"...And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
- from "The Road Not Taken", by Robert Frost
In the cold, hopeless hours before first light, Nathaniel Poe made out the rapid beat of his brother's footsteps, barely audible above the roar of the waterfall, and felt his heart sink.
Uncas would have only moved from his post to bring them news, and no kind of good news could make his brother run so. In all likelihood, their improbable luck had finally run out, and they were about to be set upon by well over fifteen armed men intent on killing Cora and Alice Munro.
Ruefully, Nathaniel went over his thoughts of just a few seconds before, which had been tinged with a small degree of hope: he'd been gazing at the rumbling wall of water before him, the warmth of Cora's head against his chest, and felt oddly at peace. Though the rushing water blurred the forest and the sky beyond, Nathaniel could make out the colors well enough. He knew the gloomiest hour of night had passed. The before-dawn blue would come soon, then the grey; when enough light came through to make his hand cast a visible shadow, they would be sure the Huron had passed them by.
Brushing his vain hopes away like cobwebs, Nathaniel stood, gently dislodging Cora from his chest as he did. Their father emerged from a sliver of deep shadows, and the two converged on Uncas as he raced down into the large chamber of the caverns. His brother's face was grave, but confused, and that gave Nathaniel pause.
Uncas looked at their father, then at him, and finally at some place beyond Nathaniel's shoulder. "Not the Huron." Uncas shaped the words carefully, in English, and Nathaniel realized he'd done it for the benefit of their possible eavesdroppers when he heard Cora exhale in relief.
Nathaniel didn't have the heart to remind that there were more things out there to be afraid of. Deserters, French regulars, Ottawa...
Their father looked much like he felt. "Français? Yengeese?"
"They wear no colors." Uncas' eyebrows contracted very slightly. His next words were in Mahican. "They know we are here. They've surrounded the mouth of the cavern."
Nathaniel touched fingers to the corners of his mouth, wiping away the beads of nervous sweat that pooled there. "What are they doing?"
"Nothing. A group of about ten are a yard or two away from the mouth of the cavern. They look often, and do not move, but they do not come in."
Nathaniel huffed. "They know we are trapped. Or they will not risk entering in a line." They wouldn't be able to kill all of them that way, but they might off four or five before the rest stormed in.
Chingachgook looked between his two sons with a somber air to his usual passive face, like mist clinging to tree tops. "There may be more of them above. A group of ten would not be so bold before invisible enemies without the strength of numbers at their backs."
Movement in a fissure behind Uncas drew Nathaniel's eye: a flash of white and yellow revealed Duncan Heyward, looking out at them from where he'd crouched most of the night. He couldn't make out a word of Mahican, of course, but he was an attentive man and would soon realize something was afoot. Nathaniel had no desire to have the confrontation that lingered in the air between them, not right now at least.
"I will go out to confront them."
Chingachgook moved both hands to his belt. "And what will that accomplish, my son?"
"I will tell them we are but survivors of the massacre. They may let us go if they understand we have no part in the war."
His father's eyebrows tensed. "They will not believe you once they see the man in the red coat." He was referring to the wounded soldier they had brought along, the man who hopefully still lay asleep behind one of the rocky outcroppings behind them.
"But they will if they have seen the bodies on the road to the fort. If they see we have no powder, and have a wounded man."
Disagreement lingered in the curves of his father's mouth.
"I agree with my brother. I will go." Uncas had closed his eyes when both men turned to him, if to brace himself for the task or to avoid their eyes, Nathaniel was not sure. "If they are reasonable, we will all escape alive."
"No. I will not put you in danger."
"That is not for you to decide, netohcon." The use of the word for older brother gave Nathaniel pause; Uncas had used it deliberately, Nathaniel knew, to remind him that he would also not have his brother endangered. Leave it to Uncas to turn this into a wrestling competition over which of us is more eager to die for the other, he thought. It would have been funny, if they hadn't been where they were right then.
And of course, netohcon or not, Nathaniel was not having it. "I will go."
Uncas didn't answer. Instead, he stood up from his half-crouched position, as if he meant to solve the argument by simply walking out himself. Then their father moved, walking through the space between them calmly, as if he were severing the argument with his body. "No. I will go."
Nathaniel turned in surprise. "My father…"
Chingachgook returned his gaze, imperturbable. "If I am killed, you must jump down into the river and allow the daughters of the colonel to be taken prisoners. Avoid a fight. Track them later." Their father shifted his musket to his left hand, leaning it against his shoulder. "If I am not, come out. Keep your muskets lowered, and stay at my back." He scaled the fissure agilely, Uncas and Nathaniel close on his heels.
The presence of men at the other side was quite evident near the mouth of the caves. Four or five bright splotches of yellow glowed at them through the waterfall – torches, shifting occasionally when the men who held them moved. Chingachgook seemed to note them but briefly. Then he leaned his musket against his left shoulder, held out his other hand, up and open to show the men at the other side he was unarmed, and that he came in peace; there was no hesitation in his steps when he walked out.
Nathaniel stared at the blurry form of their father through the water, a faintly illuminated splotch of buckskin-tan and blue by the glow of firelight. He could see Chingachgook moved slowly, non-threatening; in his mind, he could almost see how Chingachgook must look, and Nathaniel knew he would manage not to look weak or submissive as he did. It filled him with pride. Then the thought that this might be the last time he saw their father alive thundered through Nathaniel's thoughts, obscuring all the others like blood tainting water, and all of his being braced for the sound of musket fire.
A small eternity passed. The blurred figure remained upright, and no crack of ignited gunpowder came. Nathaniel shouldered his musket and climbed out. After a beat, his brother followed.
Chingachgook stood on the small rock shelf, four or five steps away from a band of men. None of them were aiming their muskets at their father, and none of them tried to at the sight of him and Uncas. Eyes firmly on the men in front of him, Nathaniel paused an arm's length from their father's back and counted his heartbeats. With the din of the falls behind them, silence hung in the space between the two groups, tense and irresolute.
There was shifting in the group, movement at the back where Nathaniel couldn't see, and two torch-bearers were stepping aside. To his shock, a Mohawk stepped out from amidst the men.
Nathaniel's first thought was that the man was very traditional: he wore his hair in a scalp lock adorned with feathers, red paint down his cheeks. He wore no shirt, only leather leggings and moccasins, as did the younger men in chief Ongewasgone's delegation of the Twin River tribe. He looked older than him and his brother, but his taut skin marked him a young man still.
Most surprisingly of all, the man carried no musket. Nathaniel followed a leather strap across the man's chest with his eyes and saw the telltale feathered ends of arrows just visible behind his shoulder. It was increasingly rare to find men not bearing firearms in these turbulent years, with every tribe slowly giving in to the need of them for survival. He was either very adept with a bow, or from a fairly isolated clan that had still found no need of them.
The Mohawk stepped forward slowly. It gave Nathaniel a tiny measure of relief that he mimicked their father's peace-making gesture, holding his bow at ease and his unoccupied hand empty. The two men met each other roughly half way between both groups, and a rapid exchange of words began, too low for Nathaniel to pick up. He followed each man's gesticulations instead: both were cautious, wary even, but the unknown Mohawk held himself without aggression, and Chingachgook remained peaceable, if vigilant.
At length, Nathaniel caught the Mohawk's voice. It was low and came from low in his throat, speaking – and here Nathaniel raised a single eyebrow in surprise – in perfectly clear, barely accented English.
"…then I will speak to your people behind the waterfall. Alone. We mean you no harm."
Chingachgook nodded, then raised his hand, gesturing his sons closer without looking away from the man.
"We shall escort you inside." Their father then turned and walked back towards the waterfall, passing through the space between him and Uncas. After sizing up both of them quickly, the Mohawk did the same, without rushing past or shying away from the touch of his and Uncas' shoulders: a brave man, then. Nathaniel turned to follow them, allowing Uncas the place at the rear.
As they walked back down into the largest chamber of the caves, Duncan Heyward rather unsurprisingly popped sideways out of his fissure, like a particularly mangy guard dog walking into the path of an intruder. He seemed ready to start another fight, but the sight of an unknown person gave him pause. They arranged themselves in a loose circle around the Mohawk, Nathaniel and Uncas behind each of his shoulders, Chingachgook in front of him.
Something like hope appeared on Heyward's face. "Are you a scout?"
Of course, he'd still hope for rescue from some agent of their great chief beyond the water. Nathaniel eyed the still proud British major, torn between blinding anger and pity at his illogical love for a king he'd probably never met in person.
The man in front of him tensed almost unnoticeably; Nathaniel would have discerned nothing if he hadn't been focusing intently on the man's left shoulder. "No. I am my own man." His English visibly shocked Heyward, and Nathaniel allowed himself a flicker of amusement. The Mohawk seemed to take in the battered, bloodied man in the once fine white shirt, interpreting his dress and his accent. "You are a British officer."
Heyward nodded, despite how it was evidently not a question. Then there was faltering movement at the back, and Cora, with Alice's arm twined firmly into hers, stumbled laboriously into view. There was something tense and mildly rebellious in her face that told Nathaniel that Heyward had probably insisted they stay hidden, and that Cora had now intentionally disobeyed him.
Nathaniel glanced at the Mohawk's shoulder – it went loose in shock and then rose, evidently surprised. "You have refugees with you."
"And a badly wounded man." Cora added. Her eyes flicked to his, and Nathaniel's heart skipped a beat at how she seemed to ask him if she'd done the right thing. It wasn't submission. She was simply asking his opinion, but that wasn't just anything coming from Cora Munro. When he didn't make as if to stop her, she continued. "We are being hunted, sir." At the last word, Heyward made as if to swivel his head roughly towards Cora and only just managed to check himself.
"You are in a dire situation." The Mohawk's words, said with a faint flicker of sympathy, rippled out to the rest of them, leaving an air of calm in their wake. The man inclined his head in understanding. "I will go fetch the man in charge of this expedition, he will want to know of your situation before we leave. If you agree, of course."
Chingachgook glanced at them. Cora directed a sharp, almost chastising look to Heyward. Alice seemed to cling tighter to her sister's arm, not in fear, but in solidarity. Their wordless agreement made, Chingachgook nodded. "My younger son will go with you."
The Mohawk nodded and turned without looking back at Uncas, who followed him almost immediately.
Once they were out of sight, Heyward let out an audible grumble. "How do you know we are to trust these men?" There was reprimand in his voice.
Nathaniel made no effort to make his tone amicable as he answered. "They've got us surrounded. We have no choice."
Heyward straightened, already preparing a response it seemed, when something caught his eye and he craned his neck. Nathaniel turned and got the third surprise of the morning.
The man who'd returned with the Mohawk and Uncas, the "man in charge of the expedition" it seemed, was a study in contrasts. He was dressed in practical hides, but they were meticulously worked, colorful weaving along the edges of a buckskin jacket evidently made to his measurements. Under the jacket, he wore a dark blue calico shirt, buttoned to the very top, and a handkerchief was fastidiously tied around his neck like a British nobleman's cravat. A gentleman of the woods.
The man had broad shoulders and eyes a grey so light that Nathaniel had trouble making them out from the whites in the dark cavern. His hair, ending at his shoulders and tied in a half ponytail, was the red of autumn leaves. Though he was perhaps a little shorter than Nathaniel, his presence seemed to fill the cavern, every eye drawn to him with expectance.
He looked at them all with mild interest. "You're survivors of the massacre up by Lake George." He spoke English in the way the people of the Americas did. Not British, not French or Irish, born here.
After a barely discernible pause, Chingachgook nodded.
The grey-eyed man leaned on his musket as if it were a Lacrosse stick. "We followed signs indicating a war party had come this way."
Nathaniel stepped forward to claim the man's attention. "The Huron who killed the people upriver are hunting us. The war party's captain has a vendetta of some kind against the women. We meant to take refuge at Fort Edward."
The man appraised Cora and Alice with polite curiosity in his colorless eyes, and Nathaniel instinctively moved forward to lay a hand on Cora's shoulder. The gesture made one of the man's dark red eyebrows rise a fraction, but he didn't look particularly inclined to comment on it. "It seems the war party went past during the night. Heading east."
Nobody moved, but there seemed to be a collective release of breath. The air seemed lighter, the cave itself brighter: the Huron were off their trail.
The Mohawk seemed to sense their relief, and felt the need to temper it. "You don't have long before they realize no trail means they've passed you by and they double back. You should head to Fort Edward within the hour. Now, if your party is up to it."
It was true. Uncas caught his eye and nodded. Nathaniel looked to Chingachgook and nodded too; the older man glanced at the fissure where they'd set up the British soldier with the chest wound. "We will begin to prepare to leave immediately."
The Mohawk looked at them with something akin to concern. "It seems quite a small group to run their odds against a Huron war party."
"Yes, it does." The red-haired man glanced at them before returning his eyes to the Mohawk. "What do you suggest we do?"
"Your men are your own." But something in the Mohawk's eyes was heavy. While he had suggested it a good number of times already, Nathaniel realized the Mohawk was telling the truth, that he really was no scout or underling. Whatever they were to each other, the gentleman woodsman and the Mohawk clearly viewed themselves equals, and the Mohawk was sending his companion a clear message with his eyes: your men are your own, but I suggest you do what I agree is the most humane thing.
The other man must have sensed it, because he gave him a stiff nod and turned to the rest of them. "We will take you within a half mile of Fort Edward."
Instinctively, Nathaniel look towards their father. Chingachgook's face remained inexpressive as ever, but Nathaniel could detect a faint appraising sharpness in his eyes. Without turning to meet his son's gaze (or anyone's gaze, for that matter), he gave them a single, peremptory nod. "Thank you."
"Might we please have your names?" Cora's tone was perfectly polite, but Nathaniel detected a hint of steel. Cautious, courageous. Nathaniel didn't show it, but his chest swelled briefly with pride.
The man seemed unfazed by the demand. "Of course. My name is John Black." He turned around without asking for their names in return. "I'll prepare my men." The Mohawk didn't move to follow for a moment, eyes flicking to the women, to Heyward, and finally to Nathaniel himself.
"My name is Kanyenke." He looked at them all, eyes lingering on Chingachgook of all people, then followed John Black in his retreat.
A/N: John Black and Kanyenke are NOT mine. They are on loan from a video game with a small to non-existent fandom. As no knowledge of that game is needed to understand this story at all, and the world of Last of the Mohicans prevails over the game's reality, I've decided against marking it a crossover: it's misleading as to the content, and needlessly off-putting to readers.