CHAPTER XXV
The storm prognosticated from the red aspect of the setting sun the night before had not descended when Edith Prevost left the door of her father's house. No raindrops, fell, no breeze even stirred the trees, and it was only a sort of misty obscurity to the westward which gave token, to eyes well acquainted with the forest, that the promise of the preceding sunset would yet be fulfilled. Overhead all was clear and blue, and the sun, though there was some haze around the broad disk, was powerful for the season of the year.
Edith's companions were only Chaudo the negro, the good woman Sister Bab (whose kindness, faithfulness and intelligence had all been tried), and Woodchuck, who refused to take a horse from the stable, but set out on foot by the beautiful girl's side.
"You can't canter a step of the way, Miss Edith," he said, "so I can keep up with you, I guess; for the road, such as it is, is better fitted for two feet than four."
There were tears in Edith's eyes as she turned from the door, arising from many a mingled source. She had seen her father and him whom she loved as well, though differently, depart suddenly to danger and to battle. Her brother was far away; and still she could not help thinking him in peril. Not only was the future of all uncertain--for that the future of everyone is--but the uncertainty was dark, and, as it were, more tangible than is generally the case with the dim, misty valley of the coming time. There was not only a cloud, but the cloud was threatening.
The moment of departing from her father's door was one of those pausing places of the mind for Edith Prevost. She did not cast her thoughts far back; she took in but a little range; six months was the limit. But she remembered how calmly happy she had been in that dwelling six months before.
She mused sadly, gazing down upon the horse's neck, and hardly seeing or thinking of the way she took. In the meantime, Woodchuck trudged on by her side, with his head erect, his face lifted toward the sky, his pace steady and assured. Edith suddenly and almost unconsciously turned her eyes toward him. There was a tranquil elevation of his countenance, a lofty resolution in his look, which gave her thoughts, in a moment, another direction. She was parting from a well loved home and cherished associations, with some clouds hanging over her, some anxieties dogging her path, but with a probability of soon returning, and with many a sweet promise of future happiness. Yet she was sad and downcast. He was marching onward, wittingly and voluntarily, to a certain and terrible death; and yet his march was tranquil, firm, and resolute. She felt ashamed of her tears. Nay, more, as thought ran on, she said to herself: "There is something more in life--something higher, nobler, grander, than any human passion, than any mortal enjoyment, than any mere earthly peace can give--something that comes from heaven to aid and support us in our struggles here below. He knows, he feels that he is doing his duty, that he is acting according to the commandment of his God, and he is calm and firm in the presence of death, and in the separation from all earthly things. And I--what have I to suffer? What have I to fear in comparison with him?"
She made a great effort, she shook off her sadness, she wiped the tears from her eyes, and said a few words to her companion in a quiet tone. He answered briefly to her actual words, but then turned at once to the feelings which he believed to be in her heart.
"Ah, Miss Prevost," he said, "it's a sad thing for a young lady like you to part for the first time with those she loves when they are going to battle, and I don't know that a woman's heart ever gets rightly accustomed to it; but it don't do to love anything too well in this world--no, not even one's own life. It's a sad stumbling block, both in the way of our duty and our happiness. Not that I'd have people keep from loving anything; that would never do. They wouldn't be worth having if they couldn't love their friends, and love them very well; but I guess the best way is to recollect always when we've got a thing, that it is but a loan--life itself all the same as everything else. It's all lent--all will be recalled. But only you see, my dear young lady, we've got a promise that if we use what we've lent to us well, it shall be given to us forever hereafter; and that should always be a comfort to us--it is to me."
A slight sigh followed his words, and he walked on in silence for a minute or two, probably pursuing the course which he had laid down for himself in his very excellent philosophy, of marching on straight to a high object, and casting from him all thought of the unavoidable sufferings of the way. Soon after, he looked up to the sky and said: "It's getting wonderfully black out there. I shouldn't wonder if we had a flaw of wind and a good soaking rain. I say, Master Chaudo, put that bearskin over the young lady's baggage and hold the horse better in hand, or you'll have him down amongst these stumps. You ride better than you lead, my friend."
The negro grinned at him, but did as he was directed, and a few minutes after they issued out of the wood upon a small open space of ground extending over the side of a slight eminence. The view thence was prolonged far to the westward in a clear day, showing some beautiful blue hills at the distance of some eight or nine miles. Those hills, however, had now disappeared, and in their place was seen what can only be called a dense black cloud, although those words give a very inadequate idea of the sight which presented itself to Edith's eyes. It was like a gigantic wall of black marble, with a faint, irregular line at the top. But this wall evidently moved, coming forward with vast rapidity, although where the travelers were not a breath of air was felt. On it rushed toward them, swallowing up everything, as it were, in its own obscurity. Each instant some tree, some undulation of the ground, some marking object in the prospect, disappeared in its deep, gloomy shadow, and for a few moments Edith sat still upon her horse, gazing in awe, and even in terror. Woodchuck himself seemed for an instant overpowered, but then he caught Edith's rein and turned her horse, exclaiming: "Back, Miss Prevost! Back as fast as possible! That's the blackest cloud I ever see in all my days. There! there! to the eastward! Get under them big old hemlocks! Keep away from the pines and the small trees! It'll need to have been fastening to the ground for a hundred years to stand what's coming!"
As he spoke he ran on fast by the side of Edith's horse till they reached the edge of the wood, and there he checked her. "Not too far in! not too far in! You must be ready to jump out if you find that even these old fellows commence crashing!"
He then left her bridle and walked carefully round several of the trees, examining their trunks and roots with a very critical eye, to ascertain that they were firmly fixed, and not decayed, and then approaching Edith again, he held out his hand, saying: "Jump down! Here's one will do. He must ha' stood many a hard storm and bitter blast, and p'raps will bear this one, too; for he's as sound as when he started up, a little twig, before the eyes of any mortal man now living winked in the sunshine--aye! or his father's, either. There, Chaudo, take the horses and grip them all tight, for depend upon it they'll caper when the wind and rain come. Now, my dear, put yourself on this side of the tree, keep close to it, and listen well. You may find him shiver and sway a bit, but don't mind that, for he's not so tall as the rest, and twice as stout; and what makes me trust him is that in some storm his head has been broken off and his feet have stood stout. He won't catch so much wind as the others, and I think he'd stand it if he did. But if you hear him begin to crack, jump clear out here to the left, into the open ground. They'll fall t'other way. If you keep close, the branches won't strike you when they fall, and the rain won't get at you, for it's taking a long sweep."
The next moment it came. The wind, blowing with the force of a hurricane, rushed over the valley below; the leaves were torn off, the small twigs, with their umbrageous covering, carried aloft into the air and scattered; a few large drops of rain fell, and then the whole force of the tempest struck the hillside and the more open space where Edith stood. In an instant the scene of confusion and destruction was indescribable. The gusts seemed to hiss as they passed through the branches of the trees and between the tall stems. Large branches were torn off and scattered far; the young pines and birches bent before the force of the storm. As in the case of war and pestilence, the weak, and the sickly, and the young, and the decayed, suffered first and most. Wherever the roots had not got a firm hold of the ground, wherever the frosts of the winter and the thawing of the spring, or the heavy rains had washed away the earth, or loosened it, the trees came thundering and crashing down, and the din was awful, the howling wind, the breaking branches, the falling trees, all joining in the roar; and a moment after the pattering rain, rustling and rushing amongst the withered leaves left by the winter, becoming thicker and more dense every moment, seemed more as if a river was falling down from the sky, hardly separated into drops, than a fertilizing shower passing over the landscape.
Edith gazed round her in affright, for she could, as Woodchuck had predicted, feel the enormous but low-stemmed hemlock against which he had placed her, tremble and quiver with the blast; and a number of trees hard by were rooted up and cast prostrate, bearing the turf and earth in which they had stood up into the air, while here and there some more firmly fixed in the ground, but defective higher up, snapped in the middle, and then the whole upper part was carried many yards away. But though she gazed, little was the distance she could see, so thick and black was the covering of the sky; while all around, what between the close-falling deluge and a sudden mist rising up from the ground, the sort of twilight that the storm cloud left was rendered still more murky and obscure.
The two negroes, as usual with that race, were clamorous and excited, adding the noise of their tongues to the roar of the tempest; but the horses, contrary to the expectation of Woodchuck, seemed cowed and paralyzed by fear. Instead of attempting to break loose and rushing away, they merely turned from the wind and rain, and with hoofs set firm, and drooping heads, abode the storm, with now and then a shivering thrill, showing the terror that they felt. Woodchuck himself stood silent, close by Edith, leading his strong shoulder against the tree, and, with his eyes bent down upon the ground, seemed to lose himself in heavy thought. A man who has parted with the world and the world's hopes is tempest-proof.
After the first rush of the storm there came a lull, and then another fierce roar, and more falling trees and crashing branches. The whole forest swayed and bent like the harvest in a breeze, and down came the torrent from the sky more furiously than ever. But in the midst of it all Woodchuck started, leaned his head a little to one side, and seemed to listen, with his eye fixed upon vacancy.
"What is the matter?" asked Edith, alarmed by his look.
"I thought I heard a footfall," he answered.
"In the roar of such a storm?" said Edith. "It must have been some falling branch."
He only smiled for an answer, but still he listened, and she could see him lift his arm a little from the lock of his rifle, on which it had been tightly pressed, and look down upon it to see that it was dry.
The next moment, however, he resumed his ordinary attitude, and said in a quiet tone: "It's all nonsense, however. The Ingians are all quiet and friendly on this side of the lake. But you see, Miss Prevost, I have been so many months on the watch every minute, not knowing whether I should not feel the scalping knife or the tomahawk the next, that I've got over-wary. The Mohawks are all on the move about here, and no Hurons or any other of the enemies would venture across, except in a large body, to fight a regular battle. It must have been the tread of some friendly Ingian I heard, though they don't usually leave the trail except they've some object in view."
"But is it possible you could hear anything distinctly amidst this awful noise?" asked Edith. "Are you sure you are not mistaken?"
"Oh, no, I'm not likely to be mistaken," answered Woodchuck. "One's ears get sharp with continued listening. I'm putty sure it was a foot I heard, and a man's foot, too. It seemed to be as if it had slipped off a loose stone hidden under the leaves, and came down harder, perhaps, than he expected. But that's no proof that he meant mischief, for they've all got those cat-like sort of ways, creeping about silently, whether there's 'casion for it or not; and as I said just now, they're all friendly here on this side of Horicon."
A few moments' silence succeeded, while the wind again swelled up, raged for a minute or two, and then fell again; and Woodchuck, putting out his head from beyond the shelter of the great trunk, observed: "It seems to me to be getting a little clearer there to the westward. I guess it won't last more nor half an hour longer."
Almost as he spoke, from every side but that which opened upon the hill, came a yell, so loud, so fierce, so fiend-like, that ere she knew what she was doing, under the sudden impulse of terror, Edith darted at once away from the tree into the open space, and ran a few steps till her long riding dress caught round her small feet, and she fell upon the grass. At the same instant she felt a strong arm seize her by the shoulder and heard the rattle of a rifle, and turning her head in mute terror, she beheld the gleaming eyes and dark countenance of an Indian, rendered more hideous by the half-washed off war paint, bending over her. His tomahawk was in his right hand; her last hour seemed come, but so sudden, so confounding had been the attack that she could not collect her ideas. She could not speak, she could not think, she could not pray. The weapon did not fall, however, and the savage dragged her up from the ground and gazed upon her, uttering some of the uncouth exclamations of his people in tones of satisfaction and even merriment.
One hurried glance around for help showed Edith that all hope for help was vain; and no words can describe her horror at the scene she saw. At the very moment she looked round, a tomahawk in the hands of a gigantic Indian was falling on the head of the poor negro Chaudo, and the next instant a wild, shrieking yell told her his agony was come and gone. Woodchuck, hatchet in hand, was battling for life against another savage, and seemed nearly, if not quite, his match, but eight or ten more Indians were rushing up, yelling like wolves as they came, and in the midst of the struggle, while hatchets were playing and flashing round the heads of the combatants, a young and active Indian sprang upon the poor hunter from behind and threw him backward on the earth. He lay perfectly still and motionless, gazing up at the tomahawk lifted over his head; but at that instant the young Indian put his arm around his companion's naked breast and pushed him violently back, with a loud exclamation in the Iroquois tongue. Then seizing the hand of Woodchuck, he pulled up the sleeve of his hunting shirt and pointed to a blue stripe tattooed upon his arm.
The lifted hand and tomahawk of the other sank slowly by his side, and Woodchuck sat up and gazed round him, but without attempting to rise altogether from the ground.
Some five or six of the Indians came quietly up, and some kneeling, some bending down, gazed upon the blue line, while the savage who had seized upon Edith dragged her forward to the spot, and still holding her fast, gazed likewise. A few quick and muttered words succeeded amongst their captors, some only of which Edith heard and understood.
"It's the sign! it's the sign!" said one. Then came a sentence or two that escaped her ear, and then another cried, "Ask him! Ask him!"
Then one of the Indians seated himself on the ground before Woodchuck, spread out his hands like a fan, and addressed some words to him, which Edith, notwithstanding her perfect knowledge of the Iroquois language in most of its dialects, did not in the least comprehend. The answer of Woodchuck was equally unintelligible to her, and the only word or words which she caught was "Honontkoh."
The moment he had spoken, two of the Indians placed their hands under his arms and raised him from the ground. They took the precaution of disarming him entirely, and then, gathering round, they talked quickly and eagerly in low tones; but now they spoke a language which Edith understood, and though she did not catch all that was said she heard enough to show her that they were discussing what was to be done with herself and Woodchuck, whom it seemed to her that from some cause they recognized as a brother. Suddenly the savage who held her pressed his fingers tighter upon her arm, exclaiming aloud in a fierce, angry voice: "She is mine! I will dispose of her as I please."
"No one will oppose the brother of the Snake," said another elder man. "Scalp her, if thou wilt, but where canst thou carry her if thou dost not slay her?"
"Let us all go to the other side of Corlear, Apukwa," said the man who held her. "I will take her with me; she shall cook my venison for me. 'Twas for this I brought you hither."
"What! Shall we become women amongst the Hurons?" said Apukwa.
"No," replied the brother of the Snake; "there are many of our tribe and order there, of our own nation, outcasts like ourselves. We will become, like them, warriors of the great French king, and fight against the accursed Yengees."
"But how shall we cross?" said Apukwa.
"There are canoes in plenty," said the other. "Besides, our Canada brethren are here, close at hand, at Che-on-de-ro-ga. They will give us help."
A silent pause succeeded, and then Woodchuck stretched forth his arm, recovered from the confusion which perhaps the suddenness of the attack, perhaps the violence of his fall, had produced, and addressed them after their own fashion.
"Are we not brothers?" he said. "Are we not all Honontkoh? Are we not all bound by the dreadful name to aid each other, even unto blood and death? I demand, therefore--ye who have lifted the hatchet against us unjustly--to set me and this maiden free, to make our feet as the feet of the panther, to go whither we will. I have spoken the terrible words. I have uttered the dreadful name; the sign of the order is in my flesh, and ye dare not refuse!"
A look of doubt and hesitation came over the faces of the Indians, and Apukwa replied: "Whither wouldst thou go, my brother? We have all sworn the oath in the presence of the dark spirit that we will aid one another, and that each of the Honontkoh will defend and protect another, though he should have eaten fire or shed his brother's blood. Thou hast shed our brother's blood; for we know thee, though we knew not that thou wert of our order. But we are Honontkoh, and we will keep the saying. We will defend thee; we will protect thee; but whither wouldst thou go?"
"I go," answered Woodchuck, with unfortunate frankness and truth, "I go to lay down my life for your brother's life. I go to the Castle of the Oneidas, to say: 'Woodchuck is here. Let the hatchet fall upon the old tree, and let the young sapling grow up till its time be come. I killed the Snake. Take the blood of him who slew him, and set the boy Walter free.' As for this maiden, she is mine. I have adopted her. I claim her, as brother claims from brother. Ye cannot be Honontkoh and take her from me. If ye be true to our order, give her into my hand, and let us go."
While he spoke, the countenances of the Indians round betrayed no mark of any emotion whatever, though there were many and varying feelings, undoubtedly, busy in their breasts. As he ended, however, a slight and somewhat scornful smile came upon the cunning face of Apukwa, and he replied: "We cannot let our brother go on such an errand. It would be contrary to our laws. We are bound to defend and protect him, and must not let him make wind of his life. The yellow leaf falls of itself from the bough; the green leaf is torn off by the tempest. We must preserve our brother's life, though the young man perish."
Edith's eyes wept fast with the bitterest drops of despair, but Apukwa went on: "As for the maiden, we will hear and judge more another day. Thou sayest thou hast adopted her. We will hear how, for we know her to be the daughter of the paleface Prevost. If she be the prize of the brother of the Snake, the brother of the Snake must have her. But if she be thy daughter, she is thine. Let her be with thee till we have heard all and judged. We have not room now; for time goes fast, and we are near danger. The palefaces are to the rising and setting sun, toward the cold and toward the soft wind. The Honontkoh is the enemy of the paleface, the abandoned of the Mohawk, and the outcast of the Oneida. Take the maiden in thy hand, and go on toward the rising sun. We come with thee as thy brethren, and will preserve thy life."
Woodchuck gave an anxious glance to Edith, and said in a low voice and in English: "We can't resist, but we may outwit them. Come on for the present, for I guess it may be no better. I will shed my blood for you, my dear, if I cannot for your brother." And taking her hand, he led her on toward the northeast, preceded by one, and followed by five or six Indians, who, on their usual cautious plan, walked singly, one after another, well knowing that their prisoners could not escape them. Several remained upon the spot a few minutes longer, engaged in stripping the pack-horse of all that he carried, and taking the saddles and bridles of the other horses, which they knew would be valuable in the eyes of the French. All this was done with extraordinary rapidity, and then the last party followed the first into the depths of the wood.
By this time the wind had considerably abated, though it still rained hard. The moment after the Indians had departed, however, the leaves and branches of a large flower-covered bush, of the kalmia, growing under a low-spreading hemlock, moved gently, and the next instant a black face protruded. After one hasty glance around, the whole form of the negress, Sister Bab, was drawn slowly out from the bush, and running from tree to tree with silent speed, she stopped not till she caught sight again of the retiring Indians, and then followed them quietly and cautiously on their way toward Champlain.