My teeth actually started to chapter while I was writing this, though perhaps the open door could be blamed? I also have no experience in Europe. I am going off memories of Jane Austen's work and whoever it was who wrote THE LITTLE PRINCESS, and all those sorts of old books. I could of course go into my library, but then I would no doubt get too caught up reading and never write a word down.
Oh, and this is random-ish, a few weeks back I got a response from Zach (one of the Admins for the site) and now there are Character lists and such for the LOTM fandom! We can search through the stories easier, or well, we could if people would edit their stories' Story Properties and add characters.
Enjoy!
(September 10)
I nodded my head in understanding. If he said it was safe then I trusted him I remembered his words: Hawkeye requested it. It is my duty, he had said. I remembered Hawkeye's cordial bluntness and honesty. He had decided for some inexplicable reason to lay down his life if necessary for myself and my sister. That was a decision which even my own countrymen had not always made in war. Women were important, and to be protected, but in the heat of the moment they could be left behind and mourned after. Indeed my only argument with the Mohican's choice of hiding place was how inaccessible it was. The steep hill, the tangled trees, the cold swift-flowing water, the mud…. I supposed that those were all the reasons that he had chosen it for. Though tactically it could not be defended. Then again if it came to a battle we would lose before it began. One man forced to stay in one position to defend a defenseless woman against however many was a dead man.
I placed my hands gingerly on the damp earth and scrabbled at the bank with my bandaged feet. Drat! The unladylike word exploded in my mind. The bandages were a nuisance, but I understood why Uncas had chosen to bind my feet with them, even though the blisters were almost entirely healed. I managed to get up into the tunnel of sorts, but it was harder to climb than I remembered.
What had changed?
My hight?
No, I thought as my dress tore, 'tis my clothes. I didn't use to run wild in ankle-length riding-habits.
Carefully I crawled forward. In but a few feet the tunnel opened up into a small, cavelike area. The ceiling was low, the room was spacious enough it seemed. Uncas was sitting at the end, but my back blocked most of the light so I could barely make him out. I shifted to the side and the light once more slipped in gently.
[You should sleep, you cannot expect to be able to keep awake another night. If we are as safe as you say, sleep.] The words slipped from my lips without my intending them to.
He really does need sleep, I reflected, I have heard tell of soldiers on guard duty going without sleep for several days, but those tales were no doubt embellished for us ladies and they had been dire situations. Now that I have seen a man go without sleep for so long I wonder that any had even thought to tell those stories so lightheartedly!
Without giving a reply he seemed to collapse down onto the ground. For a moment I frowned at him in disapprobation, [Je ne voulais pas que vous—tant pis. Dormir,] I muttered and turned away.
I listened to the rushing water outside, before yawning and making my decision. [Lighten my darkness, I beseech Thee, O Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend me from all perils and dangers of this night, for the love of Thy only Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen, ] I prayed as had been my custom every night I had spent in the colonies.
I lay down, as far from my Indian guardian as possible without touching the dirt wall, his musket between us, and tried to sleep. But I couldn't. Sleep eluded me. I was cold—my dress though tailored for travel and riding was not meant for a long trek through the wood on foot, nor to spare me from the cold. I was lonely—my sister whom I loved and the close friend whom I had known since my youth, whom I had allowed myself to foolishly lose my heart to, were gone…dead. I was afraid—of the creatures of the wilds, of the nightmares which haunted my sleep, of the bugs, of the bloodshed which would replay being my closed eyelids the moment I shut them, of a myriad of other things. I wanted to run into my father's arms and sob—but I could not, he was not here. I shut my eyes in hopes of sleep, but the idea that any number of worms and beetles could be anywhere near me drove sleep away as surly as the sun drove away the dark. I had slept above ground in leaves and brush despite the possibility of those creatures, but this was different. I was beneath the ground, bugs could be over and under me as well as on either side. It was horrible!
Spiders… grubs… beetles….
I shuddered and concentrated on the creek, on the dim memory of the waves from my early childhood, on the memory the waves on the voyage from England. The water was so different, the same element—yes—but in one place sweet, the other salty and bitter. Here it flowed swiftly in one direction, curving around rocks, dancing over stones, carving a path through the woods, the Atlantic Ocean had been cold, cruel, an ever moving creature rippling as far as the eye could see, with swirling currents below the surface, and the Caribbean Sea had been a warm, glittering gem in comparison, a myriad of colors and moods—how long since I had seen that ocean? Twenty years? Seventeen was more like it.
I missed the warm sea breeze, but I missed my bath-tub more, and my maid Nelly and, and…my mind flitted over memories of dances and parties, over quiet dinners at home, over hunts and rides out in the country. None of that had prepared me for this journey.
The steadily fading light suddenly vanished completely. Night had fallen like a thick woolen blanket, but it brought no warmth.
[Nuxa!] The word ripped from Uncas' lips in a strangled, desperate way, and he turned suddenly.
I startled so badly that I sat up and bumped my head. I stared at the place where I knew he lay, but though my eyes strained they could not pierce the dark. It seemed like hours that I watched before he moved again, and then it was only a slight shift which I only detected because of the the word he whispered:
[Nuxa….]
For a long while more I studied his still form, but he seemed to have relaxed into untroubled sleep once more. Finally I lay back down, but my thoughts no longer wandered. Instead they were fastened on the object at my back. I had seen it glint in the sun, so beautifully polished, with hardly a nick upon its varnish. I longed to test its range, to feel its recoil. How different was it from the short hunter's gun I had hunted with in England, or the pistol that my father always kept on the mantle, or my great-grandfather's 'ancient' gold-gilded matchlock? I had heard its report a hundred times it seemed, in the caves behind the falls, on the hill during the rescue, in the blockhouse….
A hunter's musket is not a proper accessory for an Englishwoman, Cora! No, and neither are the wild thoughts that accompany the use of such a weapon! I will not examine it nor ask to!
Nuxa? What did that mean? I had not the faintest idea. It had haunted my protector's dreams. A person perhaps, or a cry for help? Niluna kënch may? What did that mean? Considering the context perhaps it meant Run! or Enemies are at hand!? Tèka, kapa, what had that meant, Careful!?
Somehow trying to decipher his language lulled my mind fro sleep. French, Italian, German… not to mention my father's native Scottish, were all languages I had learned. Surely Delaware could not be all that difficult to master. My eyes closed. Sleep, dreamless sleep, fell upon me and my breath evened out.
I woke some hours later, wonderfully rested. The hidden stones dug sharply into my back, I was stiff, sore and my feet were half numb with cold. I sat up slowly and stretched my arms as best I could in the enclosed space. Then I saw it. The grub on my skirt. I shrieked soundlessly, and slithered out of the burrow as quickly as I could. My feet plunged into the water and this time I squeaked aloud. Shivering, I splashed over to a protruding rock near the far bank and sat down. Then to the music of my rumbling stomach I debated wether to take a dip as well as give my clothes a wash, or not. The water was cold as ice, the sun was not yet overhead, and I was coated in grime. My riding habit was in worse condition, and I dared not wonder what my undergarments were like. I shuddered at the thought. I dipped a foot in the water and the loose bandage swirled away in the current.
[Ahhh! Cold!] I gasped, and drew my foot back out. I glowered at the water and very deliberately stepped off my perch and into the cold. With trembling fingers I unplaited my wavy, now oily and dirty, black hair. Carefully I began removing each article of clothing as quickly as I could. The moment it was off I plunged it beneath the flow and scrubbed and beat it till it at least bore the semblance of being clean. Then I hung it on an overhanging branch. Finally I was standing in only my petticoat. The skin of my feet and legs took on a blueish tinge and goose flesh rose on every inch of my body. My teeth chattered and my whole person shook with each shiver. After a brief argument between the different parts of my mind, I waded out to the deepest part of the creek and plunged myself in and under.
The water was indescribably cold—
—bitterly cold,
—numbing,
—glacial,
—bitting.
Quickly I scrubbed at myself and and the surged up, gasping for air. Once more I crouched down and rubbed my legs, my chest, my hair, all of me—and then I splashed out and onto the steep bank. There I wrung myself out as best I could and danced around in the sunlight. My staunch had ceased to complain, or at least, I could no longer feel it. I was cold. What had ever possessed me to think it was a rational idea to take a dip? My teeth were chattering uncontrollably, I was afraid I would bite my tongue of so I kept my mouth clamped tight—not that that kept me from chattering.
Gradually I became accustomed to the cold. I was once more able to glance about me and appreciate the beauty of nature. Even after eleven days in the wilderness, I had not yet ceased to be amazed by my surroundings. The trees and undergrowth were unknown to me, though some were similar to those in Europe. I longed to draw them—oh for an easel and colors! But imprinting them on my mind would have to do. The vivid colors the reds and golds and greens astonished me, who was accustomed to the stately, reserved, dreary winters of the British Isles.
Oh those happy girls, they had envied Alice and I, oh how they had! But what was there to envy now? Hardship? Fear? Loss? The romantic notion of being lost in the wilderness of the Americas in the midst of a war? The romance of the possibility that some handsome English soldier of good fortune would stumble upon me and save from the clutches of some evil? That I would marry that hypothetical and imaginary man? No, there is no romance in my plight, only tragic hardship that there is every reason I will not survive. No the girls would not envy me and if they did, well they would be shallow fools.
Even so, I could envy them their luxury.
I stood up to check my clothes, the wind that had picked up, had dried them as well as me. I was cold through, my garments were dried stiff, but I was clean and I had the sensation of having done something worth my while. I dressed myself and plated my hair. It had been hard, indeed harder than many things I had done, but it was done and I was no longer afraid of the cold waters. I was reminded of my early childhood swimming excursions. Mama had taken me swimming with Papa. She had taught me to ride a horse astride, to calm one, to love one, to master one. She had imparted to me her love of dumb beasts.
But my mother was just a face, one with lustrous black hair piled high atop her head, a playful smile, tender eyes, rustling silk… so many half memories…. She had been there one day, the next… she was gone. A horse gone wild at the sight of a flapping banner. A scream as she was thrown to the ground, thrashing hooves as she tried foolishly to calm her mount. Papa said she went without pain, instantly. A well aimed hoof. A crushed skull. A widowed man left with a young daughter. Painful memories at every turn. He had tried to continue… but within a year he had packed our life up and we were gone from that warm, welcoming home. My grandfather had stood on the dock watching us sail away—that I remembered clearly.
Then we were in England, it had been cold, unwelcoming. I remembered heated conversations, threats, my father's arms around me. His tears. And then Mother Alice. She had been sweet, kind—she had loved me as her own. Taught me little things, played my games, answered my endless questions—given me Nelly. Nelly, my governess, my teacher, my maid, companion and friend. She had also given me Alice, a sister, daughter—someone to shower with love, someone to teach. Oh I had loved Mother Alice! But she too had died.
Papa had told me of Mama's death on my fourteenth birthday. He had described, it in detail, each bloody drop. He had wept with me and talked over every memory I had of her. But after that experience, after I had walked slowly from the sitting room, I had wondered why he had allowed me anywhere near a horse. I had had a friend who's aunt had been killed by a horse and her cousins and been forbidden to go anywhere near horses. When I had asked my father he had looked me in the eye and said, "Cora, my girl, your mother loved the equine species. Loved them with a passion. She didn't care if it was improper to ride astride, she rode like that because she could feel her horse, really feel her mount that way, That grey who killed her—he was her pride and joy. She confided in me once that if she had to die young she wanted to die near-by a horse—preferably killed by one. I asked her why. and she answered, 'I would feel like a foolish weakling to die in any other way!' Only a horse was strong enough in her opinion to be a viable way to die. Childbirth—she hated it. Drowning—horribly unremarkable. Crushed beneath a wall—it could happen to anybody and it only showed how stupid you were to stand near an unsteady wall. Crushed beneath a horse—either you had absolutely no control of the circumstances, or were incredibly stupid or brave. In her opinion, she was not stupid around horses and thus her death could only be out of her hands, or, entirely of her own choice." I understood what he meant, Mama would not have wished him to take away from me what had been so central in her life. She would not have wanted me to be helpless around horses. So I was well taught. I could ride well, I knew how to buy a horse, how to look for good points of confirmation, to tell a horse's age, to see lameness. And a hundred thousand other things about them.
From what Papa had told me of her, she would have been entirely unfazed by this untamed wilderness. She, he had claimed once, was without fear as any mortal could be. Hunger gnawed at my insides, but I ignored it. There would be no food till Uncas awoke, and I would not be waking him. A single woman simply does not wake a half clothed man.
The sun rose higher and I warmed slowly. My suddenly heavy lids drooped….
A soft voice at my ear woke me.
I sat up, unconsciously straightening my skirt. [Hmmm?]
A dark, familiar face hovered before me. Sharp, kind, eyes peered at me. A blue turtle stood out upon the man's chest. I raised my eyes to his questioningly once more.
[Eat.]
Then I saw the charred, steaming parcel in his outstretched hand. I took it tentatively, but the smells wafting up from it caused my mouth to water. Sweet, tangy, even. I unwrapped the leaves and saw the fish, baked to perfection. I smiled. [Thank-you,] I murmured, and began to peel off the green scales. White steam rose into the cool air and in a very unladylike manner I nearly inhaled the pinkish flesh, so quickly did I eat. When I was finished my fingertips were burnt, as well as my tongue. A neat pile of bones lay on the charred leaf wrapping. I looked up at Uncas, strangely self-conscious of my bad manners, he was sitting on the ground watching me with a half smile, clearly amused by the show. His own repast I saw balanced on his leg, half-eaten and forgotten. With a sniff I stood, evening was falling, I lifted my skirts daintily and waded through the water. Without a backward glance I crawled into the den and lay myself down to sleep. [Lighten my darkness, I beseech Thee, O Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend me from all perils and dangers of this night, for the love of Thy only Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.]
Then sleep took me.
A/N: The story of Cora's mom's death was fabricated entirely by me. Alice's mom's death during childbirth is book canon.
[1] This is an excerpt from an encyclopedia which is why I chose Jamaica:
Other Europeans learned of the wealth of the West Indies. Pirates from England, France, and the Netherlands attacked Spanish ships and ports and stole valuable cargo. In the 1600's, the Danes, Dutch, English, and French established colonies on the smaller islands. In 1655, the English concurred Jamaica. The French took control of part of Hispaniola in 1697.
From the late 1600's through the 1700's, the colonial powers gained great wealth from sugar grown in the West Indies. The Europeans brought millions of black African slaves to the islands to work on plantations.
[2] Lighten my darkness, I beseech Thee, O Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend me from all perils and dangers of this night, for the love of Thy only Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. This is a prayer I found in:
The book of common prayer, and administration of the sacraments, and other rites and ceremonies of the church, according to the use of the Church of England : together with the psalter or Psalms of David, pointed as they are to be sung or said in churches
(It is a very old book with a very long title. I edited it slightly, changing the word 'we' to 'I' to make more sense.)
[3] It is high time I tell you all about my characters background. This is how I understand the Monro family history which the colonel relates to Dunacn in chapter 16 of THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS by J.F. Cooper. It is important to note is that I do not know anyone's exact ages, I will underline what is canon and leave alone what ins mine. Many of my dates are calculated by finding Alice's age, which I made up so they are true, if Alice is 17 in 1757, if she isn't then most are wrong. Anyway here you go:
If I say that Alice died at the age of 17 in the year 1757, then Alice Monro (formerly Graham) would have married Colonel Monro a year before Alice Monro was born (1739) after waiting twenty years for her former lover to return which gives me the year 1719 for the year that Monro left.
If Cora is 5-6 years older than Alice (that puts her at the age of 22-23 in the year 1757) then that means she was born in 1735-1734. That leads me to believe that Monro 'wandered' for quite some time with the army (10-12 years) before being shipped (1729-1731) to Jamaica (the island I have chosen because of its long standing with England as it was conquered in 1655. See the first note for when the West Indies were colonized.) then after 1 year married Cora's mother (I am giving him time to court her properly, making the year of his first marriage 1730-1732). If I give Monro a year to get from Jamaica to England and marry Alice, then Cora's mom dies in the year 1738, 6-8 years after Cora's parent's marriage. That means Cora would be 3-4 years old at her mother's death and 4-5 years old when Alice becomes her mother and 5-6 when she gains a sister and loses a second mother.
Here is a timeline that might make more sense:
1719 - Monro (26 yrs is the age I have chosen) joins British army
1729-1731 - Monro is shipped to Jamaica
1730-1732 - Monro marries
1735-1734 - Cora is born
1738 - Cora's mom dies
1739 - Colonel Monro marries Alice Graham
1740 - Alice Monro is born, Alice (Graham) Monro dies
!757 - events of THHC (all I have written or will write in the future)