"Heart leaps to heart--the sacred flood
That warms us is the same;
That good old man--his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim."
Sprague.
Although Nick commenced his progress with so much seeming zeal and
activity, his speed abated, the moment he found himself beyond the
sight of those he had left in the woods. Before he reached the foot of
the cliff, his trot had degenerated to a walk; and when he actually
found he was at its base, he seated himself on a stone, apparently to
reflect on the course he ought to pursue.
The countenance of the Tuscarora expressed a variety of emotions while
he thus remained stationary. At first, it was fierce, savage, exulting;
then it became gentler, soft, perhaps repentant. He drew his knife from
its buckskin sheath, and eyed the blade with a gaze expressive of
uneasiness. Perceiving that a clot of blood had collected at the
junction with the handle, it was carefully removed by the use of water.
His look next passed over his whole person, in order to ascertain if
any more of these betrayers of his fearful secret remained; after which
he seemed more at ease.
"Wyandotté's back don't ache now," he growled to himself. "Ole sore
heal up. Why Cap'in touch him? T'ink Injin no got feelin'? Good man,
sometime; bad man, sometime. Sometime, live; sometime, die. Why tell
Wyandotté he flog ag'in, just as go to enemy's camp? No; back feel
well, now--nebber smart, any more."
When this soliloquy was ended, Nick arose, cast a look up at the sun,
to ascertain how much of the day still remained, glanced towards the
Hut, as if examining the nature of its defences, stretched himself like
one who was weary, and peeped out from behind the bushes, in order to
see how those who were afield, still occupied themselves. All this
done, with singular deliberation and steadiness, he arranged his light
dress, and prepared to present himself before the wife and daughters of
the man, whom, three hours before, he had remorselessly murdered. Nick
had often meditated this treacherous deed, during the thirty years
which had elapsed between his first flogging and the present period;
but circumstances had never placed its execution safely in his power.
The subsequent punishments had increased the desire, for a few years;
but time had so far worn off the craving for revenge, that it would
never have been actively revived, perhaps, but for the unfortunate
allusions of the victim himself, to the subject. Captain Willoughby had
been an English soldier, of the school of the last century. He was
naturally a humane and a just man, but he believed in the military
axiom that "the most flogging regiments were the best fighting
regiments;" and perhaps he was not in error, as regards the lower
English character. It was a fatal error, however, to make in relation
to an American savage; one who had formerly exercised the functions,
and who had not lost all the feelings, of a chief. Unhappily, at a
moment when everything depended on the fidelity of the Tuscarora, the
captain had bethought him of his old expedient for insuring prompt
obedience, and, by way of a reminder, he made an allusion to his former
mode of punishment. As Nick would have expressed it, "the old sores
smarted;" the wavering purpose of thirty years was suddenly and
fiercely revived, and the knife passed into the heart of the victim,
with a rapidity that left no time for appeals to the tribunal of God's
mercy. In half a minute, Captain Willoughby had ceased to breathe.
Such had been the act of the man who now passed through the opening of
the palisade, and entered the former habitation of his victim. A
profound stillness reigned in and around the Hut, and no one appeared
to question the unexpected intruder. Nick passed, with his noiseless
step, round to the gate, which he found secured. It was necessary to
knock, and this he did in a way effectually to bring a porter.
"Who dere?" demanded the elder Pliny, from within.
"Good friend--open gate. Come wid message from cap'in."
The natural distaste to the Indians which existed among the blacks of
the Knoll, included the Tuscarora. This disgust was mingled with a
degree of dread; and it was difficult for beings so untutored and
ignorant, at all times to draw the proper distinctions between Indian
and Indian. In _their_ wonder-loving imaginations, Oneidas,
Tuscaroras, Mohawks, Onondagas, and Iroquois were all jumbled together
in inextricable confusion, a red man being a red man, and a savage a
savage. It is not surprising, therefore, that Pliny the elder should
hesitate about opening the gate, and admitting one of the detested
race, though a man so well known to them all, in the peculiar situation
of the family. Luckily, Great Smash happened to be near, and her
husband called her to the gate by one of the signals that, was much
practised between them.
"Who you t'ink out-dere?" asked Pliny the elder of his consort, with a
very significant look.
"How you t'ink guess, ole Plin?--You 'spose nigger wench like Albonny
wise woman, dat she see t'rough a gate, and know ebbery t'ing, and
little more!"
"Well, _dat_ Sassy Nick. What you say _now?_"
"You sartain, ole Plin?" asked Mistress Smash, with a face ominous of
evil.
"Sartain as ear. Talk wid him--he want to come in. What you t'ink?"
"Nebber open gate, ole Plin, till mistress tell you. You stay here--
dere; lean ag'in gate wid all you might; dere; now I go call Miss Maud.
She all alone in librarim, and will know what best. Mind you lean ag'in
gate well, ole Plin."
Pliny the elder nodded assent, placed his shoulders resolutely against
the massive timbers, and stood propping a defence that would have made
a respectable resistance to a battering-ram, like another Atlas,
upholding a world. His duty was short, however, his 'lady' soon
returning with Maud, who was hastening breathlessly to learn the news.
"Is it you, Nick?" called out the sweet voice of our heroine through
the crevices of the timber.
The Tuscarora started, as he so unexpectedly heard those familiar
sounds; for an instant, his look was dark; then the expression changed
to pity and concern, and his reply was given with less than usual of
the abrupt, guttural brevity that belonged to his habits.
"'Tis Nick--Sassy Nick--Wyandotté, Flower of the Woods," for so the
Indian often termed Maud.--"Got news--cap'in send him. Meet party and
go along. Nobody here; only Wyandotté. Nick see major, too--say
somet'ing to young squaw."
This decided the matter. The gate was unbarred, and Nick in the court
in half-a-minute. Great Smash stole a glance without, and beckoned
Pliny the elder to join her, in order to see the extraordinary
spectacle of Joel and his associates toiling in the fields. When they
drew in their heads, Maud and her companion were already in the
library. The message from Robert Willoughby had induced our heroine to
seek this room; for, placing little confidence in the delicacy of the
messenger, she recoiled from listening to his words in the presence of
others.
But Nick was in no haste to speak. He took the chair to which Maud
motioned, and he sate looking at her, in a way that soon excited her
alarm.
"Tell me, if your heart has any mercy in it, Wyandotté; has aught
happened to Major Willoughby?"
"He well--laugh, talk, feel good. Mind not'ing. He prisoner; don't
touch he scalp."
"Why, then, do you wear so ominous a look--your face is the very
harbinger of evil."
"Bad news, if trut' must come. What you' name, young squaw?"
"Surely, surely, you must know that well, Nick! I am Maud--your old
friend, Maud."
"Pale-face hab two name--Tuscarora got t'ree. Some time, Nick--
sometime, Sassy Nick--sometime, Wyandotté."
"You know my name is Maud Willoughby," returned our heroine, colouring
to the temples with a certain secret consciousness of her error, but
preferring to keep up old appearances.
"Dat call you' fader's name, Meredit'; no Willoughby."
"Merciful Providence! and has this great secret been known to
_you_, too, Nick!"
"He no secret--know all about him. Wyandotté dere. See Major Meredit'
shot. _He_ good chief--nebber flog--nebber strike Injin. Nick know
fader, know moder--know squaw, when pappoose."
"And why have you chosen this particular moment to tell me all this?
Has it any relation to your message--to Bob--to Major Willoughby, I
mean?" demanded Mauo, nearly gasping for breath.
"No relation, tell you," said Nick, a little angrily. "Why make
relation, when no relation at all. Meredit'; no Willoughby. Ask moder;
ask major; ask chaplain--all tell trut'! No need to be so feelin'; no
you fader, at all."
"What _can_ you--what _do_ you mean, Nick? Why do you look so
wild--so fierce--so kind--so sorrowful--so angry? You must have bad
news to tell me."
"Why bad to _you_--he no fader--only fader friend. You can't help
it--fader die when you pappoose--why you care, now, for dis?"
Maud now actually gasped for breath. A frightful glimpse of the truth
gleamed before her imagination, though it was necessarily veiled in the
mist of uncertainty. She became pale as death, and pressed her hand
upon her heart, as if to still its beating. Then, by a desperate
effort, she became more calm, and obtained the power to speak.
"Oh! is it so, Nick!--_can_ it be so!" she said; "my father has
fallen in this dreadful business?"
"Fader kill twenty year ago; tell you _dat_, how often?" answered
the Tuscarora, angrily; for, in his anxiety to lessen the shock to
Maud, for whom this wayward savage had a strange sentiment of
affection, that had grown out of her gentle kindnesses to himself, on a
hundred occasions, he fancied if she knew that Captain Willoughby was
not actually her father, her grief at his loss would be less. "Why you
call _dis_ fader, when _dat_ fader. Nick know fader and
moder.--Major no broder."
Notwithstanding the sensations that nearly pressed her to the earth,
the tell-tale blood rushed to Maud's cheeks, again, at this allusion,
and she bowed her face to her knees. The action gave her time to rally
her faculties; and catching a glimpse of the vast importance to all for
her maintaining self-command, she was enabled to raise her face with
something like the fortitude the Indian hoped to see.
"Trifle with me no longer, Wyandotté, but let me know the worst at
once. Is my father dead?--By father, I mean captain Willoughby?"
"Mean wrong, den--no fader, tell you. Why young quaw so much like
Mohawk?"
"Man--is captain Willoughby killed?"
Nick gazed intently into Maud's face for half a minute, and then he
nodded an assent. Notwithstanding all her resolutions to be steady, our
heroine nearly sank under the blow. For ten minutes she spoke not, but
sat, her head bowed to her knees, in a confusion of thought that
threatened a temporary loss of reason. Happily, a flood of tears
relieved her, and she became more calm. Then the necessity of knowing
more, in order that she might act intelligently, occurred to her mind,
and she questioned Nick in a way to elicit all it suited the savage to
reveal.
Maud's first impulse was to go out to meet the body of the captain, and
to ascertain for herself that there was actually no longer any hope.
Nick's account had been so laconic as to leave much obscurity, and the
blow had been so sudden she could hardly credit the truth in its full
extent. Still, there remained the dreadful tidings to be communicated
to those dear beings, who, while they feared so much, had never
anticipated a calamity like this. Even Mrs. Willoughby, sensitive as
she was, and wrapped up in those she loved so entirely, as she was
habitually, had been so long accustomed to see and know of her
husband's exposing himself with impunity, as to begin to feel, if not
to think, that he bore a charmed life. All this customary confidence
was to be overcome, and the truth was to be said. Tell the fact to her
mother, Maud felt that she could not then; scarcely under any
circumstances would she have consented to perform this melancholy
office; but, so long as a shadow of doubt remained on the subject of
her father's actual decease, it seemed cruel even to think of it. Her
decision was to send for Beulah, and it was done by means of one of the
negresses.
So long as we feel that there are others to be sustained by our
fortitude, even the feeblest possess a firmness to which they might
otherwise be strangers. Maud, contrary to what her delicate but active
frame and sweetness of disposition might seem to indicate, was a young
woman capable of the boldest exertions, short of taking human life. Her
frontier training had raised her above most of the ordinary weaknesses
of her sex; and, so far as determination went, few men were capable of
higher resolution, when circumstances called for its display. Her plan
was now made up to go forth and meet the body, and nothing short of a
command from her mother could have stopped her. In this frame of mind
was our heroine, when Beulah made her appearance.
"Maud!" exclaimed the youthful matron, "what has happened!--why are you
so pale!--why send for me? Does Nick bring us any tidings from the
mill?"
"The worst possible, Beulah. My father--my dear, dear father is hurt.
They have borne him as far as the edge of the woods, where they have
halted, in order not to take us by surprise. I am going to meet the--to
meet the men, and to bring father in. You must prepare mother for the
sad, sad tidings--yes, Beulah, for the worst, as everything depends on
the wisdom and goodness of God!"
"Oh! Maud, this is dreadful!" exclaimed the sister, sinking into a
chair--"What will become of mother--of little Evert--of us all!"
"The providence of the Ruler of heaven and earth will care for us. Kiss
me, dear sister--how cold you are--rouse yourself, Beulah, for mother's
sake. Think how much more _she_ must feel than we possibly can,
and then be resolute."
"Yes, Maud--very true--no woman can feel like a wife--unless it be a
mother--"
Here Beulah's words were stopped by her fainting.
"You see, Smash," said Maud, pointing to her sister with a strange
resolution, "she must have air, and a little water--and she has salts
about her, I know. Come, Nick; we have no more time to waste--you must
be my guide."
The Tuscarora had been a silent observer of this scene, and if it did
not awaken remorse in his bosom, it roused feelings that had never
before been its inmates. The sight of two such beings suffering under a
blow that his own hand had struck, was novel to him, and he knew not
which to encourage most, a sentiment allied to regret, or a fierce
resentment, that any should dare thus to reproach, though it were only
by yielding to the grief natural to their situation. But Maud had
obtained a command over him, that he knew not how to resist, and he
followed her from the room, keeping his eyes riveted the while on the
pallid face of Beulah. The last was recalled from her insensibility,
however, in the course of a few minutes, through the practised
attentions of the negresses.
Maud waited for nothing. Motioning impatiently for the Tuscarora to
lead the way, she glided after him with a rapidity that equalled his
own loping movement. She made no difficulties in passing the stockade,
though Nick kept his eyes on the labourers, and felt assured their
_exeunt_ was not noticed. Once by the path that led along the
rivulet, Maud refused all precautions, but passed swiftly over it,
partially concealed by its bushes. Her dress was dark, and left little
liability to exposure. As for Nick, his forest attire, like the hunting
shirt of the whites, was expressly regulated by the wish to go to and
fro unseen.
In less than three minutes after the Indian and Maud had passed the
gate, they were drawing near to the melancholy group that had halted in
the forest. Our heroine was recognised as she approached, and when she
came rushing up to the spot, all made way, allowing her to fall upon
her knees by the side of the lifeless body, bathing the placid face of
the dead with her tears, and covering it with kisses.
"Is there no hope--oh! Joyce," she cried, "_can_ it be possible
that my father is actually dead?"
"I fear, Miss Maud, that his honour has made his last march. He has
received orders to go hence, and, like a gallant soldier as he was, he
has obeyed, without a murmur;" answered the serjeant, endeavouring to
appear firm and soldier-like, himself. "We have lost a noble and humane
commander, and you a most excellent and tender father."
"No fader,"--growled Nick, at the serjeant's elbow, twitching his
sleeve, at the same time, to attract attention. 'Serjeant know
_her_ fader. He by; I by, when Iroquois shoot him."
"I do not understand you, Tuscarora, nor do I think you altogether
understand _us_; the less you say, therefore, the better for all
parties. It is our duty, Miss Maud, to say 'God's will be done,' and
the soldier who dies in the discharge of his duty is never to be
pitied. I sincerely wish that the Rev. Mr. Woods was here; he would
tell you all this in a manner that would admit of no dispute; as for
myself, I am a plain man, Miss Maud, and my tongue cannot utter one-
half that my heart feels at this instant."
"Ah! Joyce, what a friend--what a parent has it pleased God to call to
himself!"
"Yes, Miss Maud, that may be said with great justice--if his honour has
left us in obedience to general orders, it is to meet promotion in a
service that will never weary, and never end."
"So kind; so true; so gentle; so just; so affectionate!" said Maud,
wringing her hands.
"And so brave, young lady. His honour, captain Willoughby, wasn't one
of them that is always talking, and writing, and boasting about
fighting; but when anything was to be _done_, the Colonel always
knew whom to send on the duty. The army couldn't have lost a braver
gentleman, had he remained in it."
"Oh! my father--my father,"--cried Maud, in bitterness of sorrow,
throwing herself on the body and embracing it, as had been her wont in
childhood--"would that I could have died for you!"
"Why you let go on so," grumbled Nick, again. "_No_ her fader--you
know _dat_, serjeant."
Joyce was not in a state to answer. His own feelings had been kept in
subjection only by military pride, but they now had become so nearly
uncontrollable, that he found himself obliged to step a little aside in
order to conceal his weakness. As it was, large tears trickled down his
rugged face, like water flowing from the fissures of the riven oak
Jamie Allen's constitutional prudence, however, now became active,
admonishing the party of the necessity of their getting within the
protection of the Hut.
"Death is at a' times awfu'," said the mason, "but it must befall young
and auld alike. And the affleection it brings cometh fra' the heart,
and is a submission to the la' o' nature. Nevertheless we a' hae our
duties, so lang as we remain in the flesh, and it is time to be
thinking o' carryin' the body into some place o' safety, while we hae a
prudent regard to our ain conditions also."
Maud had risen, and, hearing this appeal, she drew back meekly, assumed
a manner of forced composure, and signed to the men to proceed. On this
intimation, the body was raised, and the melancholy procession resumed
its march.
For the purpose of concealment, Joyce led the way into the bed of the
stream, leaving Maud waiting their movements, a little deeper within
the forest. As soon as he and his fellow-bearers were in the water,
Joyce turned and desired Nick to escort the young lady in, again, on
dry land, or by the path along which she had come out. This said, the
serjeant and his companions proceeded. Maud stood gazing on the sad
spectacle like one entranced, until she felt a sleeve pulled, and
perceived the Tuscarora at her side.
"No go to Hut," said Nick, earnestly; "go wid Wyandotté."
"Not follow my dear father's remains--not go to my beloved mother in
her anguish. You know not what you ask, Indian--move, and let me
proceed."
"No go home--no use--no good. Cap'in dead--what do widout commander.
Come wid Wyandotté--find major--den do some good."
Maud fairly started in her surprise. There seemed something so truly
useful, so consoling, so dear in this proposal, that it instantly
caught her ear.
"Find the Major!" she answered. "Is that possible, Nick? My poor father
perished in making that attempt--what hope can there be then for
_my_ success?"
"Plenty hope--much as want--all, want. Come wid Wyandotté--he great
chief--show young squaw where to find broder."
Here was a touch of Nick's consummate art. He knew the female bosom so
well that he avoided any allusion to his knowledge of the real relation
between Robert Willoughby and Maud, though he had so recently urged her
want of natural affinity to the family, as a reason why she should not
grieve. By keeping the Major before her eyes as a brother, the chances
of his own success were greatly increased. As for Maud, a tumult of
feeling came over her heart at this extraordinary proposal. To liberate
Bob, to lead him into the Hut, to offer his manly protection to her
mother, and Beulah, and little Evert, at such an instant, caught her
imagination, and appealed to all her affections.
"Can you do this, Tuscarora"--she asked, earnestly, pressing her hand
on her heart as if to quiet its throbbings. "Can you really lead me to
Major Willoughby, so that I may have some hope of liberating him?"
"Sartain--you go, he come. I go, he no come. Don't love Nick--t'ink all
Injin, one Injin--t'ink one Injin, all Injin. You go, he come--he stay,
find more knife, and die like Cap'in. Young squaw follow Wyandotté, and
see."
Maud needed no more. To save the life of Bob, her well-beloved, he who
had so long been beloved in secret, she would have gone with one far
less known and trusted than the Tuscarora. She made an eager gesture
for him to proceed, and they were soon on their way to the mill,
threading the mazes of the forest.
Nick was far from observing the precautions that had been taken by the
captain, in his unfortunate march out. Acquainted with every inch of
ground in the vicinity of the Dam, and an eye-witness of the
dispositions of the invaders, he had no occasion for making the long
_détour_ already described, but went to work in a much more
direct manner. Instead of circling the valley, and the clearing, to the
westward, he turned short in the contrary direction, crossed the
rivulet on the fallen tree, and led the way along the eastern margin of
the flats. On this side of the valley he knew there were no enemies,
and the position of the huts and barns enabled him to follow a path,
that was just deep enough in the forest to conceal his movements. By
taking this course, besides having the advantage of a clear and beaten
path, most of the way, the Tuscarora brought the whole distance within
a mile.
As for Maud, she asked no questions, solicited no pauses, manifested no
physical weakness. Actively as the Indian moved among the trees, she
kept close in his footsteps; and she had scarcely begun to reflect on
the real nature of the undertaking in which she was engaged, when the
roar of the rivulet, and the formation of the land, told her they had
reached the edge of the glen below the mills. Here Nick told her to
remain stationary a moment, while he advanced to a covered point of the
rocks, to reconnoitre. This was the place where the Indian had made his
first observations of the invaders of the valley, ascertaining their
real character before he trusted his person among them. On the present
occasion, his object was to see if all remained, in and about the
mills, as when he had last left the spot.
"Come"--said Nick, signing for Maud to follow him--"we go--fools sleep,
and eat, and talk. Major prisoner now; half an hour, Major free."
This was enough for the ardent, devoted, generous-hearted Maud. She
descended the path before her as swiftly as her guide could lead, and,
in five more minutes, they reached the bank of the stream, in the glen,
at a point where a curvature hid the rivulet from those at the mill.
Here an enormous pine had been laid across the torrent; and, flattened
on its upper surface, it made a secure bridge for those who were sure
of foot, and steady of eye. Nick glanced back at his companion, as he
stepped upon this bridge, to ascertain if she were equal to crossing
it, a single glance sufficing to tell him apprehensions were
unnecessary. Half a minute placed both, in safety, on the western bank.
"Good!" muttered the Indian; "young squaw make wife for warrior."
But Maud heard neither the compliment nor the expression of countenance
which accompanied it. She merely made an impatient gesture to proceed.
Nick gazed intently at the excited girl; and there was an instant when
he seemed to waver in his own purpose; but the gesture repeated, caused
him to turn, and lead the way up the glen.
The progress of Nick now, necessarily, became more guarded and slower.
He was soon obliged to quit the common path, and to incline to the
left, more against the side of the cliff, for the purposes of
concealment. From the time he had struck the simple bridge, until he
took this precaution, his course had lain along what might have been
termed the common highway, on which there was always the danger of
meeting some messenger, travelling to or from the valley.
But Nick was at no loss for paths. There were plenty of them; and the
one he took soon brought him out into that by which Captain Willoughby
had descended to the lean-to. When the spot was reached where Joyce had
halted, Nick paused; and, first listening intently, to catch the sound
of noises, if any might happen to be in dangerous proximity, he
addressed his companion:
"Young squaw bold," he said, encouragingly; "now want heart of
warrior."
"I can follow, Nick--having come so far, why distrust me, now?"
"'Cause he here--down dere--woman love man; man love woman--dat right;
but, no show it, when scalp in danger."
"Perhaps I do not understand you, Tuscarora--but, my trust is in God;
he is a support that can uphold any weakness."
"Good!--stay here--Nick come back, in minute."
Nick now descended to the passage between the rocks and the lean-to, in
order to make certain that the major still remained in his prison,
before he incurred any unnecessary risk with Maud. Of this fact he was
soon assured; after which he took the precaution to conceal the pool of
blood, by covering it with earth and stones. Making his other
observations with care, and placing the saw and chisel, with the other
tools, that had fallen from the captain's hand, when he received his
death-wound, in a position to be handy, he ascended the path, and
rejoined Maud. No word passed between our heroine and her guide. The
latter motioned for her to follow; then he led the way down to the
cabin. Soon, both had entered the narrow passage; and Maud, in
obedience to a sign from her companion, seated herself on the precise
spot where her father had been found, and where the knife had passed
into his heart. To all this, however, Nick manifested the utmost
indifference. Everything like ferocity had left his face; to use his
own figurative language, his sores smarted no longer; and the
expression of his eye was friendly and gentle. Still it showed no signs
of compunction.