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03 - The Last Of The Mohicans - James Cooper · Adventure Books Collection

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Chapter three quote before these fields were shorn and tilled full to the brim,
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our rivers flowed, the melody of waters filled the fresh and boundless wood,
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and torrents dashed, and rivulets played, and fountains spouted in the shade unquote
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by Bryant, leaving the unsuspecting Heyward and his confiding companions to penetrate still deeper
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into a forest that contained such treacherous inmates. We must use an author's privilege
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and shift the scene a few miles to the westward of the place where we
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have last seen them. On that day, two men were lingering on the
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banks of a small but rapid stream, within an hour's journey of the encampment
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of Webb, like those who awaited the appearance of an absent person or the
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approach of some expected event. The vast canopy of woods spread itself to the
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margin of the river, over the water and shadowing its dark current with a
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deeper hue. The rays of the sun were beginning to grow less fierce,
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and the intense heat of the day was lessened as the cooler vapors of the
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springs and fountains rose above their leafy beds and rested in the atmosphere. Still,
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that breathing silence which marks the drowsy sultriness of an American landscape in July,
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pervaded the secluded spot, interrupted only by the low voices of the men,
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the occasional and lazy tap of a woodpecker, the discordant cry of some
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gaudy jay, or a swelling on the ear from the dull roar of a
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distant waterfall. These feeble and broken sounds were, however, too familiar to
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the foresters to draw their attention from the more interesting manner of their dialog.
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While one of these loiterers showed the red skin and wild accouterments of a native
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of the woods, the other exhibited, through the mask of his rude and
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nearly savage equipments, the brighter, though sunburned, and long faced complexion of
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one who might claim descent from a European parentage. The former was seated on
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the end of a mossy log, in a posture that permitted him to heighten
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the effect of his earnest language by the calm but expressive gestures of an Indian
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engaged in debate. His body, which was nearly naked, presented a terrific
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emblem of death, drawn in intermingled colors of white and black. His closely
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shaved head, on which no other hair than the well known and chivalrous scalping
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tuft was preserved, was without ornament of any kind, with the exception of
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a solitary eagle's plume, the crossed as crown and depended over the left shoulder
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footnote. The North American warrior caused the hair to be plucked from his whole
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body. A small tuft was left on the crown of his head in order
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that his enemy might avail himself of it in the wrenching off the scalp in
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the event of his fall. The scalp was the only admissible trophy of victory.
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Thus it was deemed more important to obtain the scalp than to kill the
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man. Some tribes lay great stress on the honor of striking a dead body.
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These practices have nearly disappeared among the Indians of the Atlantic States end footnote.
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A tomahawk and scalping knife of English manufacture were in his girdle, while
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a short military rifle of that sort with which the policy of the Whites armed
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their savage allies lay carelessly across his bare and sinewy knee. The expanded chest,
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full formed limbs, and grave counts of this warrior would denote that he
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had reached the vigor of his days, though no symptoms of decay appeared to
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have yet weakened his manhood. The frame of the white man, judging from
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such parts as were not concealed by his clothes, was like that of one
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who had known hardships and exertion from his earliest youth. His person, though
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muscular, was rather attenuated than full, but every nerve and muscle appeared strung
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and indurated by unremitted exposure and toil. He wore a hunting shirt of forest
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green, fringed with faded yellow, and a summer cap of skins which had
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been shorn of their fur. Footnote. The hunting shirt is a picturesque smock
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frock, being shorter and ornamented with fringes and tassels. The colors are intended
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to imitate the hues of the wood, with a view to concealment. Many
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corps of American riflemen have been thus attired, and the dress is one of
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the most striking of modern times. The hunting shirt is frequently white. He
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also bore a knife in a girdle of wampum, like that which confined the
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scanty garments of the Indian, but no tomahawk. His moccasins were ornamented after
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the gay fashion of the natives, while the only part of his under dress
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which appeared below the hunting frock was a pair of buckskin leggings that laced at
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the sides, and which were guarded above the knees with the sinews of a
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deer. A pouch and horn completed his personal accouterments, though a rifle of
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great length, which the theory of the more ingenious whites had taught them,
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was the most dangerous of all firearms leaned against a neighboring sapling. Footnote,
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the rifle of the army is short, that of the hunter is always long.
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And footnote the eye of the hunter or scout, whichever he might be,
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was small, quick, keen, and restless, roving, while he
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spoke on every side of him, as if in quest of game or distrusting
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the sudden approach of some lurking enemy. Notwithstanding the symptoms of habitual suspicion,
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his countenance was not only without guile but at the moment at which he is
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introduced, it was charged with an expression of sturdy honesty. Even your traditions
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make the case in my favor. Chinchkotchkok, he said, speaking in the
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tongue which was known to all the natives who formerly inhabited the country between the
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Hudson and the Potomac, and of which we shall give a free translation for
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the benefit of the reader, endeavoring at the same time to preserve some of
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the peculiarities, both of the individual and of the language. Your fathers came
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from the setting sun, crossed the big river, fought the people of the
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country, and took the land. And mine came from the red sky of
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the morning, over the salt lake, and did their work much after the
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fashion that had been set them by yours. Then let God judge the matter
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between us, and friends, spare their words. Footnote the Mississippi the Scout
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alludes to a tradition which is very popular among the tribes of the Atlantic States.
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Evidence of their Asiatic origin is deduced from the circumstances. Their great uncertainty
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hangs over the whole history of the Indians, and footnote my fathers fought with
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the naked red man, returned the Indian sternly in the same language. Is
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there no difference, Hawkeye, between the stone headed arrow of the warrior and
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the leaden bullet with which you kill? There is reason in an Indian,
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though nature has made him with a red skin, said the white man,
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shaking his head like one on whom such an appeal to his justice was not
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thrown away. For a moment he appeared to be conscious of having the worst
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of the argument. Then, rallying again, he answered the objection of his
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antagonist in the best manner his limited information would allow. I am no scholar,
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and I care not who knows it. But judging from what I've seen
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at dear chases and squirrel hunts of the sparks below, I should think a
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rifle in the hands of their grandfathers was not so dangerous as a hickory bow
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and a good flint head might be if drawn with Indian judgment and sent by
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an Indian eye. You have told the story told by your father's, returned
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the other, coldly, waving his hand. What say your old men do?
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They tell the young warriors that the pale faces met the red men needed
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for war and armed with the stone hatchet and wooden gun. I am not
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a prejudiced man, nor one who vaunts himself on his natural privileges. Though
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the worst enemy I have on earth, and he is an Iroquois, daren't
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deny I am genuine white, the scout replied, surveying with secret satisfaction the
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faded color of his bony and sinewy hand. And I'm willing to own that
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my people have many ways of which as an honest man, I can't prove.
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It is one of their customs to write in books what they have done
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and seen, instead of telling them in their villages, where the lie can
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be given to the face of a cowardly boaster, and a brave soldier can
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call on his comrades to witness for the truth of his words. In consequence
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of this bad fashion, a man who is too conscientious to mis spend his
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days among the women in learning the names of black marks, may never hear
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the deeds of his fathers, nor feel a pride in striving to outdo them.
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For myself, I conclude that Bumpos could shoot, for I have a
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natural turn with a rifle, which must have been handed down from generation to
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generation. As our holy commandments tell us, all good and evil gifts are
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bestowed. Though I should be loath to answer for other people in such a
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matter. But every story has its two sides. So I ask Hugh Chinchotchcook,
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what passed according to the traditions of the Red Men when our fathers first
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met? A silence of a minute seceeded, during which the Indian sat mute.
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Then, full of the dignity of his office, he commenced his brief
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tale with a solemnity that served to heighten its appearance of truth. Listen,
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Hawkeye, and your ear shall drink no lie. Tis what my fathers have
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said and what the Mohicans have done. He hesitated, a single instant,
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and, bending a cautious glance toward his companion, he continued in a manner
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that was divided between interrogation and assertion. Does not this stream at our feet
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run toward the summer until its waters grow salt and the current flows upward.
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It can't be denied that your traditions tell you true in both these matters,
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said the white Man, For I have been there and have seen them.
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The why water, which is so sweet in the shade should become bitter in
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the sun is an alteration for which I have never been able to account.
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And the current, demanded the Indian, who expect did his reply with that
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sort of interest that a man feels in the confirmation of testimony at which he
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marvels even while he respects it. The fathers of Chinggotchkok have not lied.
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The Holy Bible is not more true, and that is the truest thing in
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nature. They call this upstream current the tide, which is a thing soon
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explained and clear enough. Six hours the waters run in, and six hours
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they run out. And the reason is this, when there is higher water
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in the sea than in the river, they run in until the river gets
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to be highest, and then it runs out again. The waters in the
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woods and on the great lakes run downward until they lie like my hand,
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said the Indian, stretching the limb horizontally before him. They run no more.
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No honest man will deny it, said the scout, a little nettled
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at the implied distrust of his explanation on the mystery of the tides. And
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I grant that it is true on the small scale, and where the land
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is level, But everything depends on what scale you look at things now.
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On the small scale, the earth is level, but on the large scale
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it is round. In this manner, pools and ponds and even the great
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fresh water lakes may be stagnant, as you and I both know they are,
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having seen them. But when you come to spread water over a great
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tract like the sea, where the earth is round, how in reason can
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the water be quiet? You might as well expect the river to lie still
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on the brink of those black rocks a mile above us, though our own
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ears tell you that it is tumbling over them at this very moment. If
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unsatisfied by the philosophy of his companion, the Indian was far too dignified to
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betray his unbelief. He listened like one who was convinced, and resumed his
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narrative in his former solemn manner. We came from the place where the sun
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is hid at night, over great plains where the buffaloes live, until we
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reached the Big River. There we fought the aliguity till the ground was red
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with their blood. From the banks of the Big River to the shores of
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the Salt Lake, there was none to meet us. The Maquas followed at
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a distance. We said the country should be ours, from the place where
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the water runs up no longer on this stream, to a river twenty suns
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journey towards the summer, we drove the Maquas into the woods with the bears.
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They only tasted salt at the licks. They drew no fish from the
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great lake. We threw them the bones. All this I have heard and
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believe, said the white man, observing that the Indian paused. But it
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was long before the English came into the country. A pine grew then where
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this chestnut now stands. The first pale faces who came among us spoke no
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English. They came in a large canoe when my fathers had buried the tomahawk,
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with the red men around them. Then Hawkeye, he continued betraying his
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deep emotion only by permitting his voice to fall to those low guttural tones which
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render his language, as spoken at times, so very musical. Then Hawkeye,
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we were one people, and we were happy. The salt lake gave
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us its fish, the wood it's deer, and the air its birds.
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We took wives who bore us children. We worshiped the Great Spirit, and
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we kept the Maquas beyond the sound of our songs of triumph? Know you
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anything of your own family at that time demanded the white. But you are
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just a man for an Indian, and I suppose you hold their gifts.
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Your fathers must have been brave warriors and wise men at the council fire.
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My tribe is the grandfather of nations. But I am an unmixed man.
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The blood of chiefs is in my veins, where it must stay forever.
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The Dutch landed and gave my people the fire water. They drank until the
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heavens and earth seemed to meet, and they foolishly thought they had found the
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great spirit. Then they parted with their land. Foot by foot. They
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were driven back from the shores, until I that am a chief and a
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sagamore, have never seen the sunshine but through the trees, and have never
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visited the graves of my fathers. Graves bring solemn feelings over the mind,
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returned the scout a good deal, touched at the calm suffering of his companion,
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and they often aid a man in his good intentions. Though for myself
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I expect to leave my own bones unburied, to bleach in the woods,
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or be torn asunder by the wolves. But where are to be found those
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of your race who came to their kin in the Delaware country so many summers?
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Since where are the blossoms of those summers? Fallen? One by one?
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So all of my family departed, each in his turn to the land
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of spirits. I am on the hilltop and must go down into the valley.
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And when Uncas follows in my footsteps, there will no longer be any
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of the blood of the Sagamores. For my boy is the last of the
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Mohicans. Uncas is here, said another voice in the same soft guttural tones
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near his vwbow, who speaks for Uncas? The white man loosened his knife
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in his leathern sheath and made an involuntary movement of the hand toward his rifle
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at this sudden interruption, But the Indian sat composed and without turning his head
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at the unexpected sounds. At the next instant, a youthful warrior passed between
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them with a noiseless step, and seated himself on the bank of the rapid
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stream. No exclamation of surprise escaped the father, nor was any question asked
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or reply given. For several minutes each appearing to await the moment when he
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might speak without betraying womanish curiosity or childish impatience. The white man seemed to
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take counsel from their customs, and relinquishing his grasp of the rifle, he
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also remained silent and reserved at length. Chingotchkok turned his eyes slowly toward his
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son and demanded, do the Makists dare to leave the print of their moccasins
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in these woods? I have been on their trail, replied the young Indian,
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and know that they number as many as the fingers of my two hands.
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But they lie hid like cowards. The thieves are outlying for scalps and
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plunders, said the white man, whom we shall call Hawkeye, after the
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manner of his companions. That busy frenchman Montcalm will send his spies into our
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very camp, but he will know what road we travel.'tis enough,
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returned the father, glancing his eye toward the setting sun. They shall be
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driven like deer from their bushes. Hawkeye, let us eat tonight and show
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the Maquas that we are men. Tomorrow I am as ready to do one
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as the other, but to fight the Iroquois tis necessary to find the skulkers,
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and to eat tis necessary to get the game. Talk of the devil,
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and he will come. There's a pair of the biggest antlers I have
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seen this season moving the bushes below the hill. Now uncas, he continued
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in a half whisper and laughing with a kind of inward sound, like one
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who had learned to be watchful. I will bet my charger three times full
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of powder against a foot of wampum, that I take him atwixt the eyes,
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and nearer to the right than the left. It cannot be, said
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the young Indian, springing to his feet with youthful eagerness. Oh but the
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tips of his horns are head. He's a boy, said the white man,
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shaking his head while he spoke and addressing the father. Does he think
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when a hunter sees a part of a creature, he can't tell where the
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rest of him should be. Adjusting his rifle, he was about to make
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an exhibition of that skill on which he so much valued himself, when the
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warrior struck up the piece with his hand, saying, Hawkeye, will you
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fight the maquas? These Indians know the nature of the woods as it might
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be by instinct, returned the scout, dropping his rifle and turning away like
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a man convinced of his air. I must leave the buck to your arrow,
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Uncas, or we may kill a deer for them thieves the ear cooi
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to eat the instant. The father seconded this intimation by an expressive gesture of
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the hand. Uncas threw himself on the ground and approached the animal with warried
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movements. When within a few yards of the cover, he fitted an arrow
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to his bow with the utmost care, while the antlers moved as if their
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owner snuffed an enemy in the tainted air. In another moment, the twang
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of the cord was heard, a white streak was seen glancing into the bushes,
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and the wounded buck plunged from the cover to the very feet of his
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hidden enemy. Avoiding the horns of the infuriated animal, Uncas darted to his
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side and passed his knife across the throat. When bounding to the edge of
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the river, it fell, dying the water with its blood. Twas done
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with Indian skill, said the scout, laughing inwardly, but with vast satisfaction,
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And twas a pretty sight to behold. Though an arrow is a near
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shot, and needs a knife to finish the work. Hullh ejaculated, his
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companion, turning quickly like a hound who sent a game by the lord.
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There's a drove of them, exclaimed the scout, whose eyes began to glisten
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with the ardor of his usual occupation. If they come within range of a
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bullet, I will drop one, though the whole six nations should be lurking
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within sound. What do you hear, chinchcotch cook? For to my ears
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the woods are dumb. There is but one dear, and he is dead,
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said the Indian, bending his body to his ear, nearly touched the
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earth. I hear the sounds of feet. Perhaps the wolves have driven the
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buck to shelter and are following on his trail. No, the horses of
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white men are coming, returned the other, raising himself with dignity and resuming
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his seat on the log with his former composure. Hawkeye, they are your
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brothers. Speak to them that I will, and in English that the king
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needn't be ashamed to answer, returned the hunter, speaking in the language of
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which he boasted. But I see nothing, nor do I hear the sounds
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of man or beast. Tis strange that an Indian should understand white sounds better
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than a man whose very enemies will own, has no cross in his blood,
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although he may have lived with the redskins long enough to be suspected.
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Ha, there goes something like the crackling of a dry stick too. Now
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I hear the bushes move. Yes, yes, there is a trampling that
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I mistook for the falls. And but here they come themselves, God keep
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them from the Iroquois. End of Chapter three