The Pioneers (67 page)

LORD OF THE ISLES

 

THE events of our tale carry us through the summer; and after making nearly the circle of the year, we must conclude our labors in the delightful month of October. Many important incidents had, however, occurred in the intervening period; a few of which it may be necessary to recount.

The two principal were the marriage of Oliver and Elizabeth and the death of Major Effingham. They both took place early in September, and the former preceded the latter only a few days. The old man passed away like the last glimmering of a taper; and though his death cast a melancholy over the family, grief could not follow such an end.

One of the chief concerns of Marmaduke was to reconcile the even conduct of a magistrate with the course that his feelings dictated to the criminals. The day succeeding the discovery at the cave, however, Natty and Benjamin re-entered the jail peaceably, where they continued, well fed and comfortable, until the return of an express to Albany, who brought the Governor's pardon to the Leatherstocking. In the meantime, proper means were employed to satisfy Hiram for the assaults on his person; and on the same day, the two comrades issued together into society again, with their characters not at all affected by the imprisonment.

Mr. Doolittle began to discover that neither architecture nor his law was quite suitable to the growing wealth and intelligence of the settlement; and after exacting the last cent that was attainable in his compromises, to use the language of the country, he “pulled up stakes,” and proceeded further west, scattering his professional science and legal learning through the land; vestiges of both of which are to be discovered there even to the present hour.

Poor Jotham, whose life paid the forfeiture of his folly, acknowledged before he died that his reasons for believing in a mine were extracted from the lips of a sibyl, who, by looking in a magic glass, was enabled to discover the hidden treasures of the earth. Such superstition was frequent in the new settlements; and after the first surprise was over, the better part of the community forgot the subject. But, at the same time that it removed from the breast of Richard a lingering suspicion of the acts of the three hunters, it conveyed a mortifying lesson to him which brought many quiet hours, in future, to his cousin Marmaduke. It may be remembered that the Sheriff confidently pronounced this to be no “visionary” scheme, and that word was enough to shut his lips at any time within the next ten years.

Monsieur Le Quoi, who has been introduced to our readers, because no picture of that country would be faithful without some such character, found the island of Martinique, and his “sucreboosh,” in possession of the English; but Marmaduke and his family were much gratified in soon hearing that he had returned to his bureau, in Paris; where he afterwards issued yearly bulletins of his happiness and of his gratitude to his friends in America.

With this brief explanation, we must return to our narrative. Let the American reader imagine one of our mildest October mornings, when the sun seems a ball of silvery fire, and the elasticity of the air is felt while it is inhaled, imparting vigor and life to the whole system—the weather, neither too warm nor too cold, but of that happy temperature which stirs the blood, without bringing the lassitude of spring. It was on such a morning, about the middle of the month, that Oliver entered the hall where Elizabeth was issuing her usual orders for the day, and requested her to join him in a short excursion to the lake side. The tender melancholy in the manner of her husband caught the attention of Elizabeth, who instantly abandoned her concerns, threw a light shawl across her shoulders, and concealing her raven hair under a gypsy, she took his arm and submitted herself, without a question, to his guidance. They crossed the bridge and had turned from the highway, along the margin of the lake, before a word was exchanged. Elizabeth well knew, by the direction, the object of the walk and respected the feelings of her companion too much to indulge in untimely conversation. But when they gained the open fields, and her eye roamed over the placid lake, covered with wild fowl already journeying from the great northern waters to seek a warmer sun, but lingering to play in the limpid sheet of the Otsego, and to the sides of the mountain, which were gay with the thousand dyes of autumn, as if to grace their bridal, the swelling heart of the young wife burst out in speech.

“This is not a time for silence, Oliver!” she said, clinging more fondly to his arm. “Everything in nature seems to speak the praises of the Creator; why should we, who have so much to be grateful for, be silent?”

“Speak on!” said her husband, smiling. “I love the sounds of your voice. You must anticipate our errand hither. I have told you my plans: how do you like them?”

“I must first see them,” returned his wife. “But I have had my plans, too; it is time I should begin to divulge them.”

“You! It is something for the comfort of my old friend Natty, I know.”

“Certainly of Natty; but we have other friends besides the Leatherstocking to serve. Do you forget Louisa and her father?”

“No, surely; have I not given one of the best farms in the county to the good divine. As for Louisa, I should wish you to keep her always near us.”

“You do!” said Elizabeth, slightly compressing her lips; “but poor Louisa may have other views for herself; she may wish to follow my example and marry.”

“I don't think it,” said Effingham, musing a moment;

“I really don't know any one hereabouts good enough for her.”

“Perhaps not here; but there are other places besides Templeton and other churches besides ‘New St. Paul's.' ”

“Churches, Elizabeth! You would not wish to lose Mr. Grant, surely! Though simple, he is an excellent man. I shall never find another who has half the veneration for my orthodoxy. You would humble me from a saint to a very common sinner.”

“It must be done, sir,” returned the lady, with a half-concealed smile, “though it degrades you from an angel to a man.”

“But you forget the farm.”

“He can lease it, as others do. Besides, would you have a clergyman toil in the fields?”

“Where can he go? You forget Louisa.”

“No, I do not forget Louisa,” said Elizabeth, again compressing her beautiful lips. “You know, Effingham, that my father has told you that I ruled him and that I should rule you. I am now about to exert my power.”

“Anything, anything, dear Elizabeth, but not at the expense of us all; not at the expense of your friend.”

“How do you know, sir, that it will be so much at the expense of my friend?” said the lady, fixing her eyes with a searching look on his countenance, where they met only the unsuspecting expression of manly regret.

“How do I know it? Why, it is natural that she should regret us.”

“It is our duty to struggle with our natural feelings,” returned the lady; “and there is but little cause to fear that such a spirit as Louisa's will not effect it.”

“But what is your plan?”

“Listen, and you shall know. My father has procured a call for Mr. Grant to one of the towns on the Hudson, where he can live more at his ease than in journeying through these woods; where he can spend the evening of his life in comfort and quiet; and where his daughter may meet with such society, and form such a connection, as may be proper for one of her years and character.”

“Bess! You amaze me! I did not think you had been such a manager!”

“Oh! I manage more deeply than you imagine, sir,” said the wife, archly smiling again; “but it is my will, and it is your duty to submit—for a time at least.”

Effingham laughed; but as they approached the end of their walk, the subject was changed by common consent.

The place at which they arrived was the little spot of level ground, where the cabin of the Leatherstocking had so long stood. Elizabeth found it entirely cleared of rubbish and beautifully laid down in turf, by the removal of sods which, in common with the surrounding country, had grown gay under the influence of profuse showers, as if a second spring had passed over the land. This little place was surrounded by a circle of masonwork, and they entered by a small gate, near which, to the surprise of both, the rifle of Natty was leaning against the wall. Hector and the slut reposed on the grass by its side, as if conscious that, however altered, they were lying on the ground and were surrounded by objects with which they were familiar. The hunter himself was stretched on the earth before a headstone of white marble, pushing aside with his fingers the long grass that had already sprung up from the luxuriant soil around its base, apparently to lay bare the inscription. By the side of this stone, which was a simple slab at the head of a grave, stood a rich monument, decorated with an urn and ornamented with the chisel.

Oliver and Elizabeth approached the graves with a light tread, unheard by the old hunter, whose sunburned face was working, and whose eyes twinkled as if something impeded their vision. After some little time, Natty raised himself slowly from the ground and said aloud:

“Well, well—I'm bold to say it's all right! There's something that I suppose is reading; but I can't make anything of it; though the pipe and the tomahawk, and the moccasins, be pretty well—pretty well for a man that, I dares to say, never seed 'ither of the things. Ah's me! There they lie, side by side, happy enough! Who will there be to put me in the 'arth when my time comes?”

“When that unfortunate hour arrives, Natty, friends shall not be wanting to perform the last offices for you,” said Oliver, a little touched at the hunter's soliloquy.

The old man turned without manifesting surprise, for he had got the Indian habits in this particular, and running his hand under the bottom of his nose, seemed to wipe away his sorrow with the action.

“You've come out to see the graves, children, have ye?” he said. “Well, well, they're wholesome sights to young as well as old.”

“I hope they are fitted to your liking,” said Effingham; “no one has a better right than yourself to be consulted in the matter.”

“Why, seeing that I an't used to fine graves,” returned the old man, “it is but little matter consarning my taste. Ye laid the Major's head to the west, and Mohegan's to the east, did ye, lad?”

“At your request it was done.”

“It's so best,” said the hunter. “They thought they had to journey different ways, children; though there is One greater than all, who'll bring the just together, at his own time, and who'll whiten the skin of a blackamoor and place him on a footing with princes.”

“There is but little reason to doubt that,” said Elizabeth, whose decided tones were changed to a soft, melancholy voice; “I trust we shall all meet again and be happy together.”

“Shall we, child, shall we?” exclaimed the hunter, with unusual fervor. “There's comfort in that thought too. But before I go, I should like to know what 'tis you tell these people that be flocking into the country like pigeons in the spring of the old Delaware, and of the bravest white man that ever trod the hills.”

Effingham and Elizabeth were surprised at the manner of the Leatherstocking, which was unusually impressive and solemn; but, attributing it to the scene, the young man turned to the monument, and read aloud:

“ ‘Sacred to the memory of Oliver Effingham, Esquire, formerly a Major in his B. Majesty's 60th Foot; a soldier of tried valor; a subject of chivalrous loyalty; and a man of honesty. To these virtues, he added the graces of a Christian. The morning of his life was spent in honor, wealth, and power; but its evening was obscured by poverty, neglect, and disease, which were alleviated only by the tender care of his old, faithful, and upright friend and attendant, Nathaniel Bumppo. His descendants rear this stone to the virtues of the master, and to the enduring gratitude of the servant.' ”

The Leatherstocking stared at the sound of his own name, and a smile of joy illumined his wrinkled features, as he said:

“And did ye say it, lad? Have you then got the old man's name cut in the stone, by the side of his master's? God bless ye, children! 'Twas a kind thought, and kindness goes to the heart as life shortens.”

Elizabeth turned her back to the speakers. Effingham made a fruitless effort before he succeeded in saying:

“It is there cut in plain marble; but it should have been written in letters of gold!”

“Show me the name, boy,” said Natty, with simple eagerness; “let me see my own name placed in such honor. 'Tis a gin'rous gift to a man who leaves none of his name and family behind him in a country where he has tarried so long.”

Effingham guided his finger to the spot, and Natty followed the windings of the letters to the end with deep interest, when he raised himself from the tomb, and said:

“I suppose it's all right; and it's kindly thought, and kindly done! But what have ye put over the Redskin?”

“You shall hear—

“ ‘This stone is raised to the memory of an Indian Chief, of the Delaware tribe, who was known by the several names of John Mohegan; Mohican——' ”

“Mo-hee-can, lad, they call theirselves! 'he-can.”

“ ‘Mohican; and Chingagook——' ”

“ 'Gach, boy;—'gach-gook; Chingachgook, which, intarpreted, means Big-sarpent. The name should be set down right, for an Indian's name has always some meaning in it.”

“I will see it altered. ‘He was the last of his people who continued to inhabit this country; and it may be said of him that his faults were those of an Indian and his virtues those of a man.' ”

“You never said truer word, Mr. Oliver; ah's me! If you had know'd him as I did, in his prime, in that very battle where the old gentleman who sleeps by his side saved his life, when them thieves, the Iroquois, had him at the stake, you'd have said all that, and more too. I cut the thongs with this very hand and gave him my own tomahawk and knife, seeing that the rifle was always my fav'rite weapon. He did lay about him like a man! I met him as I was coming home from the trail, with eleven Mingo scalps on his pole. You needn't shudder, Madam Effingham, for they was all from shaved heads and warriors. When I look about me at these hills, where I used to could count sometimes twenty smokes, curling over the treetops from the Delaware camps, it raises mournful thoughts to think that not a redskin is left of them all; unless it be a drunkard vagabond from the Oneidas, or them Yankee Indians, who, they say, be moving up from the seashore; and who belong to none of God's creaters, to my seeming, being, as it were, neither fish nor flesh—neither white man nor savage. Well, well! The time has come at last, and I must go—”