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“It would have been happy if they had converted some before they had killed any.”

Robinson

The house at Bethel had, both in front and in rear, a portico, or, as it was more humbly, and therefore more appropriately named, a shed; that in the rear, was a sort of adjunct to the kitchen, and one end of it was enclosed for the purpose of a bed-room, and occupied by Magawisca. Everell found Digby sitting at the other extremity of this portico; his position was prudently chosen. The moon was high, and the heavens clear, and there concealed and sheltered by the shadow of the roof, he could, without being seen, command the whole extent of cleared ground that bordered on the forest, whence the foe would come, if he came at all.

Everell, like a good knight, had carefully inspected his arms and just taken his position beside Digby, when they heard Magawisca’s window cautiously opened, and saw her spring through it. Everell would have spoken to her, but Digby made a signal of silence, and she, without observing them, hastened with a quick and light step towards the wood, and entered it, taking the path that led to Nelema’s hut.

“Confound her!” exclaimed Digby; “she is in a plot with the old woman.”

“No – no. On my life she is not, Digby.”

“Some mischief – some mischief,” said Digby, shaking his head. “They are a treacherous race. Let’s follow her. No, we had best keep clear of the wood. Do you call after her; she will hearken to you.”

Everell hesitated. “Speak quickly, Mr Everell,” urged Digby; “she will be beyond the reach of your voice. It is no light matter that could take her to Nelema’s hut at this time of the night.”

“She has good reason for going, Digby. I am sure of it; and I will not call her back.”

“Reason,” muttered Digby; “reason is but a jack-o’-lantern light in most people’s minds. You trust her too far, Mr Everell; but there, she is returning! See how she looks all around her, like a frightened bird that hears an enemy in every rustling leaf. Stand close – observe her – see, she lays her ear to the earth – it is their crafty way of listening – there, she is gone again!” he exclaimed, as Magawisca darted away into the wood. “It is past doubt she holds communication with some one. God send us a safe deliverance. I had rather meet a legion of Frenchmen than a company of these savages. They are a kind of beast we don’t comprehend – out of the range of God’s creatures – neither angel, man, nor yet quite devil. I would have sent to the fort for a guard tonight, but I liked not being driven hither and yon by that old hag’s tokens; nor yet quite to take counsel from your good mother’s fears, she being but a woman.”

“I think you have caught the fear, Digby, without taking it’s counsel,” said Everell, “which does little credit to your wisdom; the only use of fear, being to provide against danger.”

“That is true, Mr Everell; but don’t think I am afraid. It is one thing to know what danger is, and wish to shun it; and another thing to feel like you, fear-naught lads, that have never felt a twinge of pain, and have scarce a sense of your own mortality. You would be the boldest at an attack, Mr Everell, and I should stand a siege best. A boy’s courage is a keen weapon that wants temper.”

“Apt to break at the first stroke from the enemy, you mean, Digby?” Digby nodded assent. “Well, I should like, at any rate, to prove it,” added Everell.

“Time enough this half-dozen years yet, my young master. I should be loath to see that fair skin of thine stained with blood; and, besides, you have yet to get a little more worldly prudence than to trust a young Indian girl, just because she takes your fancy.”

“And why does she take my fancy, Digby? because she is true and noble-minded. I am certain, that if she knows of any danger approaching us, she is seeking to avert it.”

“I don’t know that, Mr Everell; she’ll be first true to her own people. The old proverb holds fast with these savages, as well as with the rest of the world – ‘hawks won’t pick out hawks’ eyes.’ Like to like, throughout all nature. I grant you, she hath truly a fair seeming.”

“And all that’s foul is our own suspicion, is it not, Digby?”

“Not exactly; there’s plainly some mystery between Magawisca and the old woman, and we know these Pequods were famed above all the Indian tribes for their cunning.”

“And what is superior cunning among savages but superior sense?”

“You may out-talk me, Mr Everell,” replied Digby, with the impatience that a man feels when he is sure he is right, without being able to make it appear. “You may out-talk me, but you will never convince me. Was not I in the Pequod war? I ought to know, I think.”

“Yes, and I think you have told me they shewed more resolution than cunning there; in particular, that the brother of Magawisca, whom she so piteously bemoans to this day, fought like a young lion.”

“Yes, he did, poor dog! – and he was afterwards cruelly cut off; and it is this that makes me think they will take some terrible revenge for his death. I often hear Magawisca talking to Oneco of her brother, and I think it is to stir his spirit; but this boy is no more like to him than a spaniel to a bloodhound.”

Nothing Digby said had any tendency to weaken Everell’s confidence in Magawisca.

The subject of the Pequod war once started, Digby and Everell were in no danger of sleeping at their post. Digby loved, as well as another man, and particularly those who have had brief military experience, to fight his battles o’er again; and Everell was at an age to listen with delight to tales of adventure, and danger. They thus wore away the time till the imaginations of both relater and listener were at that pitch, when every shadow is embodied, and every passing sound bears a voice to the quickened sense. “Hark!” said Digby, “did you not hear footsteps?”

“I hear them now,” replied Everell; “they seem not very near. Is it not Magawisca returning?”

“No; there is more than one; and it is the heavy, though cautious, tread of men. Ha! Argus scents them.” The old house dog now sprang from his rest on a mat at the door stone, and gave one of those loud inquiring barks, by which this animal first hails the approach of a strange footstep. “Hush, Argus, hush,” cried Everell; and the old dog, having obeyed his instinct, seemed satisfied to submit to his master’s voice, and crept lazily back to his place of repose.

“You have hushed Argus, and the footsteps too,” said Digby; but it is well, perhaps, if there really is an enemy near, that he should know we are on guard.”

“If there really is, Digby!” said Everell, who, terrific as the apprehended danger was, felt the irrepressible thirst of youth for adventure; “do you think we could both have been deceived?”

“Nothing easier, Mr Everell, than to deceive senses on the watch for alarm. We heard something, but it might have been the wolves that even now prowl about the very clearing here at night. Ha!” he exclaimed, “there they are” – and starting forward he levelled his musket towards the wood.

“You are mad,” said Everell, striking down Digby’s musket with the butt end of his own. “It is Magawisca.” Magawisca at that moment emerged from the wood.

Digby appeared confounded. “Could I have been so deceived?” he said; “could it have been her shadow – I thought I saw an Indian beyond that birch tree; you see the white bark? well, just beyond in the shade. It could not have been Magawisca, nor her shadow, for you see there are trees between the footpath and that place; and yet, how should he have vanished without motion or sound?”

“Our senses deceive us, Digby,” said Everell, reciprocating Digby’s own argument.

“In this tormenting moonlight they do; but my senses have been well schooled in their time, and should have learned to know a man from a woman, and a shadow from a substance.”

Digby had not a very strong conviction of the actual presence of an enemy, as was evident from his giving no alarm to his auxiliaries in the house; and he believed that if there were hostile Indians prowling about them, they were few in number, and fearful; still he deemed it prudent to persevere in their precautionary measures. “I will remain here,” he said, “Mr Everell, and do you follow Magawisca; sift what you can from her. Depend on’t, there’s something wrong. Why should she have turned away on seeing us? and did you not observe her hide something beneath her mantle?”

Everell acceded to Digby’s proposition; not with the expectation of confirming his suspicions, but in the hope that Magawisca would shew they were groundless. He followed her to the front of the house, to which she seemed involuntarily to have bent her steps on perceiving him.

“You have taken the most difficult part of our duty on yourself, Magawisca,” he said, on coming up to her. “You have acted as vidette, while I have been quiet at my post.”

Perhaps Magawisca did not understand him, at any rate she made no reply.

“Have you met an enemy in your reconnoitring? Digby and I fancied that we both heard and saw the foe.”

“When and where?” exclaimed Magawisca, in a hurried, alarmed tone.

“Not many minutes since, and just at the very edge of the wood.”

“What! when Digby raised his gun? I thought that had been in sport to startle me.”

“No – Magawisca. Sporting does not suit our present case. My mother and her little ones are in peril, and Digby is a faithful servant.”

“Faithful!” echoed Magawisca, as if there were more in Everell’s expression than met the ear; “he surely may walk straight who hath nothing to draw him aside. Digby hath but one path, and that is plain before him – but one voice from his heart, and why should he not obey it?” The girl’s voice faltered as she spoke, and as she concluded she burst into tears. Everell had never before witnessed this expression of feeling from her. She had an habitual self-command that hid the motions of her heart from common observers, and veiled them even from those who most narrowly watched her. Everell’s confidence in Magawisca had not been in the least degree weakened by all the appearances against her. He did not mean to imply suspicion by his commendation of Digby, but merely to throw out a leading observation which she might follow if she would.

He felt reproached and touched by her distress, but struck by the clew, which, as he thought, her language afforded to the mystery of her conduct, and confident that she would in no way aid or abet any mischief that her own people might be contriving against them, he followed the natural bent of his generous temper, and assured her again, and again, of his entire trust in her. This seemed rather to aggravate than abate her distress. She threw herself on the ground, drew her mantle over her face, and wept convulsively. He found he could not allay the storm he had raised, and he seated himself beside her. After a little while, either exhausted by the violence of her emotion, or comforted by Everell’s silent sympathy, she became composed; and raised her face from her mantle, and as she did so, something fell from beneath its folds. She hastily recovered and replaced it, but not till Everell had perceived it was an eagle’s feather. He knew this was the badge of her tribe, and he had heard her say, that “a tuft from the wing of the monarch-bird was her father’s crest.” A suspicion flashed through his mind, and was conveyed to Magawisca’s, by one bright glance of inquiry. She said nothing, but her responding look was rather sorrowful than confused, and Everell, anxious to believe what he wished to be true, came, after a little consideration, to the conclusion, that the feather had been dropped in her path by a passing bird. He did not scrutinise her motive in concealing it; he could not think her capable of evil, and anxious to efface from her mind the distrust his countenance might have expressed – “This beautiful moon and her train of stars,” he said, “look as if they were keeping their watch over our dwelling. There are those, Magawisca, who believe the stars have a mysterious influence on human destiny. I know nothing of the grounds of their faith, and my imagination is none of the brightest, but I can almost fancy they are stationed there as guardian angels, and I feel quite sure that nothing evil could walk abroad in their light.”

“They do look peaceful,” she replied mournfully; “but ah! Everell, man is ever breaking the peace of nature. It was such a night as this – so bright and still, when your English came upon our quiet homes.”

“You have never spoken to me of that night Magawisca.”

“No – Everell, for our hands have taken hold of the chain of friendship, and I feared to break it by speaking of the wrongs your people laid on mine.”

“You need not fear it; I can honour noble deeds though done by our enemies, and see that cruelty is cruelty, though inflicted by our friends.”

“Then listen to me; and when the hour of vengeance comes, if it should come, remember it was provoked.”

She paused for a few moments, sighed deeply, and then began the recital of the last acts in the tragedy of her people; the principal circumstances of which are detailed in the chronicles of the times, by the witnesses of the bloody scenes. “You know,” she said, “our fortress homes were on the level summit of a hill. Thence we could see as far as the eye could stretch, our hunting grounds, and our gardens, which lay beneath us on the borders of a stream that glided around our hill, and so near to it, that in the still nights we could hear its gentle voice. Our fort and wigwams were encompassed with a palisade, formed of young trees, and branches interwoven and sharply pointed. No enemy’s foot had ever approached this nest, which the eagles of the tribe had built for their mates and their young. Sassacus and my father were both away on that dreadful night. They had called a council of our chiefs, and old men; our young men had been out in their canoes, and when they returned they had danced and feasted, and were now in deep sleep. My mother was in her hut with her children, not sleeping, for my brother Samoset had lingered behind his companions, and had not yet returned from the water sport. The warning spirit, that ever keeps its station at a mother’s pillow, whispered that some evil was near; and my mother, bidding me lie still with the little ones, went forth in quest of my brother. All the servants of the Great Spirit spoke to my mother’s ear and eye of danger and death. The moon, as she sunk behind the hills, appeared a ball of fire; strange lights darted through the air; to my mother’s eye they seemed fiery arrows; to her ear the air was filled with death sighs.

“She had passed the palisade, and was descending the hill, when she met old Cushmakin. “Do you know aught of my boy?” she asked.

“Your boy is safe, and sleeps with his companions; he returned by the Sassafras knoll; that way can only be trodden by the strong-limbed, and light-footed.” “My boy is safe,” said my mother; “then tell me, for thou art wise, and canst see quite through the dark future, tell me, what evil is coming to our tribe?” She then described the omens she had seen. “I know not,” said Cushmakin, “of late darkness hath spread over my soul, and all is black there, as before these eyes, that the arrows of death have pierced; but tell me, Monoco, what see you now in the fields of heaven?”

“Oh, now,” said my mother, “I see nothing but the blue depths, and the watching stars. The spirits of the air have ceased their moaning, and steal over my cheek like an infant’s breath. The water spirits are rising, and will soon spread their soft wings around the nest of our tribe.”

“The boy sleeps safely,” muttered the old man, “and I have listened to the idle fear of a doting mother.”

“I come not of a fearful race,” said my mother.

“Nay, that I did not mean,” replied Cushmakin, “but the panther watching her young is fearful as a doe.” The night was far spent, and my mother bade him go home with her, for our pow-wows have always a mat in the wigwam of their chief. “Nay,” he said, “the day is near, and I am always abroad at the rising of the sun.” It seemed that the first warm touch of the sun opened the eye of the old man’s soul, and he saw again the flushed hills, and the shaded valleys, the sparkling waters, the green maize, and the gray old rocks of our home. They were just passing the little gate of the palisade, when the old man’s dog sprang from him with a fearful bark. A rushing sound was heard. “Owanox! Owanox! (the English! the English!”) cried Cushmakin. My mother joined her voice to his, and in an instant the cry of alarm spread through the wigwams. The enemy were indeed upon us. They had surrounded the palisade, and opened their fire.

“Was it so sudden? Did they so rush on sleeping women and children?” asked Everell, who was unconsciously lending all his interest to the party of the narrator.

“Even so; they were guided to us by the traitor Wequash; he from whose bloody hand my mother had shielded the captive English maidens – he who had eaten from my father’s dish, and slept on his mat. They were flanked by the cowardly Narragansetts, who shrunk from the sight of our tribe – who were pale as white men at the thought of Sassacus, and so feared him, that when his name was spoken, they were like an unstrung bow, and they said, ‘He is all one God – no man can kill him.’ These cowardly allies waited for the prey they dared not attack.”

“Then,” said Everell, “as I have heard, our people had all the honour of the fight.”

“Honour! was it, Everell – ye shall hear. Our warriors rushed forth to meet the foe; they surrounded the huts of their mothers, wives, sisters, children; they fought as if each man had a hundred lives, and would give each, and all, to redeem their homes. Oh! the dreadful fray, even now, rings in my ears! Those fearful guns that we had never heard before – the shouts of your people – our own battle yell – the piteous cries of the little children – the groans of our mothers, and, oh! worse – worse than all – the silence of those that could not speak – The English fell back; they were driven to the palisade; some beyond it, when their leader gave the cry to fire our huts, and led the way to my mother’s. Samoset, the noble boy, defended the entrance with a prince-like courage, till they struck him down; prostrate and bleeding he again bent his bow, and had taken deadly aim at the English leader, when a sabre blow severed his bowstring. Then was taken from our hearthstone, where the English had been so often warmed and cherished, the brand to consume our dwellings. They were covered with mats, and burnt like dried straw. The enemy retreated without the palisade. In vain did our warriors fight for a path by which we might escape from the consuming fire; they were beaten back; the fierce element gained on us; the Narragansetts pressed on the English, howling like wolves for their prey. Some of our people threw themselves into the midst of the crackling flames, and their courageous souls parted with one shout of triumph; others mounted the palisade, but they were shot and dropped like a flock of birds smitten by the hunter’s arrows. Thus did the strangers destroy, in our own homes, hundreds of our tribe.”

“And how did you escape in that dreadful hour, Magawisca – you were not then taken prisoners?”

“No; there was a rock at one extremity of our hut, and beneath it a cavity into which my mother crept, with Oneco, myself, and the two little ones that afterwards perished. Our simple habitations were soon consumed; we heard the foe retiring, and when the last sound had died away, we came forth to a sight that made us lament to be among the living. The sun was scarce an hour from his rising, and yet in this brief space our homes had vanished. The bodies of our people were strewn about the smouldering ruin; and all around the palisade lay the strong and valiant warriors – cold – silent – powerless as the unformed clay.”

Magawisca paused; she was overcome with the recollection of this scene of desolation. She looked upward with an intent gaze, as if she held communion with an invisible being. “Spirit of my mother!” burst from her lips. “Oh! that I could follow thee to that blessed land where I should no more dread the war cry, nor the death knife.” Everell dashed the gathering tears from his eyes, and Magawisca proceeded in her narrative.

“While we all stood silent and motionless, we heard footsteps and cheerful voices. They came from my father and Sassacus, and their band, returning from the friendly council. They approached on the side of the hill that was covered with a thicket of oaks, and their ruined homes at once burst upon their view. Oh! what horrid sounds then pealed on the air! shouts of wailing, and cries for vengeance. Every eye was turned with suspicion and hatred on my father. He had been the friend of the English; he had counselled peace and alliance with them; he had protected their traders; delivered the captives taken from them, and restored them to their people: now his wife and children alone were living, and they called him traitor. I heard an angry murmur, and many hands were lifted to strike the death blow. He moved not – ‘Nay, nay,’ cried Sassacus, beating them off. ‘Touch him not; his soul is bright as the sun; sooner shall you darken that, than find treason in his breast. If he hath shown the dove’s heart to the English when he believed them friends, he will show himself the fierce eagle now he knows them enemies. Touch him not, warriors; remember my blood runneth in his veins.’

“From that moment my father was a changed man. He neither spoke nor looked at his wife, or children; but placing himself at the head of one band of the young men he shouted his war cry, and then silently pursued the enemy. Sassacus went forth to assemble the tribe, and we followed my mother to one of our villages.”

“You did not tell me, Magawisca,” said Everell, “how Samoset perished; was he consumed in the flames, or shot from the palisade?”

“Neither – neither. He was reserved to whet my father’s revenge to a still keener edge. He had forced a passage through the English, and hastily collecting a few warriors, they pursued the enemy, sprung upon them from a covert, and did so annoy them that the English turned and gave them battle. All fled save my brother, and him they took prisoner. They told him they would spare his life if he would guide them to our strongholds; he refused. He had, Everell, lived but sixteen summers; he loved the light of the sun even as we love it; his manly spirit was tamed by wounds and weariness; his limbs were like a bending reed, and his heart beat like a woman’s; but the fire of his soul burnt clear. Again they pressed him with offers of life and reward; he faithfully refused, and with one sabre stroke they severed his head from his body.”

Magawisca paused – she looked at Everell and said with a bitter smile – “You English tell us, Everell, that the book of your law is better than that written on our hearts, for ye say it teaches mercy, compassion, forgiveness – if ye had such a law and believed it, would ye thus have treated a captive boy?”

Magawisca’s reflecting mind suggested the most serious obstacle to the progress of the Christian religion, in all ages and under all circumstances; the contrariety between its divine principles and the conduct of its professors; which, instead of always being a medium for the light that emanates from our holy law, is too often the darkest cloud that obstructs the passage of its rays to the hearts of heathen men. Everell had been carefully instructed in the principles of his religion, and he felt Magawisca’s relation to be an awkward comment on them, and her inquiry natural; but though he knew not what answer to make, he was sure there must be a good one, and mentally resolving to refer the case to his mother, he begged Magawisca to proceed with her narrative.

“The fragments of our broken tribe,” she said, “were collected, and some other small dependent tribes persuaded to join us. We were obliged to flee from the open grounds, and shelter ourselves in a dismal swamp. The English surrounded us; they sent in to us a messenger and offered life and pardon to all who had not shed the blood of Englishmen. Our allies listened, and fled from us, as frightened birds fly from a falling tree. My father looked upon his warriors; they answered that look with their battle shout. ‘Tell your people,’ said my father to the messenger, ‘that we have shed and drank English blood, and that we will take nothing from them but death.’

“The messenger departed and again returned with offers of pardon, if we would come forth and lay our arrows and our tomahawks at the feet of the English. ‘What say you, warriors,’ cried my father – ‘shall we take pardon from those who have burned your wives and children, and given your homes to the beasts of prey – who have robbed you of your hunting grounds, and driven your canoes from their waters?’ A hundred arrows were pointed to the messenger. ‘Enough – you have your answer,’ said my father, and the messenger returned to announce the fate we had chosen.”

“Where was Sassacus? – had he abandoned his people?” asked Everell.

“Abandoned them! No – his life was in theirs; but accustomed to attack and victory, he could not bear to be thus driven, like a fox to his hole. His soul was sick within him, and he was silent and left all to my father. All day we heard the strokes of the English axes felling the trees that defended us, and when night came, they had approached so near that we could see the glimmering of their watch lights through the branches of the trees. All night they were pouring in their bullets, alike on warriors, women, and children. Old Cushmakin was lying at my mother’s feet, when he received a death-wound. Gasping for breath he called on Sassacus and my father – ‘Stay not here,’ he said; ‘look not on your wives and children, but burst your prison bound; sound through the nations the cry of revenge! Linked together, ye shall drive the English into the sea. I speak the word of the Great Spirit – obey it!’ While he was yet speaking he stiffened in death. ‘Obey him, warriors,’ cried my mother; ‘see,’ she said, pointing to the mist that was now wrapping itself around the wood like a thick curtain – ‘see, our friends have come from the spirit-land to shelter you. Nay, look not on us – our hearts have been tender in the wigwam, but we can die before our enemies without a groan. Go forth and avenge us.’

“‘Have we come to the counsel of old men and old women!’ said Sassacus, in the bitterness of his spirit.

“‘When women put down their womanish thoughts and counsel like men, they should be obeyed,’ said my father. ‘Follow me, warriors.’

“They burst through the enclosure. We saw nothing more, but we heard the shout from the foe, as they issued from the wood – the momentary fierce encounter – and the cry, ‘they have escaped!’ Then it was that my mother, who had listened with breathless silence, threw herself down on the mossy stones, and laying her hot cheek to mine – ‘Oh, my children – my children!’ she said, ‘would that I could die for you! But fear not death – the blood of a hundred chieftains, that never knew fear, runneth in your veins. Hark, the enemy comes nearer and nearer. Now lift up your heads, my children, and show them that even the weak ones of our tribe are strong in soul.’

“We rose from the ground – all about sat women and children in family clusters, awaiting unmoved their fate. The English had penetrated the forest-screen, and were already on the little rising ground where we had been entrenched. Death was dealt freely. None resisted – not a movement was made – not a voice lifted – not a sound escaped, save the wailings of the dying children.

“One of your soldiers knew my mother, and a command was given that her life and that of her children should be spared. A guard was stationed round us.

“You know that, after our tribe was thus cut off, we were taken, with a few other captives, to Boston. Some were sent to the Islands of the Sun, to bend their free limbs to bondage like your beasts of burden. There are among your people those who have not put out the light of the Great Spirit; they can remember a kindness, albeit done by an Indian; and when it was known to your Sachems that the wife of Mononotto, once the protector and friend of your people, was a prisoner, they treated her with honour and gentleness. But her people were extinguished – her husband driven to distant forests – forced on earth to the misery of wicked souls – to wander without a home; her children were captives – and her heart was broken. You know the rest.”

This war, so fatal to the Pequods, had transpired the preceding year. It was an important event to the infant colonies, and its magnitude probably somewhat heightened to the imaginations of the English, by the terror this resolute tribe had inspired. All the circumstances attending it were still fresh in men’s minds, and Everell had heard them detailed with the interest and particularity that belongs to recent adventures; but he had heard them in the language of the enemies and conquerors of the Pequods; and from Magawisca’s lips they took a new form and hue; she seemed, to him, to embody nature’s best gifts, and her feelings to be the inspiration of heaven. This new version of an old story reminded him of the man and the lion in the fable. But here it was not merely changing sculptors to give the advantage to one or the other of the artist’s subjects; but it was putting the chisel into the hands of truth, and giving it to whom it belonged.

He had heard this destruction of the original possessors of the soil described, as we find it in the history of the times, where, we are told, “the number destroyed was about four hundred;” and “it was a fearful sight to see them thus frying in the fire, and the streams of blood quenching the same, and the horrible scent thereof; but the victory seemed a sweet sacrifice, and they gave the praise thereof to God.”

In the relations of their enemies, the courage of the Pequods was distorted into ferocity, and their fortitude, in their last extremity, thus set forth: “many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs, that would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still to be shot or cut in pieces, than receive their lives for asking, at the hands of those into whose power they had now fallen.”

Everell’s imagination, touched by the wand of feeling, presented a very different picture of those defenceless families of savages, pent in the recesses of their native forests, and there exterminated, not by superior natural force, but by the adventitious circumstances of arms, skill, and knowledge; from that offered by those who “then living and worthy of credit did affirm, that in the morning entering into the swamp, they saw several heaps of them (the Pequods) sitting close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of their pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them.”

Everell did not fail to express to Magawisca, with all the eloquence of a heated imagination, his sympathy and admiration of her heroic and suffering people. She listened with a mournful pleasure, as one listens to the praise of a departed friend. Both seemed to have forgotten the purpose of their vigil, which they had marvellously kept without apprehension, or heaviness, when they were roused from their romantic abstraction by Digby’s voice: “Now to your beds, children,” he said; “the family is stirring, and the day is at hand. See the morning star hanging just over those trees, like a single watch-light in all the wide canopy. As you have not to look in a prayer book for it, master Everell, don’t forget to thank the Lord for keeping us safe, as your mother, God bless her, would say, through the night watches. Stop one moment,” added Digby, lowering his voice to Everell as he rose to follow Magawisca, “did she tell you?”

“Tell me! what?”

“What! Heaven’s mercy! what ails the boy! Why, did she tell you what brought her out tonight? Did she explain all the mysterious actions we have seen? Are you crazy? Did not you ask her?”

Everell hesitated – fortunately for him the light was too dim to expose to Digby’s eye the blushes that betrayed his consciousness that he had forgotten his duty. “Magawisca did not tell me,” he said, “but I am sure Digby that” –

“That she can do no wrong – hey, Master Everell, well, that may be very satisfactory to you – but it does not content me. I like not her secret ways – ‘it’s bad ware that needs a dark store.’”

Everell had tried the force of his own convictions on Digby, and knew it to be unavailing, therefore having no reply to make, he very discreetly retreated without attempting any.

Magawisca crept to her bed, but not to repose – neither watching nor weariness procured sleep for her. Her mind was racked with apprehensions, and conflicting duties, the cruellest rack to an honourable mind.

Nelema had communicated to her the preceding day, the fact which she had darkly intimated to Mrs Fletcher, that Mononotto, with one or two associates was lurking in the forest, and watching an opportunity to make an attack on Bethel. How far his purpose extended, whether simply to the recovery of his children, or to the destruction of the family, she knew not. The latter was most probable, for hostile Indians always left blood on their trail. In reply to Magawisca’s eager inquiries, Nelema said she had again, and again, assured her father of the kind treatment his children had received at the hands of Mrs Fletcher; but he seemed scarcely to hear what she said, and precipitately left her, telling her that she would not again see him, till his work was done.

Magawisca’s first impulse had been to reveal all to Mrs Fletcher; but by doing this, she would jeopard her father’s life. Her natural sympathies – her strong affections – her pride, were all enlisted on the side of her people; but she shrunk, as if her own life were menaced, from the blow that was about to fall on her friends. She would have done or suffered any thing to avert it – any thing but betray her father. The hope of meeting him, explains all that seemed mysterious to Digby. She did go to Nelema’s hut – but all was quiet there. In returning she found an eagle’s feather in the path, – she believed it must have just been dropped there by her father, and this circumstance determined her to remain watching through the night, that if her father should appear, she might avert his vengeance.

She did not doubt that Digby had really seen and heard him; and believing that her father would not shrink from a single armed man, she hoped against hope, that his sole object was to recover his children; hoped against hope, we say, for her reason told her, that if that were his only purpose, it might easily have been accomplished by the intervention of Nelema.

Magawisca had said truly to Everell, that her father’s nature had been changed by the wrongs he received. When the Pequods were proud and prosperous, he was more noted for his humane virtues, than his warlike spirit. The supremacy of his tribe was acknowledged, and it seemed to be his noble nature, as it is sometimes the instinct of the most powerful animals, to protect and defend, rather than attack and oppress. The ambitious spirit of his brother chieftain Sassacus, had ever aspired to dominion over the allied tribes; and immediately after the appearance of the English, the same temper was manifest in a jealousy of their encroachments. He employed all his art and influence and authority, to unite the tribes for the extirpation of the dangerous invaders. Mononotto, on the contrary, averse to all hostility, and foreseeing no danger from them, was the advocate of a hospitable reception, and pacific conduct.

This difference of feeling between the two chiefs, may account for the apparent treachery of the Pequods, who, as the influence of one or the other prevailed, received the English traders with favour and hospitality, or, violating their treaties of friendship, inflicted on them cruelties and death.

The stories of the murders of Stone, Norton, and Oldham, are familiar to every reader of our early annals; and the anecdote of the two English girls, who were captured at Wethersfield, and protected and restored to their friends by the wife of Mononotto, has already been illustrated by a sister labourer; and is precious to all those who would accumulate proofs, that the image of God is never quite effaced from the souls of his creatures; and that in their darkest ignorance, and deepest degradation, there are still to be found traits of mercy and benevolence. These will be gathered and treasured in the memory, with that fond feeling with which Mungo Park describes himself to have culled and cherished in his bosom, the single flower that bloomed in his melancholy track over the African desert.

The chieftain of a savage race, is the depository of the honour of his tribe; and their defeat is a disgrace to him, that can only be effaced by the blood of his conquerors. It is a common case with the unfortunate, to be compelled to endure the reproach of inevitable evils; and Mononotto was often reminded by the remnant of his tribe, in the bitterness of their spirit, of his former kindness for the English. This reproach sharpened too keenly the edge of his adversity.

He had seen his people slaughtered, or driven from their homes and hunting grounds, into shameful exile; his wife had died in captivity, and his children lived in servile dependence in the house of his enemies.

Sassacus perished by treachery, and Mononotto alone remained to endure this accumulated misery. In this extremity, he determined on the rescue of his children, and the infliction of some signal deed of vengeance, by which he hoped to revive the spirit of the natives, and reinstate himself as the head of his broken and dispersed people: in his most sanguine moments, he meditated a unity and combination that should eventually expel the invaders.