"What are these,
So withered, and so wild in their attire;
That look not like the inhabitants of earth,
And yet are on't?"
Macbeth.
That sternness of the season, which has already been mentioned in these
pages, is never of long continuance in the month of April. A change in the
wind had been noted by the hunters, even before they retired from their
range among the hills; and though too seriously occupied to pay close
attention to the progress of the thaw, more than one of the young men had
found occasion to remark, that the final breaking up of the winter had
arrived. Long ere the scene of the preceding chapter reached its height,
the southern winds had mingled with the heat of the conflagration. Warm
airs, that had been following the course of the Gulf Stream, were driven
to the land, and, sweeping over the narrow island that at this point forms
the advanced work of the continent, but a few short hours had passed
before they destroyed every chilling remnant of the dominion of winter.
Warm, bland, and rushing in torrents, the subtle currents penetrated the
forests, melted the snows from the fields, and as all alike felt the
genial influence, it appeared to bestow a renovated existence on man and
beast. With morning, therefore, a landscape very different from that last
placed before the mind of the reader, presented itself in the valley of
the Wish-Ton-Wish.
The winter had entirely disappeared, and as the buds had begun to swell
under the occasional warmth of the spring, one ignorant of the past would
not have supposed that the advance of the season had been subject to so
stern an interruption. But the principal and most melancholy change was in
the more artificial parts of the view. Instead of those simple and happy
habitations which had crowned the little eminence, there remained only a
mass of blackened and charred ruins. A few abused and half-destroyed
articles of household furniture lay scattered on the sides of the hill,
and, here and there, a dozen palisadoes, favored by some accidental cause,
had partially escaped the flames. Eight or ten massive and dreary-looking
stacks of chimneys rose out of the smoking piles. In the centre of the
desolation was the stone basement of the block-house, on which still stood
a few gloomy masses of the timber, resembling coal. The naked and
unsupported shaft of the well reared its circular pillar from the centre,
looking like a dark monument of the past. The wide ruin of the
out-buildings blackened one side of the clearing, and, in different
places, the fences, like radii diverging from the common centre of
destruction, had led off the flames into the fields. A few domestic
animals ruminated in the back-ground, and even the feathered inhabitants
of the barns still kept aloof, as if warned by their instinct that danger
lurked around the site of their ancient abodes. In all other respects, the
view was calm, and lovely as ever. The sun shone from a sky in which no
cloud was visible. The blandness of the winds, and the brightness of the
heavens, lent an air of animation to even the leafless forest; and the
white vapor, that continued to rise from the smouldering piles, floated
high over the hills, as the peaceful smoke of the cottage curled above its
roof. The ruthless band which had occasioned this sudden change was
already far on the way to its villages, or, haply, it sought some other
scene of blood. A skilful eye might have traced the route these fierce
creatures of the woods had taken, by fences hurled from their places, or
by the carcass of some animal that had fallen, in the wantonness of
victory, beneath a parting blow. Of all these wild beings, one only
remained; and he appeared to linger at the spot in the indulgence of
feelings that were foreign to those passions that had so recently stirred
the bosoms of his comrades.
It was with a slow, noiseless step that the solitary loiterer moved about
the scene of destruction. He was first seen treading, with a thoughtful
air, among the ruins of the buildings that had formed the quadrangle, and
then, seemingly led by an interest in the fate of those who had so
miserably perished, he drew nearer to the pile in its centre. The nicest
and most attentive ear could not have detected the fall of his foot, as
the Indian placed it within the gloomy circle of the ruined wall; nor is
the breathing of the infant less audible, than the manner in which he drew
breath, while standing in a place so lately consecrated by the agony and
martyrdom of a Christian family. It was the boy called Miantonimoh,
seeking some melancholy memorial of those with whom he had so long dwelt
in amity, if not in confidence.
One skilled in the history of savage passions might have found a clue to
the workings of the mind of the youth, in the play of his speaking
features. As his dark glittering eye rolled over the smouldering
fragments, it seemed to search keenly for some vestige of the human form.
The element however had done its work too greedily, to have left many
visible memorials of its fury. An object resembling that he sought,
however, caught his glance, and stepping lightly to the spot where it lay,
he raised the bone of a powerful arm from the brands. The flashing of his
eye, as it lighted on this sad object, was wild and exulting, like that
of the savage when he first feels the fierce joy of glutted vengeance; but
gentler recollections came with the gaze, and kinder feelings evidently
usurped the place of the hatred he had been taught to bear a race, who
were so fast sweeping his people from the earth. The relic fell from his
hand, and had Ruth been there to witness the melancholy and relenting
shade that clouded his swarthy features, she might have found pleasure in
the certainty that all her kindness had not been wasted.
Regret soon gave place to awe. To the imagination of the Indian, it seemed
as if a still voice, like that which is believed to issue from the grave,
was heard in the place. Bending his body forward, he listened with the
intensity and acuteness of a savage. He thought the smothered tones of
Mark Heathcote were again audible, holding communion with his God. The
chisel of the Grecian would have loved to delineate the attitudes and
movements of the wondering boy, as he slowly and reverently withdrew from
the spot. His look was riveted on the vacancy where the upper apartments
of the block had stood, and where he had last seen the family, calling, in
their extremity, on their Deity for aid. Imagination still painted the
victims, in their burning pile. For a minute longer, during which brief
space the young Indian probably expected to see some vision of the
Pale-faces, did he linger near; and then, with a musing air and softened
mind, he trod lightly along the path which led on the trail of his people.
When his active form reached the boundary of the forest, he again paused,
and taking a final gaze at the place where fortune had made him a witness
to so much domestic peace and of so much sudden misery, his form was
quickly swallowed in the gloom of his native woods.
The work of the savages now seemed complete. An effectual check appeared
to be placed to the further progress of civilization in the ill-fated
valley of the Wish-Ton-wish. Had nature been left to its own work, a few
years would have covered the deserted clearing with its ancient
vegetation; and half a century would have again buried the whole of its
quiet glades, in the shadows of the forest. But it was otherwise decreed.
The sun had reached the meridian, and the hostile band had been gone some
hours, before aught occurred likely to affect this seeming decision of
Providence. To one acquainted with the recent horrors, the breathing of
the airs over the ruins might have passed for the whisperings of departed
spirits. In short, it appeared as if the silence of the wilderness had
once more resumed its reign, when it was suddenly though slightly
interrupted. A movement was made within the ruins of the block. It sounded
as if billets of wood were gradually and cautiously displaced, and then a
human head was reared slowly, and with marked suspicion, above the shaft
of the well. The wild and unearthly air of this seeming spectre, was in
keeping with the rest of the scene. A face begrimed with smoke and stained
with blood, a head bound in some fragment of a soiled dress, and eyes that
were glaring in a species of dull horror, were objects in unison with all
the other frightful accessories of the place.
"What seest thou?" demanded a deep voice from within the walls of the
shaft. "Shall we again come to our weapons, or have the agents of Moloch
departed? Speak, entranced youth! what dost behold?"
"A sight to make a wolf weep!" returned Eben Dudley, raising his large
frame so as to stand erect on the shaft, where he commanded a bird's-eye
view of most of the desolation of the valley. "Evil though it be, we may
not say that forewarning signs have been withheld. But what is the
cunningest man, when mortal wisdom is weighed in the scale against the
craft of devils? Come forth! Belial hath done his worst, and we have a
breathing-time."
The sounds, which issued still deeper from the well, denoted the
satisfaction with which this intelligence was received, no less than the
alacrity with which the summons of the borderer was obeyed. Sundry blocks
of wood and short pieces of plank were first passed, with care, up to the
hands of Dudley, who cast them, like useless lumber, among the other ruins
of the building. He then descended from his perch, and made room for
others to follow.
The stranger next arose. After him came Content, the Puritan, Reuben Ring,
and, in short, all the youths, with the exception of those who had
unhappily fallen in the contest. After these had mounted, and each in turn
had leaped to the ground, a very brief preparation served for the
liberation of the more feeble of body. The readiness of border skill soon
sufficed to arrange the necessary means. By the aid of chains and buckets,
Ruth and the little Martha, Faith and all of the handmaidens, without even
one exception, were successively drawn from the bowels of the earth, and
restored to the light of day. It is scarcely necessary to say to those
whom experience has best fitted to judge of such an achievement, that no
great time or labor was necessary for its accomplishment.
It is not our intention to harass the feelings of the reader, further than
is required by a simple narrative of the incidents of the legend. We shall
therefore say nothing of the bodily pain, or of the mental alarm, by which
this ingenious retreat from the flames and the tomahawk had been effected.
The suffering was chiefly confined to apprehension; for as the descent was
easy, so had the readiness and ingenuity of the young men found means, by
the aid of articles of furniture first cast into the shaft, and by
well-secured fragments of the floors properly placed across, both to
render the situation of the females and children less painful than might
at first be supposed, and effectually to protect them from the tumbling
block. But little of the latter however, was likely to affect their
safety, as the form of the building was, in itself, a sufficient security
against the fall of its heavier parts.
The meeting of the family, amid the desolation of the valley, though
relieved by the consciousness of having escaped a more shocking fate, may
easily be imagined. The first act was to render brief but solemn thanks
for their deliverance, and then, with the promptitude of people trained in
hardship, their attention was given to those measures which prudence told
them were yet necessary.
A few of the more active and experienced of the youths were dispatched, in
order to ascertain the direction taken by the Indians, and to gain what
intelligence they might concerning their future movements. The maidens
hastened to collect the kine, while others searched, with heavy hearts,
among the ruins, in quest of such articles of food and comfort as could be
found, in order to administer to the first wants of nature.
Two hours had effected most of that which could immediately be done, in
these several pursuits. The young men returned with the assurance that the
trails announced the certain and final retreat of the savages. The cows
had yielded their tribute and such provision had been made against hunger
as circumstances would allow. The arms had been examined, and put, as far
as the injuries they had received would admit, in readiness for instant
service. A few hasty preparations had been made, in order to protect the
females against the cool airs of the coming night; and, in short, all was
done that the intelligence of a border-man could suggest, or his exceeding
readiness in expedients could in so brief a space supply.
The sun began to fall towards the tops of the beeches that crowned the
western outline of the view, before all these necessary arrangements were
ended. It was not till then, however, that Reuben Ring, accompanied by
another youth of equal activity and courage, appeared before the Puritan,
equipped, as well as men in their, situation might be, for a journey
through the forest.
"Go," said the old religionist, when the youths presented themselves
before him; "Go; carry forth the tidings of this visitation, that men come
to our succor. I ask not vengeance on the deluded and heathenish imitators
of the worshippers of Moloch. They have ignorantly done this evil. Let no
man arm in behalf of the wrongs of one sinful and erring. Rather let them
look into the secret abominations of their own hearts, in order that they
crush the living worm, which, by gnawing on the seeds of a healthful hope,
may yet destroy the fruits of the promise in their own souls. I would that
there be profit in this example of divine displeasure. Go: make the
circuit of the settlements for some fifty miles, and bid such of the
neighbors as may be spared, come to our aid. They shall be welcome; and
may it be long ere any of them send invitation to me or mine, to enter
their clearings on the like melancholy duty. Depart, and bear in mind,
that you are messengers of peace; that your errand toucheth not the
feelings of vengeance, but that it is succor, in all fitting reason, and
no arming of the hand to chase the savage to his retreats, that I ask of
the brethren."
With this final admonition, the young men took their leaves. Still it was
evident, by their frowning brows and compressed lips, that some part of
its forgiving principle might be forgotten, should chance, in their
journey, bring them on the trail of any wandering inhabitant of the
forest. In a few minutes, they were seen passing, with swift steps, from
the fields into the depths of the forest, along that path which led to the
towns that lay lower on the Connecticut.
Another task still remained to be performed. In making the temporary
arrangements for the shelter of the family, attention had been first paid
to the block-house. The walls of the basement of this building were still
standing, and it was found easy, by means of half-burnt timbers, with an
occasional board that had escaped the conflagration, to cover it, in a
manner that offered a temporary protection against the weather. This
simple and hasty construction, with an extremely inartificial office
erected around the stack of a chimney, embraced nearly all that could be
done, until time and assistance should enable them to commence other
dwellings. In clearing the ruins of the little tower of its rubbish, the
remains of those who had perished in the fray were piously collected. The
body of the youth who had died in the earlier hours of the attack, was
found, but half-consumed, in the court, and the bones of two more, who
fell within the block, were collected from among the ruins. It had now
become a melancholy duty to consign them all to the earth, with decent
solemnity.
The time selected for this sad office was just as the western horizon
began to glow with that which one of our own poets has so beautifully
termed, "the pomp that brings and shuts the day." The sun was in the
tree-tops, and a softer or sweeter light could not have been chosen for
such a ceremony. Most of the fields still lay in the soft brightness of
the hour, though the forest was rapidly getting the more obscure look of
night. A broad and gloomy margin was spreading from the boundary of the
woods, and, here and there, a solitary tree cast its shadow on the meadows
without its limits, throwing a dark ragged line, in bold relief, on the
glow of the sun's rays. One, it was the dusky image of a high and waving
pine, that reared its dark green pyramid of never-fading foliage nearly a
hundred feet above the humbler growth of beeches, cast its shade to the
side of the eminence of the block. Here the pointed extremity of the
shadow was seen, stealing slowly towards the open grave,--an emblem of
that oblivion in which its humble tenants were so shortly to be wrapped.
At this spot, Mark Heathcote and his remaining companions had assembled.
An oaken chair, saved from the flames, was the seat of the father; and two
parallel benches, formed of planks placed on stones, held the other
members of the family. The grave lay between. The patriarch had taken his
station at one of its ends; while the stranger, so often named in these
pages, stood with folded arms and a thoughtful brow at the other. The
bridle of a horse, caparisoned in that imperfect manner which the
straitened means of the borderers now rendered necessary, was hanging from
one of the half-burnt palisadoes, in the back-ground.
"A just, but a merciful hand hath been laid heavily on my household;"
commenced the old Puritan, with the calmness of one who had long been
accustomed to chasten his regrets by humility. "He that hath given freely,
hath taken away; and one, that hath long smiled upon my weakness, hath now
veiled his face in anger. I have known him in his power to bless; it was
meet that I should see him in his displeasure. A heart that was waxing
confident would have hardened in its pride. At that which hath befallen,
let no man murmur. Let none imitate the speech of her who spoke
foolishly: 'What! shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we
not receive evil?' I would that the feeble-minded of the world, they that
jeopard the soul on vanities, they that look with scorn on the neediness
of the flesh, might behold the riches of one stedfast I would that they
might know the consolation of the righteous! Let the voice of thanksgiving
be heard in the wilderness. Open thy mouths in praise, that the gratitude
of a penitent be not hid!"
As the deep tones of the speaker ceased, his stern eye fell upon the
features of the nearest youth, and it seemed to demand an audible response
to his own lofty expression of resignation. But the sacrifice exceeded the
power of the individual to whom had been made this silent, but
intelligible, appeal. After regarding the relics that lay at his feet,
casting a wandering glance at the desolation which had swept over a place
his own hand had helped to decorate, and receiving a renewed consciousness
of his own bodily suffering in the shooting pain of his wounds, the young
borderer averted his look, and seemed to recoil from so officious a
display of submission. Observing his inability to reply, Mark continued.--
"Hath no one a voice to praise the Lord? The bands of the heathen have
fallen upon my herds; the brand hath been kindled within my dwellings; my
people have died by the violence of the unenlightened, and none are here
to say that the Lord is just! I would that the shouts of thanksgiving
should arise in my fields! I would that the song of praise should grow
louder than the whoop of the savage, and that all the land might speak
joyfulness!"
A long, deep, and expecting pause succeeded. Then Content rejoined, in his
quiet tones, speaking firmly, but with the modest utterance he rarely
failed to use--
"The hand that hath held the balance is just," he said, "and we have been
found wanting. He that made the wilderness blossom hath caused the
ignorant and the barbarous to be the instruments of his will. He hath
arrested the season of our prosperity, that we may know he is the Lord. He
hath spoken in the whirlwind, but his mercy granteth that our ears shall
know his voice."
As his son ceased, a gleam of satisfaction shot across the countenance of
the Puritan. His eye next turned inquiringly towards Ruth, who sate among
her maidens the image of womanly sorrow. Common interest seemed to still
the breathing of the little assembly, and sympathy was quite as active as
curiosity, when each one present suffered a glance to steal towards her
benignant but pallid face. The eye of the mother was gazing earnestly, but
without a tear, on the melancholy spectacle before her. It unconsciously
sought, among the dried and shrivelled remnants of mortality that lay at
her feet, some relic of the cherub she had lost. A shudder and struggle
followed, after which her gentle voice breathed so low that those nearest
her person could scarce distinguish the words--
"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be his holy name!"
"Now know I that he who hath smote me is merciful, for he chasteneth them
he loveth," said Mark Heathcote, rising with dignity to address his house
hold. "Our life is a life of pride. The young are wont to wax insolent,
while he of many years saith to his own heart, 'it is good to be here.'
There is a fearful mystery in one who sitteth on high. The heavens are his
throne, and he hath created the earth for his footstool. Let not the
vanity of the weak of mind presume to understand it, for 'who that hath
the breath of life, lived before the hills?' The bonds of the evil one, of
Satan, and of the sons of Belial, have been loosened, that the faith of
the elect may be purified, that the names of those written, since the
foundations of the earth were laid, may be read in letters of pure gold.
The time of man is but a moment in the reckoning of him whose life is
eternity; earth the habitation of a season! The bones of the bold, of the
youthful, and of the strong of yesterday, lie at our feet. None know what
an hour may bring forth. In a single night my children, hath this been
done. They whose voices were heard in my halls are now speechless and they
who so lately rejoiced are sorrowing. Yet hath this seeming evil been
ordered that good may come thereof. We are dwellers in a wild and distant
land," he continued, insensibly permitting his thoughts to incline towards
the more mournful details of their affliction; "our earthly home is afar
off. Hither have we been led by the flaming pillar of truth, and yet the
malice of the persecuters hath not forgotten to follow. One houseless, and
sought like the hunted deer, is again driven to flee. We have the canopy
of the stars for a roof; none may tarry longer to worship, secretly,
within our walls. But the path of the faithful, though full of thorns,
leadeth to quiet, and the final rest of the just man can never know alarm.
He that hath borne hunger, and thirst, and the pains of the flesh, for the
sake of truth, knoweth how to be satisfied; nor will the hours of bodily
suffering be accounted weary to him whose goal is the peace of the
righteous." The strong lineaments of the stranger grew even more than
usually austere, and as the Puritan continued, the hand which rested on
the handle of a pistol grasped the weapon, until the fingers seemed
imbedded in the wood. He bowed, however, as if to acknowledge the personal
allusion, and remained silent.
"If any mourn the early death of those who have rendered up their being,
struggling, as it may be permitted, in behalf of life and dwelling,"
continued Mark Heathcote, regarding a female near him, "let her remember,
that from the beginning of the world were his days numbered, and that not
a sparrow falleth without answering the ends of wisdom. Rather let the
fulfilment of things remind us of the vanity of life, that we may learn
how easy it is to become immortal. If the youth hath been cut down,
seemingly like unripened grass, he hath fallen by the sickle of one who
knoweth best when to begin the in-gathering of the harvest to his eternal
garners. Though a spirit bound unto his, as one feeble is wont to lean on
the strength of man and mourn over his fall, let her sorrow be mingled
with rejoicing." A convulsive sob broke out of the bosom of the handmaiden
who was known to have been affianced to one of the dead, and for a moment
the address of Mark was interrupted. But when silence again ensued, he
continued, the subject leading him, by a transition that was natural, to
allude to his own sorrows. "Death hath been no stranger in my habitation,"
he said. "His shaft fell heaviest, when it struck her, who, like those
that have here fallen, was in the pride of her youth, and when her soul
was glad with the first joy of the birth of a man-child! Thou who sittest
on high!" he added, turning a glazed and tear less eye to heaven; "thou
knowest how heavy was that blow, and thou hast written down the strivings
of an oppressed soul. The burthen was not found too heavy for endurance.
The sacrifice hath not sufficed; the world was again getting uppermost in
my heart. Thou didst bestow an image of that innocence and loveliness that
dwelleth in the skies, and this hast thou taken away, that we might know
thy power. To this judgment we bow. If thou hast called our child to the
mansions of bliss, she is wholly thine, and we presume not to complain;
but if thou hast still left her to wander further in the pilgrimage of
life, we confide in thy goodness. She is of a long-suffering race, and
thou wilt not desert her to the blindness of the heathen. She is thine,
she is wholly thine, King of Heaven! and yet hast thou permitted our
hearts to yearn towards her, with the fondness of earthly love. We await
some further manifestation of thy will, that we may know whether the
fountains of our affection shall be dried in the certainty of her
blessedness--" (scalding tears were rolling down the cheeks of the pallid
and immovable mother) "or whether hope, nay, whether duty to thee calleth
for the interference of those bound to her in the tenderness of the flesh.
When the blow was heaviest on the bruised spirit of a lone and solitary
wanderer, in a strange and savage land, he held not back the offspring it
was thy will to grant him in the place of her called to thyself; and now
that the child hath become a man, he too layeth, like Abraham of old, the
infant of his love, a willing offering at thy feet. Do with it as to thy
never-failing wisdom seemeth best."--The words were interrupted by a heavy
groan, that burst from the chest of Content. A deep silence ensued, but
when the assembly ventured to throw looks of sympathy and awe at the
bereaved father, they saw that he had arisen and stood gazing steadily at
the speaker, as if he wondered, equally with the others, whence such a
sound of suffering could have come. The Puritan renewed the subject, but
his voice faltered, and for an instant, as he proceeded, his hearers were
oppressed with the spectacle of an aged and dignified man shaken with
grief. Conscious of his weakness, the old man ceased speaking in
exhortation, and addressed himself to prayer. While thus engaged, his
tones again became clear, firm and distinct, and the petition was ended
in the midst of a deep and holy calm.
With the performance of this preliminary office, the simple ceremony was
brought to its close. The remains were lowered, in solemn silence, into
the grave, and the earth was soon replaced by the young men. Mark
Heathcote then invoked aloud the blessing of God on his household, and
bowing in person, as he had before done in spirit, to the will of Heaven,
he motioned to the family to withdraw.
The interview that succeeded was over the resting-place of the dead. The
hand of the stranger was firmly clenched in that of the Puritan, and the
stern self-command of both appeared to give way, before the regrets of a
friendship that had endured through so many trying scenes.
"Thou knowest that I may not tarry," said the former, as if he replied to
some expressed wish of his companion. "They would make me a sacrifice to
the Moloch of their vanities; and yet would I fain abide, until the weight
of this heavy blow may be forgotten. I found thee in peace, and I quit
thee in the depths of suffering!"
"Thou distrustest me, or thou dost injustice to thine own belief,"
interrupted the Puritan, with a smile, that shone on his haggard and
austere visage, as the rays of the setting sun light a wintry cloud
"Seemed I happier when this hand placed that of a loved bride into mine
own, than thou now seest me in this wilderness, houseless, stripped of my
wealth, and, God forgive the ingratitude! but I had almost said,
childless? No, indeed, thou mayest not tarry, for the blood-hounds of
tyranny will be on their scent: here is shelter no longer."
The eyes of both turned, by a common and melancholy feeling, towards the
ruin of the block. The stranger then pressed the hand of his friend in
both his own, and said in a struggling voice--
"Mark Heathcote, adieu! he that had a roof for the persecuted
wanderer shall not long be houseless: neither shall the resigned for
ever know sorrow."
His words sounded in the ears of his companion like the revelation of a
prophecy. They again pressed their hands together, and, regarding each
other with looks in which kindness could not be altogether smothered by
the repulsive character of an acquired air, they parted. The Puritan
slowly took his way to the dreary shelter which covered his family; while
the stranger was shortly after seen urging the beast he had mounted,
across the pastures of the valley, towards one of the most retired paths
of the wilderness.