sense?”
“You may out-talk me, Mr. Everell,” replied Digby, with the impatience that a man feels when he is sure he is right, without being able to make it appear. “You may out-talk me, but you will never convince me. Was not I in the Pequod war? I ought to know, I think.”
“Yes, and I think you have told me they showed more resolution than cunning there; in particular, that the brother of Magawisca, whom she so piteously bemoans to this day, fought like a young lion.”
“Yes, he did, poor dog! and he was afterward cruelly cut off; and it is this that makes me think they will take some terrible revenge for his death. I often hear Magawisca talking to Oneco of her brother, and I think it is to stir his spirit; but this boy is no more like to him than a spaniel to a bloodhound.”
Nothing Digby said had any tendency to weaken Everell’s confidence in Magawisca.
The subject of the Pequod war once started, Digby and Everell were in no danger of sleeping at their post. Digby loved, as well as another man, and particularly those who have had brief military experience, to fight his battles o’er again; and Everell was at an age to listen with delight to tales of adventure and danger. They thus wore away the time till the imaginations of both relater and listener were at that pitch when every shadow is imbodied, and every passing sound bears a voice to the quickened sense.
“Hark!” said Digby; “did you not hear footsteps?”
“I hear them now,” replied Everell; “they seem not very near. Is it not Magawisca returning?”
“No, there is more than one; and it is the heavy, though cautious, tread of men. Ha! Argus scents them.” The old house-dog now sprang from his rest on a mat at the door-stone, and gave one of those loud, inquiring barks, by which this animal first hails the approach of a strange footstep. “Hush, Argus, hush!” cried Everell; and the dog, having obeyed his instinct, seemed satisfied to submit to his master’s voice, and crept lazily back to his place of repose.
“You have hushed Argus, and the footsteps too,” said Digby; “but it is well, perhaps, if there really is an enemy near, that he should know we are on guard.”
“If there really is, Digby!” said Everell, who, terrific as the apprehended danger was, felt the irrepressible thirst of youth of adventure; “do you think we could both have been deceived?”
“Nothing easier, Mr. Everell, than to deceive senses on the watch for alarm. We heard something, but it might have been the wolves that even now prowl about the very clearing here at night. Ha!” he exclaimed, “there they are;” and, starting forward, he levelled his musket towards the wood.
“You are mad,” said Everell, striking down Digby’s musket with the butt end of his own. “It is Magawisca.” Magawisca at that moment emerged from the wood.
Digby appeared confounded. “Could I have been so deceived?” he said; “could it have been her shadow? I thought I saw an Indian beyond that birch-tree; you see the white bark? well, just beyond in the shade. It could not have been Magawisca, nor her shadow, for you see there are trees between the footpath and that place; and yet how should he have vanished without motion or sound?”
“Our senses deceive us, Digby,” said Everell, reciprocating Digby’s own argument.
“In this tormenting moonlight they do; but my senses have been well schooled in their time, and should have learned to know a man from a woman, and a shadow from a substance.”
Digby had not a very strong conviction of the actual presence of an enemy, as was evident from his giving no alarm to his auxiliaries in the house; and he believed that if there were hostile Indians prowling about them, they were few in number; still he deemed it prudent to persevere in their precautionary measures. “I will remain here,” he said, “Mr. Everell, and do you follow Magawisca; sift what you can from her. Depend on’t, there’s something wrong. Why should she have turned away on seeing us? and did you not observe her hide something beneath her mantle?”
Everell acceded to Digby’s proposition, not with the expectation of confirming his suspicions, but in the hope that Magawisca would show they were groundless. He followed her to the front of the house, to which she seemed involuntarily to have bent her steps on perceiving him.
“You have taken the most difficult part of our duty on yourself, Magawisca,” he said, on coming up to her. “You have acted as vidette, while I have been quiet at my post.”
Perhaps Magawisca did not understand him; at any rate, she made no reply.
“Have you met an enemy in your reconnoitring? Digby and I fancied that we both heard and saw the foe.”
“When and where?” exclaimed Magawisca, in a hurried, alarmed tone.
“Not many minutes since, and just at the very edge of the wood.”
“What! when Digby raised his gun? I thought that had been in sport, to startle me.”
“No, Magawisca; sporting does not suit our present case. My mother and her little ones are in peril, and Digby is a faithful servant.”
“Faithful!” echoed Magawisca, as if there were more in Everell’s expression than met the ear; “he surely may walk straight who hath nothing to draw him aside. Digby hath but one path, and that is plain before him; but one voice from his heart, and why should he not obey it?” The girl’s voice faltered as she spoke, and as she concluded she burst into tears. Everell had never before witnessed this expression of feeling from her. She had an habitual self-command, that hid the emotions of her heart from common observers, and veiled them even from those who most narrowly watched her. Everell’s confidence in Magawisca had not been in the least degree weakened by all the appearances against her. He did not mean to imply suspicion by his commendation of Digby, but merely to throw out a leading observation, which she might follow if she would.
He felt reproached and touched by her distress; but, struck by the clew which, as he thought, her language afforded to the mystery of her conduct, and confident that she would in no way aid or abet any mischief that her own people might be contriving against them, he followed the natural bent of his generous temper, and assured her, again and again, of his entire trust in her. This seemed rather to aggravate than abate her distress. She threw herself on the ground, drew her mantle over her face, and wept convulsively. He found he could not allay the storm he had raised, and he seated himself beside her. After a little while, either exhausted by the violence of her emotion, or comforted by Everell’s silent sympathy, she became composed, and raised her face from her mantle, and as she did so, something fell from beneath its folds. She hastily recovered and replaced it, but not till Everell had perceived it was an eagle’s feather. He knew this was the badge of her tribe, and he had heard her say that “a tuft from the wing of the monarch bird was her father’s crest.” A suspicion flashed through his mind, and was conveyed to Magawisca’s by one bright glance of inquiry. She said nothing, but her responding look was rather sorrowful than confused; and Everell, anxious to believe what he wished to be true, came, after a little consideration, to the conclusion that the feather had been dropped in her path by a passing bird. He did not scrutinize her motive in concealing it; he could not think her capable of evil; and, anxious to efface from her mind the distrust his countenance might have expressed, “This beautiful moon and her train of stars,” he said, “look as if they were keeping their watch over our dwelling. There are those, Magawisca, who believe the stars have a mysterious influence on human destiny. I know nothing of the grounds of their faith, and my imagination is none of the brightest; but I can almost fancy they are stationed there as guardian angels, and I feel quite sure that nothing evil can walk abroad in their light.”
“They do look peaceful,” she replied, mournfully; “but ah! Everell, man is ever breaking the peace of nature. It was such a night as this, so bright and still, when your English came upon our quiet homes.”
“You have never spoken to me of that night, Magawisca.”
“No, Everell, for our hands have taken hold of the chain of friendship, and I feared to break it by speaking of the wrongs your people did to mine.”
“You need not fear it; I can honour noble deeds, though done by our enemies, and see that cruelty is cruelty, though inflicted by our friends.”
“Then listen to me; and when the hour of vengeance comes, if it should come, remember it was provoked.”
She paused for a few moments, sighed deeply, and then began the recital of the last acts in the tragedy of her people, the principal circumstances of which are detailed in the chronicles of the times by the witnesses of the bloody scenes. “You know,” she said, “our fortress-homes were on the level summit of a hill: thence we could see, as far as the eye could stretch, our hunting-grounds and our gardens, which lay beneath us on the borders of a stream that glided around our hill, and so near to it that in the still nights we could hear its gentle voice. Our fort and wigwams were encompassed with a palisade, formed of young trees, and branches interwoven and sharply pointed. No enemy’s foot had ever approached this nest, which the eagles of the tribe had built for their mates and their young. Sassacus and my father were both away on that dreadful night. They had called a council of our chiefs and old men; our young men had been out in their canoes, and when they returned they had danced and feasted, and were now in deep sleep. My mother was in her hut with her children—not sleeping, for my brother Samoset had lingered behind his companions, and had not yet returned from the water-sport. The warning spirit, that ever keeps its station at a mother’s pillow, whispered that some evil was near; and my mother, bidding me lie still with the little ones, went forth in quest of my brother. All the servants of the Great Spirit spoke to my mother’s ear and eye of danger and death. The moon, as she sunk behind the hills, appeared a ball of fire; strange lights darted through the air; to my mother’s eye they seemed fiery arrows; to her ear the air was filled with death-sighs.
“She had passed the palisade, and was descending the hill, when she met old Cushmakin. ‘Do you know aught of my boy?’ she asked.
“ ‘Your boy is safe, and sleeps with his companions; he returned by the Sassafras knoll; that way can only be trodden by the strong-limbed and light-footed.’
“ ‘My boy is safe,’ said my mother; ‘then tell me, for thou art wise, and canst see quite through the dark future, tell me, what evil is coming to our tribe?’ She then described the omens she had seen. ‘I know not,’ said Cushmakin: ‘of late darkness hath spread over my soul, and all is black there, as before these eyes, that the arrows of death have pierced; but tell me, Monoco, what see you now in the fields of heaven?’
“ ‘Oh, now,’ said my mother, ‘I see nothing but the blue depths and the watching stars. The spirits of the air have ceased their moaning, and steal over my cheek like an infant’s breath. The water-spirits are rising, and will soon spread their soft wings around the nest of our tribe.’
“ ‘The boy sleeps safely,’ muttered the old man, ‘and I have listened to the idle fear of a doting mother.’
“ ‘I come not of a fearful race,’ said my mother.
“ ‘Nay, that I did not mean,’ replied Cushmakin; ‘but the panther watching her young is fearful as a doe.’ The night was far spent, and my mother bade him go home with her, for our powwows[1] have ever a mat in the wigwam of their chief. ‘Nay,’ he said, ‘the day is near, and I am always abroad at the rising of the sun.’ It seemed that the first warm touch of the sun opened the eye of the old man’s soul, and he saw again the flushed hills and the shaded valleys, the sparkling waters, the green maize, and the gray old rocks of our home. They were just passing the little gate of the palisade, when the old man’s dog sprang from him with a fearful bark. A rushing sound was heard. ‘Owanox! Owanox!’ (the English! the English!) cried Cushmakin. My mother joined her voice to his, and in an instant the cry of alarm spread through the wigwams. The enemy were indeed upon us. They had surrounded the palisade, and opened their fire.”
“Was it so sudden? Did they so rush on sleeping women and children?” asked Everell, who was unconsciously lending all his interest to the party of the narrator.
“Even so; they were guided to us by the traitor Wequash; he from whose bloody hand my mother had shielded the captive English maidens; he who had eaten from my father’s dish, and slept on his mat. They were flanked by the cowardly Narragansetts, who shrunk from the sight of our tribe; who were pale as white men at the thought of Sassacus; and so feared him, that when his name was spoken they were like an unstrung bow, and they said, ‘He is all one God: no man can kill him.’ These cowardly allies waited for the prey they dared not attack.”
“Then,” said Everell, “as I have heard, our people had all the honour of the fight.”
“Honour! was it, Everell? ye shall hear. Our warriors rushed forth to meet the foe; they surrounded the huts of their mothers, wives, sisters, children; they fought as if each man had a hundred lives, and would give each and all to redeem their homes. Oh! the dreadful fray even now rings in my ears! Those fearful guns that we had never heard before—the shouts of your people—our own battle yell—the piteous cries of the little children—the groans of our mothers; and oh! worse, worse than all, the silence of those that could not speak. The English fell back; they were driven to the palisade, some beyond it, when their leader gave the cry to fire our huts, and led the way to my mother’s. Samoset, the noble boy, defended the entrance like a stag at bay till they struck him down; prostrate and bleeding, he again bent his bow, and had taken deadly aim at the English leader, when a sabre-blow severed his bowstring. Then was taken from our hearth-stone, where the English had been so often warmed and cherished, the brand to consume our dwellings. They were covered with mats, and burned like dried straw. The enemy retreated without the palisade. In vain did our warriors fight for a path in which we might escape from the consuming fire; they were beaten back; the fire gained on us; the Narragansetts pressed on the English, howling like wolves for their prey. Some of our people threw themselves into the midst of the crackling flames, and their courageous souls parted with one shout of triumph; others mounted the palisade, but they were shot, and dropped like a flock of birds smitten by the hunter’s arrows. Thus did the strangers destroy, in our own homes, hundreds of our tribe.”
“And how did you escape in that dreadful hour, Magawisca? you were not, then, taken prisoners?”
“No; there was a rock at one extremity of our hut, and beneath it a cavity into which my mother crept, with Oneco, myself, and the two little ones that afterward perished. Our simple habitations were soon consumed; we heard the foe retiring, and when the last sound had died away, we came forth to a sight that made us lament to be among the living. The sun was scarce an hour from his rising, and yet in this brief space our homes had vanished. The bodies of our people were strewn about the smouldering ruin, and all around the palisade lay the strong and valiant warriors, cold, silent, powerless as the unformed clay.”
Magawisca paused; she was overcome with the recollection of this scene of desolation. She looked upward with an intent gaze, as if she held communion with an invisible being. “Spirit of my mother!” burst from her lips; “oh! that I could follow thee to that blessed land, where I should no more dread the war-cry nor the death-knife.” Everell dashed the gathering tears from his eyes, and Magawisca proceeded in her narrative.
“While we all stood silent and motionless, we heard footsteps and cheerful voices. They came from my father and Sassacus, and their band, returning from the friendly council. They approached on the side of the hill that was covered with a thicket of oaks, and their ruined homes at once burst upon their view. Oh! what horrid sounds then pealed on the air! shouts of wailing, and cries for vengeance. Every eye was turned with suspicion and hatred on my father. He had been the friend of the English; he had counselled peace and alliance with them; he had protected their traders; delivered the captives taken from them, and restored them to their people: now his wife and children alone were living, and they called him traitor. I heard an angry murmur, and many hands were lifted to strike the death-blow. He moved not: ‘Nay, nay,’ cried Sassacus, beating them off, ‘touch him not; his soul is bright as the sun; sooner shall you darken that than find treason in his breast. If he hath shown the dove’s heart to the English when he believed them friends, he will show himself the fierce eagle now he knows them enemies. Touch him not, warriors; remember my blood runneth in his veins.’
“From that moment my father was a changed man. He neither spoke nor looked at his wife or children; but, placing himself at the head of one band of the young men, he shouted his war-cry, and then silently pursued the enemy. Sassacus went forth to assemble the tribe, and we followed my mother to one of our villages.”
“You did not tell me, Magawisca,” said Everell, “how Samoset perished: was he consumed in the flames, or shot from the palisade?”
“Neither—neither. He was reserved to whet my father’s revenge to a still keener edge. He had forced a passage through the English, and, hastily collecting a few warriors, they pursued the enemy, sprung upon them from a covert, and did so annoy them that the English turned and gave them battle. All fled save my brother, and him they took prisoner. They told him they would spare his life if he would guide them to our strongholds; he refused. He had, Everell, lived but sixteen summers; he loved the light of the sun even as we love it; his manly spirit was tamed by wounds and weariness; his limbs were like a bending reed, and his heart beat like a woman’s; but the fire of his soul burned clear. Again they pressed him with offers of life and reward; he faithfully refused, and with one sabre-stroke they severed his head from his body.”
Magawisca paused: she looked at Everell, and said with a bitter smile, “You English tell us, Everell, that the book of your law is better than that written on our hearts; for ye say it teaches mercy, compassion, forgiveness: if ye had such a law, and believed it, would ye thus have treated a captive boy?”
Magawisca’s reflecting mind suggested the most serious obstacle to the progress of the Christian religion, in all ages and under all circumstances—the contrariety between its divine principles and the conduct of its professors; which, instead of always being a medium for the light that emanates from our Holy Law, is too often the darkest cloud that obstructs the passage of its rays to the hearts of heathen men. Everell had been carefully instructed in the principles of his religion, and he felt Magawisca’s relation to be an awkward comment on them, and her inquiry natural; but, though he knew not what answer to make, he was sure there must be a good one, and mentally resolving to refer the case to his mother, he begged Magawisca to proceed with her narrative.
“The fragments of our broken tribe,” she said, “were collected, and some other small dependant tribes persuaded to join us. We were obliged to flee from the open grounds, and shelter ourselves in a dismal swamp. The English surrounded us; they sent in to us a messenger, and offered life and pardon to all who had not shed the blood of Englishmen. Our allies listened, and fled from us as frightened birds fly from a falling tree. My father looked upon his warriors; they answered that look with their battle-shout. ‘Tell your people,’ said my father to the messenger, ‘that we have shed and drank English blood, and that we will take nothing from them but death.’
“The messenger departed, and again returned with offers of pardon if we would come forth, and lay our arrows and our tomahawks at the feet of the English. ‘What say you, warriors?’ cried my father: ‘shall we take pardon from those who have burned your wives and children, and given your homes to the beasts of prey; who have robbed you of your hunting-grounds, and driven your canoes from their waters?’ A hundred arrows were pointed to the messenger. ‘Enough: you have your answer,’ said my father; and the messenger returned to announce the fate we had chosen.”
“Where was Sassacus? Had he abandoned his people?” asked Everell.
“Abandoned them! No: his life was in theirs; but, accustomed to attack and victory, he could not bear to be thus driven, like a fox, to his hole. His soul was sick within him, and he was silent, and left all to my father. All day we heard the strokes of the English axes felling the trees that defended us, and when night came they had approached so near that we could see the glimmering of their watch-lights through the branches of the trees. All night they were pouring in their bullets, alike on warriors, women, and children. Old Cushmakin was lying at my mother’s feet when he received a death-wound. Gasping for breath, he called on Sassacus and my father: ‘Stay not here,’ he said; ‘look not on your wives and children, but burst your prison bound; sound through the nations the cry of revenge! Linked together, ye shall drive the English into the sea. I speak the word of the Great Spirit: obey it!’ While he was yet speaking he stiffened in death, ‘Obey him, warriors,’ cried my mother; ‘see,’ she said, pointing to the mist that was now wrapping itself around the wood like a thick curtain, ‘see, our friends have come from the spirit-land to shelter you. Nay, look not on us; our hearts have been tender in the wigwam, but we can die before our enemies without a groan. Go forth and avenge us.’
“ ‘Have we come to the counsel of old men and old women?’ said Sassacus, in the bitterness of his spirit.
“ ‘When women put down their womanish thoughts and counsel like men, they should be obeyed,’ said my father. ‘Follow me, warriors!’
“They burst through the enclosure. We saw nothing more, but we heard the shout from the foe as they issued from the wood—the momentary fierce encounter—and the cry, ‘They have escaped!’ Then it was that my mother, who had listened with breathless silence, threw herself down on the mossy stones, and, laying her hot cheek to mine, ‘Oh, my children, my children!’ she said, ‘would that I could die for you! But fear not death; the blood of a hundred chieftains, that never knew fear, runneth in your veins. Hark! the enemy comes nearer and nearer. Now lift up your heads, my children, and show them that even the weak ones of our tribe are strong in soul.’
“We rose from the ground: all about sat women and children in family clusters, awaiting unmoved their fate. The English had penetrated the forest-screen, and were already on the little rising ground where we had been intrenched. Death was dealt freely. None resisted—not a movement was made—not a voice lifted—not a sound escaped, save the wailings of the dying children.
“One of your soldiers knew my mother, and a command was given that her life and that of her children should be spared. A guard was stationed round us.
“You know that, after our tribe was thus cut off, we were taken, with a few other captives, to Boston. Some were sent to the Islands of the Sun, to bend their free limbs to bondage like your beasts of burden. There are among your people those who have not put out the light of the Great Spirit; they can remember a kindness, albeit done by an Indian; and when it was known to your sachems that the wife of Mononotto, once the protector and friend of your people, was a prisoner, they treated her with honour and gentleness. But her people were extinguished; her husband driven to distant forests—forced on earth to the misery of wicked souls—to wander without a home; her children were captives, and her heart was broken. You know the rest.”
This war, so fatal to the Pequods, had transpired the preceding year. It was an important event to the infant colonies, and its magnitude probably somewhat heightened to the imaginations of the English by the terror this resolute tribe had inspired. All the circumstances attending it were still fresh in men’s minds, and Everell had heard them detailed with the interest and particularity that belongs to recent adventures; but he had heard them in the language of the enemies and conquerors of the Pequods, and from Magawisca’s lips they took a new form and hue; she seemed to him to imbody nature’s best gifts, and her feelings to be the inspiration of heaven. This new version of an old story reminded him of the man and the lion in the fable. But here it was not merely changing sculptors to give the advantage to one or the other of the artist’s subjects, but it was putting the chisel into the hands of truth, and giving it to whom it belonged.
He had heard this destruction of the original possessors of the soil described, as we find it in the history of the times, where we are told “the number destroyed was about four hundred;” and “it was a fearful sight to see them thus frying in the fire, and the streams of blood quenching the same, and the horrible scent thereof; but the victory seemed a sweet sacrifice, and they gave the praise thereof to God.”
In the relations of their enemies, the courage of the Pequods was distorted into ferocity, and their fortitude in their last extremity thus set forth: “many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs, that would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still to be shot or cut in pieces, than receive their lives for asking at the hands of those into whose power they had now fallen.”
Everell’s imagination, touched by the wand of feeling, presented a very different picture of those defenceless families of savages, pent in the recesses of their native forests, and there exterminated, not by superior natural force, but by the adventitious circumstances of arms, skill, and knowledge, from that offered by those who, “then living and worthy of credit, did affirm, that in the morning, entering into the swamp, they saw several heaps of them (the Pequods) sitting close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol-bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of their pieces under the boughs within a few yards of them.”
Everell did not fail to express to Magawisca, with all the eloquence of a heated imagination, his sympathy and admiration of her heroic and suffering people. She listened with a mournful pleasure, as one listens to the praise of a departed friend. Both seemed to have forgotten the purpose of their vigil, which they had marvellously kept without apprehension or heaviness, when they were roused from their romantic abstraction by Digby’s voice: “Now to your beds, children,” he said; “the family is stirring, and the day is at hand. See the morning star hanging just over those trees, like a single watchlight in all the wide canopy. As you have not to look in a prayer-book for it, Master Everell, don’t forget to thank the Lord for keeping us safe, as your mother, God bless her, would say, through the night watches. Stop one moment,” added Digby, lowering his voice, to Everell, as he rose to follow Magawisca; “did she tell you?”
“Tell me! what?”
“What! Heaven’s mercy! what ails the boy? Why, did she tell you what brought her out to-night? Did she explain all the mysterious actions we have seen? Are you crazy? Did not you ask her?”
Everell hesitated; fortunately for him, the light was too dim to expose to Digby’s eye the blushes that betrayed his consciousness that he had forgotten his duty. “Magawisca did not tell me,” he said; “but I am sure, Digby, that—”
“That she can do no wrong—hey, Master Everell; well, that may be very satisfactory to you, but it does not content me. I like not her secret ways: ‘it’s bad ware that needs a dark store.’ ”
Everell had tried the force of his own convictions on Digby, and knew it to be unavailing; therefore, having no reply to make, he very discreetly retreated without attempting any.
Magawisca crept to her bed, but not to repose; neither watching nor weariness procured sleep for her. Her mind was racked with apprehensions and conflicting duties, the cruellest rack to an honourable mind.
Nelema had communicated to her, the preceding day, the fact which she had darkly intimated to Mrs. Fletcher, that Mononotto, with one or two associates, was lurking in the forest, and watching an opportunity to make an attack on Bethel. How far his purpose extended, whether simply to the recovery of his children or to the destruction of the family, she knew not. The latter was most probable, for hostile Indians always left blood on their trail. In reply to Magawisca’s eager inquiries, Nelema said she had, again and again, assured her father of the kind treatment his children had received at the hands of Mrs. Fletcher; but he seemed scarcely to hear what she said, and precipitately left her, telling her that she would not again see him till his work was done.
Magawisca’s first impulse had been to reveal all to Mrs. Fletcher; but by doing this she would jeopard her father’s life. Her natural sympathies, her strong affections, her pride, were all enlisted on the side of her people; but she shrunk, as if her own life were menaced, from the blow that was about to fall on her friends. She would have done or suffered anything to avert it—anything but betray her father. The hope of meeting him explains all that seemed mysterious to Digby. She did go to Nelema’s hut, but all was quiet there. In returning she found an eagle’s feather in the path: she believed it must have just been dropped there by her father, and this circumstance determined her to remain watching through the night, that, if her father should appear, she might avert his vengeance.
She did not doubt that Digby had really seen and heard him; and believing that her father would not shrink from a single armed man, she hoped against hope, that his sole object was to recover his children; hoped against hope, we say, for her reason told her that, if that were his only purpose, it might easily have been accomplished by the intervention of Nelema.
Magawisca had said truly to Everell, that her father’s nature had been changed by the wrongs he had received. When the Pequods were proud and prosperous, he was more noted for his humane virtues than his warlike spirit. The supremacy of his tribe was acknowledged, and it seemed to be his noble nature, as it is sometimes the instinct of the most powerful animals, to protect and defend rather than attack and oppress. The ambitious spirit of his brother chieftain, Sassacus, had ever aspired to dominion over the allied tribes; and, immediately after the appearance of the English, the same temper was manifest in a jealousy of their encroachments. He employed all his art, and influence, and authority, to unite the tribes for the extirpation of the dangerous invaders. Mononotto, on the contrary, averse to all hostility, and foreseeing no danger from them, was the advocate of an hospitable reception and pacific conduct.
This difference of feeling between the two chiefs may account for the apparent treachery of the Pequods, who, as the influence of one or the other prevailed, received the English traders with favour and hospitality, or, violating their treaties of friendship, inflicted on them cruelties and death.
The stories of the murders of Stone, Norton, and Oldham are familiar to every reader of our early annals; and the anecdote of the two English girls who were captured at Wethersfield, and protected and restored to their friends by the wife of Mononotto, has already been illustrated by a sister labourer, and is precious to all those who would accumulate proofs that the image of God is never quite effaced from the souls of his creatures, and that, in their darkest ignorance and deepest degradation, there are still to be found traits of mercy and benevolence. These will be gathered and treasured in the memory with that fond feeling with which Mungo Park describes himself to have culled and cherished in his bosom the single flower that bloomed in his melancholy track over the African desert.
The chieftain of a savage race is the depository of the honour of his tribe; and their defeat is a disgrace to him, that can only be effaced by the blood of his conquerors. It is a common case with the unfortunate, to be compelled to endure the reproach of inevitable evils; and Mononotto was often reminded by the remnant of his tribe, in the bitterness of their spirit, of his former kindness to the English. This reproach sharpened too keenly the edge of his adversity.
He had seen his people slaughtered, or driven from their homes and hunting-grounds into shameful exile; his wife had died in captivity, and his children lived in servile dependance in the house of his enemies.
Sassacus perished by treachery, and Mononotto alone remained to endure this accumulated misery. In this extremity, he determined on the rescue of his children, and the infliction of some signal deed of vengeance, by which he hoped to revive the spirit of the natives, and reinstate himself as the head of his broken and dispersed people: in his most sanguine moments, he meditated a combination and unity that should eventually expel the invaders.
“There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks that now are still;
There are seats left void in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill.”
Mrs. Hemans.
Magawisca rose from her sleepless pillow to join the family at prayers, her mind distracted with opposing fears, which her face, the mirror of her soul, too truly reflected.
Mrs. Fletcher observed her narrowly; and, confirmed in her forebodings by the girl’s apprehensive countenance, and still farther by Digby’s report of her behaviour during the night, she resolved to despatch him to Mr. Pynchon for his advice and assistance touching her removal to the fort, or the appointment of a guard for Bethel. Her servant (who prudently kept his alarm to himself, knowing, as he said, that a woman’s fears were always ahead of danger) applauded her decision, and was on the point of proceeding to act upon it, when a messenger arrived with the joyful tidings that Mr. Fletcher was within a few hours’ ride of Bethel; and the intelligence, no less joyful to Dame Grafton, that with his luggage, already arrived at the village, was a small box of millinery which she had ordered from London.
Mrs. Fletcher, feeling, as good wives do, a sense of safety from the proximity of her husband, bade Digby defer any new arrangement till he had the benefit of his master’s counsel. The whole house was thrown into the commotion so common in a retired family when an arrival is about to interrupt the equable current of life. Whatever unexpressed and superior happiness some others might have felt, no individual made such bustling demonstrations as Mrs. Grafton. It was difficult to say which excited her most, the anticipation of seeing her niece, Hope Leslie, or of inspecting the box of millinery.
Immediately after dinner, two of the men-servants were despatched to the village to transport their master’s luggage. They had hardly gone, when Mrs. Grafton recollected that her box contained a present for Madam Holioke, which it would be a thousand pities to have brought to Bethel, and lie there perhaps a week before it would be sent to her, and “she would like of all things, if Mrs. Fletcher saw no objection, to have the pony saddled and ride to the village herself, where the present could be made forthwith.”
Mrs. Fletcher was too happy to throw a shadow across any one’s path, and wearied too, perhaps, with Mrs. Grafton’s fidgeting (for the good dame had all day been wondering whether her confidential agent had matched her orange satin; how she had trimmed her cap, &c., &c., &c.), she ordered a horse to be saddled and brought to the door. The animal proved a little restiff; and Mrs. Grafton, not excelling in horsemanship, became alarmed, and begged that Digby might be allowed to attend her.
Digby’s cleverness was felt by all the household, and his talents were always in requisition for the miscellaneous wants of the family; but Digby, like good servants in every age, was aware of his importance, and was not more willing than a domestic of the present day to be worked like a machine. He muttered something of “old women making fools of themselves with new top-knots;” and saying aloud that “Mistress Grafton knew it was his master’s order that all the men-servants should not be away from the place at the same time,” he was turning off, when Mrs. Fletcher, who was standing at the door observing him, requested him, with more authority than was usual in her manner, to comply with Mrs. Grafton’s request.
“I would not wish,” said Digby, still hesitating, “to disoblige Mrs. Grafton—if it were a matter of life and death,” he added, lowering his voice; “but to get more furbelows for the old lady, when, with what she has already, she makes such a fool of herself, that our young witlings, Master Everell and Oneco, garnish out our old Yorkshire hen with peacock’s feathers and dandelions, and then call her ‘Dame Grafton in a flurry—’ ”
“Hush, Digby!” said Mrs. Fletcher; “it ill befits you to laugh at such fooleries in the boys: they shall be corrected; and do you learn to treat your master’s friend with respect.”
“Come, come, Digby!” screamed Mrs. Grafton.
“Shall I go and break my master’s orders?” asked Digby, still bent on having his own way.
“For this once you shall, Digby,” answered Mrs. Fletcher; “and if you need any apology to your master, I shall not fail to make it.”
“But if anything should happen to you, Mistress Fletcher—”
“Nothing will happen, my good Digby. Is not your master at hand? and an hour or two will be the extent of your absence. So get thee along, without more ado.”
Digby could not resist any farther the authority of his gentle mistress, and he walked by the side of Mrs. Grafton’s pony with slow, unwilling steps.
All was joy in Mrs. Fletcher’s dwelling. “My dear mother,” said Everell, “it is now quite time to look out for father and Hope Leslie. I have turned the hour-glass three times since dinner, and counted all the sands, I think. Let us all go on the front portico, where we can catch the first glimpse of them as they come past the elm-trees. Here, Oneco,” he continued, as he saw assent in his mother’s smile, “help me out with mother’s rocking-chair: rather rough rocking,” he added, as he adjusted the rockers lengthwise with the logs that served for the flooring; “but mother won’t mind trifles just now. Ah! blessed baby brother,” he continued, taking in his arms the beautiful infant, “you shall come too, even though you cheat me out of my birthright, and get the first kiss from father.” Thus saying, he placed the laughing infant in his go-cart beside his mother. He then aided his little sisters in their arrangement of the playthings they had brought forth to welcome and astonish Hope; and, finally, he made an elevated position for Faith Leslie, where she might, he said, as she ought, catch the very first glimpse of her sister.
“Thank, thank you, Everell,” said the little girl, as she mounted her pinnacle; “if you knew Hope, you would want to see her first too: everybody loves Hope. We shall always have pleasant times when Hope gets here.”
It was one of the most beautiful afternoons at the close of the month of May. The lagging spring had at last come forth in all her power; her “work of gladness” was finished, and forests, fields, and meadows were bright with renovated life. The full Connecticut swept triumphantly on, as if still exulting in its release from the fetters of winter. Every gushing rill had the spring-note of joy. The meadows were for the first time enriched with patches of English grain, which the new settlers had sown scantily by way of experiment, prudently occupying the greatest portion of their rich mould with the native Indian corn. This product of our soil is beautiful in all its progress, from the moment when, as now, it studded the meadow with hillocks, shooting its bright-pointed spear from its mother earth, to its maturity, when the long golden ear bursts from the rustling leaf.
The grounds about Mrs. Fletcher’s house had been prepared with the neatness of English taste, and a rich bed of clover, that overspread the lawn immediately before the portico, already rewarded the industry of the cultivators. Over this delicate carpet, the domestic fowls, the first civilized inhabitants of the country of their tribe, were now treading, picking their food here and there like dainty little epicures.
The scene had also its minstrels; the birds, those ministers and worshippers of nature, were on the wing, filling the air with melody; while, like diligent little housewives, they ransacked forest and field for materials for their housekeeping.
A mother encircled by healthful sporting children is always a beautiful spectacle: a spectacle that appeals to nature in every human breast. Mrs. Fletcher, in obedience to matrimonial duty, or, it may be, from some lingering of female vanity, had on this occasion dressed herself with extraordinary care. What woman does not wish to look handsome—in the eyes of her husband?
“Mother,” said Everell, putting aside the exquisitely fine lace that shaded her cheek, “I do not believe you looked more beautiful than you do to-day when, as I have heard, they called you ‘the rose of the wilderness:’ our little Mary’s cheek is as round and as bright as a peach, but it is not so handsome as yours, mother. Your heart has sent this colour here,” he continued, kissing her tenderly; “it seems to have come forth to tell us that our father is near.”
“It would shame me, Everell,” replied his mother, embracing him with a feeling that the proudest drawing-room belle might have envied, “to take such flattery from any lips but thine.”
“Oh, do not call it flattery, mother: look, Magawisca—for Heaven’s sake, cheer up—look, would you know mother’s eye? Just turn it, mother, one minute from that road—and her pale cheek too, with this rich colour.”
“Alas! alas!” replied Magawisca, glancing her eye at Mrs. Fletcher, and then, as if heart-struck, withdrawing them, “how soon the flush of the setting sun fades away.”
“Oh, Magawisca,” said Everell, impatiently, “why are you so dismal? Your voice is too sweet for a bird of ill omen. I shall begin to think, as Jennet says—though Jennet is no text-book for me—I shall begin to think old Nelema has really bewitched you.”
“You call me a bird of ill omen,” replied Magawisca, half proud, half sorrowful, “and you call the owl a bird of ill omen, but we hold him sacred; he is our sentinel, and when danger is near he cries awake! awake!”
“Magawisca, you are positively unkind: Jeremiah’s lamentations on a holyday would not be more out of time than your croaking is now: the very skies, earth, and air seem to partake our joy at my father’s return, and you only make a discord. Do you think, if your father was near, I would not share your joy?”
Tears fell fast from Magawisca’s eye, but she made no reply; and Mrs. Fletcher, observing and compassionating her emotion, and thinking it probably arose from comparing her orphan state to that of the merry children about her, called her and said, “Magawisca, you are neither a stranger nor a servant, will you not share our joy? Do you not love us?”
“Love you!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands; “love you! I would give my life for you.”
“We do not ask your life, my good girl,” replied Mrs. Fletcher, kindly smiling on her, “but a light heart and a cheerful look. A sad countenance doth not become this joyful hour. Go and help Oneco; he is quite out of breath blowing those soap-bubbles for the children.”
Oneco smiled and shook his head, and continued to send off one after another of the prismatic globes; and as they rose and floated on the air, and brightened with the many-coloured ray, the little girls clapped their hands, and the baby stretched his to grasp the brilliant vapour.
“Oh!” said Magawisca, impetuously covering her eyes, “I do not like to see anything so beautiful pass so quickly away.”
Scarcely had she uttered these words, when suddenly, as if the earth had opened on them, three Indian warriors darted from the forest, and pealed on the air their horrible yells.
“My father! my father!” burst from the lips of Magawisca and Oneco.
Faith Leslie sprang towards the Indian boy, and clung fast to him, and the children clustered about their mother; she instinctively caught her infant, and held it close within her arms, as if their ineffectual shelter were a rampart.
Magawisca uttered a cry of agony, and springing forward with her arms uplifted, as if deprecating his approach, she sunk down at her father’s feet, and clasping her hands, “Save them! save them!” she cried, “the mother—the children; oh, they are all good; take vengeance on your enemies, but spare, spare our friends, our benefactors; I bleed when they are struck: oh, command them to stop!” she screamed, looking to the companions of her father, who, unchecked by her cries, were pressing on to their deadly work.
Mononotto was silent and motionless; his eye glanced wildly from Magawisca to Oneco. Magawisca replied to the glance of fire, “Yes, they have sheltered us, they have spread the wing of love over us; save them! save them! oh, it will be too late,” she cried, springing from her father, whose silence and fixedness showed that, if his better nature rebelled against the work of revenge, there was no relenting of purpose. Magawisca darted before the Indian who was advancing towards Mrs. Fletcher with an uplifted hatchet. “You shall hew me to pieces ere you touch her,” she said, and planted herself as a shield before her benefactress.
The warrior’s obdurate heart, untouched by the sight of the helpless mother and her little ones, was thrilled by the courage of the heroic girl; he paused and grimly smiled on her, when his companion, crying “Hasten, the dogs will be on us!” levelled a deadly blow at Mrs. Fletcher; but his uplifted arm was penetrated by a musket shot, and the hatchet fell harmless to the floor.
“Courage, mother!” cried Everell, reloading the piece; but neither courage nor celerity could avail: the second Indian sprang upon him, threw him on the floor, wrested his musket from him, and brandishing his tomahawk over his head, he would have aimed the fatal stroke, when a cry from Mononotto arrested his arm.
Everell extricated himself from his grasp, and one hope flashing into his mind, he seized a bugle-horn which hung beside the door, and winded it. This was the conventional signal of alarm, and he sent forth a blast long and loud—a death-cry.
Mrs. Grafton and her attendants were just mounting their horses to return home. Digby listened for a moment; then exclaiming, “It comes from our master’s dwelling! Ride for your life, Hutton!” he tossed away a bandbox that encumbered him, and spurred his horse to its utmost speed.
The alarm was spread through the village, and in a brief space Mr. Pynchon, with six armed men, were pressing towards the fatal scene.
In the mean time the tragedy was proceeding at Bethel. Mrs. Fletcher’s senses had been stunned with terror. She had neither spoken nor moved after she grasped her infant. Everell’s gallant interposition restored a momentary consciousness: she screamed to him, “Fly, Everell, my son, fly; for your father’s sake, fly.”
“Never,” he replied, springing to his mother’s side.
The savages, always rapid in their movements, were now aware that their safety depended on despatch. “Finish your work, warriors,” cried Mononotto. Obedient to the command, and infuriated by his bleeding wound, the Indian, who, on receiving the shot, had staggered back and leaned against the wall, now sprang forward and tore the infant from its mother’s breast. She shrieked, and in that shriek passed the agony of death. She was unconscious that her son, putting forth a strength beyond nature, for a moment kept the Indian at bay; she neither saw nor felt the knife struck at her own heart. She felt not the arms of her defenders, Everell and Magawisca, as they met around her neck. She fainted and fell to the floor, dragging her impotent protectors with her.
The savage, in his struggle with Everell, had tossed the infant boy to the ground; he fell quite unharmed on the turf at Mononotto’s feet. There, raising his head, and looking up into the chieftain’s face, he probably perceived a gleam of mercy, for, with the quick instinct of infancy, that with unerring sagacity directs its appeal, he clasped the naked leg of the savage with one arm, and stretched the other towards him with a piteous supplication that no words could have expressed. Mononotto’s heart melted within him; he stooped to raise the sweet suppliant, when one of the Mohawks fiercely seized him, tossed him wildly around his head, and dashed him on the door-stone. But the silent prayer—perhaps the celestial inspiration—of the innocent creature was not lost. “We have had blood enough,” cried Mononotto; “you have well avenged me, brothers.”
Then looking at Oneco, who had remained in one corner of the portico, clasping Faith Leslie in his arms, he commanded him to follow him with the child. Everell was torn from the lifeless bodies of his mother and sisters, and dragged into the forest. Magawisca uttered one cry of agony and despair as she looked for the last time on the bloody scene, and then followed her father.
As they passed the boundary of the cleared ground, Mononotto tore from Oneco his English dress, and casting it from him, “Thus perish,” he said, “every mark of the captivity of my children. Thou shalt return to our forests,” he continued, wrapping a skin around him, “with the badge of thy people.”