Canadian Crusoes

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"They do, indeed, look ugly," said Catharine; "yet the girdled ones look
very nearly as ill." [Footnote: The girdled pines are killed by barking
them round, to facilitate the clearing.]

At the end of two days the fires had ceased to rage, though the dim
smoke-wreaths to the westward showed where the work of destruction was
still going on.

As there was no appearance of any Indians on the lake, nor yet at the point
(Andersen's Point, as it is now called), on the other side, they concluded
the fires had possibly originated by accident,--some casual hunter or
trapper having left his camp-fire unextinguished; but as they were not
very likely to come across the scene of the conflagration, they decided
on returning back to their old home without delay; and it was with some
feeling of anxiety that they hastened to see what evil had befallen their
shanty.

"The shanty is burned!" was the simultaneous exclamation of both Louis and
Hector, as they reached the rising ground that should have commanded a
view of its roof. "It is well for us that we secured our things in the
root-house," said Hector.

"Well, if that is safe, who cares? we can soon build up a new house, larger
and better than the old one," said Louis. "The chief of our fence is gone,
too, I see; but that we can renew at our leisure; no hurry, if we get it
done a month hence, say I. Come, _ma belle_, do not look so sorrowful.
There is our little squaw will help us to set up a capital wigwam, while
the new house is building." "But the nice table that you made, Louis, and
the benches and shelves!"

"Never mind, Cathy, we will have better tables, and benches, and shelves
too. Never fear, _ma chere_, the same industrious Louis will make things
comfortable. I am not sorry the old shanty is down; we shall have a famous
one put up, twice as large, for the winter. After the corn is planted we
shall have nothing else to do but to think about it."

The next two or three days was spent in erecting a wigwam, with poles and
birch bark; and as the weather was warm and pleasant, they did not feel the
inconvenience so much as they would have done had it been earlier in the
season. The root-house formed an excellent store-house and pantry; and
Indiana contrived, in putting up the wigwam, to leave certain loose folds
between the birch-bark lining and outer covering, which formed a series of
pouches or bags, in which many articles could be stowed away out of sight.
[Footnote: In this way the winter wigwams of the Indians are constructed so
as to give plenty of stowing room for all their little household matters,
materials for work, &c.]

While the girls were busy contriving the arrangements of the wigwam,
the two boys were not idle. The time was come for planting the corn; a
succession of heavy thunder-showers had soaked and softened the scorched
earth, and rendered the labour of moving it much easier than they had
anticipated. They had cut for themselves wooden trowels, with which they
raised the hills for the seed. The corn planted, they next turned their
attention to cutting house-logs; those which they had prepared had been
burned up; so they had their labour to begin again.

The two girls proved good helps at the raising; and in the course of a few
weeks they had the comfort of seeing a more commodious dwelling than the
former one put up. The finishing of this, with weeding the Indian corn,
renewing the fence, and fishing, and trapping, and shooting partridges and
ducks and pigeons, fully occupied their time this summer. The fruit season
was less abundant this year than the previous one. The fire had done this
mischief, and they had to go far a-field to collect fruits during the
summer months.

It so happened that Indiana had gone out early one morning with the boys,
and Catharine was alone. She had gone down to the spring for water, and on
her return was surprised at the sight of a squaw and her family of three
half-grown lads, and an innocent little brown papoose. [Footnote: An Indian
baby; but "papoose" is not an Indian word. It is probably derived from the
Indian imitation of the word "baines."] In their turn the strangers seemed
equally astonished at Catharine's appearance.

The smiling aspect and good-natured laugh of the female, however, soon
reassured the frightened girl, and she gladly gave her the water which she
had in her birch dish, on her signifying her desire for drink. To this
Catharine added some berries, and dried venison, and a bit of maple sugar,
which was received with grateful looks by the boys; she patted the brown
baby, and was glad when the mother released it from its wooden cradle, and
fed and nursed it. The squaw seemed to notice the difference between the
colour of her young hostess's fair skin and her own swarthy hue; for she
often took her hand, stripped up the sleeve of her dress, and compared her
arm with her own, uttering exclamations of astonishment and curiosity;
possibly Catharine was the first of a fair-skinned race this poor savage
had ever seen. After her meal was finished, she set the birchen dish on the
floor, and restrapping the papoose in its cradle prison, she slipped the
basswood-bark rope over her forehead, and silently signing to her sons to
follow her, she departed. That evening a pair of ducks were found fastened
to the wooden latch of the door, a silent offering of gratitude for the
refreshment that had been afforded to this Indian woman and her children.

Indiana thought, from Catharine's description, that these were Indians with
whom she was acquainted she spent some days in watching the lake and the
ravine, lest a larger and more formidable party should be near. The squaw,
she said, was a widow, and went by the name of Mother Snow-storm, from
having been lost in the woods, when a little child, during a heavy storm of
snow, and nearly starved to death. She was a gentle, kind woman, and, she
believed, would not do any of them hurt. Her sons were good hunters; and
though so young, helped to support their mother, and were very good to her
and the little one.

I must now pass over a considerable interval of time, with merely a brief
notice that the crop of corn was carefully harvested, and proved abundant,
and a source of great comfort. The rice was gathered and stored, and plenty
of game and fish laid by, with an additional store of honey.

The Indians, for some reason, did not pay their accustomed visit to the
lake this season. Indiana said they might be engaged with war among some
hostile tribes, or had gone to other hunting grounds. The winter was
unusually mild, and it was long before it set in. Yet the spring following
was tardy, and later than usual. It was the latter end of May before
vegetation had made any very decided progress.

The little loghouse presented a neat and comfortable appearance, both
within and without. Indiana had woven a handsome mat of bass bark for the
floor; Louis and Hector had furnished it with very decent seats and a
table, rough, but still very respectably constructed, considering their
only tools were a tomahawk, a knife, and wooden wedges for splitting the
wood into slabs. These Louis afterwards smoothed with great care and
patience. Their bedsteads were furnished with thick, soft mate, woven by
Indiana and Catharine, from rushes which they cut and dried; but the little
squaw herself preferred lying on a mat or deer-skin on the floor before the
fire, as she had been accustomed.

A new field had been enclosed, and a fresh crop of corn planted, and
was now green and flourishing. Peace and happiness dwelt within the
loghouse;--but for the regrets that ever attended the remembrance of all
they had left and lost, no cloud would have dimmed the serenity of those
who dwelt beneath its humble roof.

The season of flowers had again arrived,--the earth, renovated by the fire
of the former year, bloomed with fresh beauty,--June, with its fragrant
store of roses and lilies, was now far advanced,--the anniversary of that
time when they had left their beloved parents' roofs, to become sojourners
in the lonely wilderness, had returned. Much they felt they had to be
grateful for. Many privations, it is true, and much anxiety they had felt;
but they had enjoyed blessings above all that they could have expected, and
they might, like the Psalmist when recounting the escapes of the people
of God, have said,--"Oh that men would therefore praise the Lord for his
goodness, and the wonders that he doeth for the children of men." And now
they declared no greater evil could befal them than to lose one of their
little party, for even Indiana had become as a dear and beloved sister; her
gentleness, her gratitude and faithful trusting love, seemed each day to
increase. Now, indeed, she was bound to them by a yet more sacred tie, for
she knelt to the same God, and acknowledged, with fervent love, the mercies
of her Redeemer. She had made great progress in learning their language,
and had also taught her friends to speak and understand much of her own
tongue; so that they were now no longer at a loss to converse with her on
any subject. Thus was this Indian girl united to them in bonds of social
and Christian love.

Hector, Louis, and Indiana had gone over the hills to follow the track of
a deer which had paid a visit to the young corn, now sprouting and showing
symptoms of shooting up to blossom. Catharine usually preferred staying at
home, and preparing the meals against their return. She had gathered some
fine ripe strawberries, which, with plenty of stewed rice, Indian meal
cake, and maple sugar, was to make their dinner. She was weary and warm,
for the day had been hot and sultry. Seating herself on the threshold of
the door, she leaned her tack against the doorpost, and closed her eyes.
Perhaps the poor child's thoughts were wandering back to her far-off,
never-to-be-forgotten home, or she might be thinking of the hunters and
their game. Suddenly a vague, undefinable feeling of dread stole over her
mind: she heard no steps, she felt no breath, she saw no form; but there
was a strange consciousness that she was not alone--that some unseen being
was near, some eye was upon her. I have heard of sleepers starting from
sleep the most profound when the noiseless hand of the assassin has been
raised to destroy them, as if the power of the human eye could be felt
through the closed lid.

Thus fared it with Catharine: she felt as if some unseen enemy was near
her; and, springing to her feet, she cast a wild, troubled glance around.
No living being met her eye; and, ashamed of her cowardice, she resumed her
seat. The tremulous cry of her little grey squirrel, a pet which she had
tamed and taught to run to her and nestle in her bosom, attracted her
attention.

"What aileth thee, wee dearie?" she said, tenderly, as the timid little
creature crept, trembling, to her breast. "Thy mistress has scared thee by
her own foolish fears. See now, there is neither cat-a-mount nor weasel
here to seize thee, silly one;" and as she spoke she raised her head, and
flung back the thick clusters of soft fair hair that shaded her eyes. The
deadly glare of a pair of dark eyes fixed upon her met her terrified gaze,
gleaming with sullen ferocity from the angle of the door-post, whence the
upper part of the face alone was visible, partly concealed by a mat of
tangled, shaggy, black hair. Paralysed with fear, the poor girl neither
spoke nor moved; she uttered no cry; but pressing her hands tightly across
her breast, as if to still the loud beating of her heart, she sat gazing
upon that fearful appearance, while, with stealthy step, the savage
advanced from his lurking-place, keeping, as he did so, his eyes riveted
upon hers, with such a gaze as the wily serpent is said to fascinate his
prey. His hapless victim moved not; whither could she flee to escape one
whose fleet foot could so easily have overtaken her in the race? where
conceal herself from him whose wary eye fixed upon her seemed to deprive
her of all vital energy?

Uttering that singular, expressive guttural which seems with the Indian to
answer the purpose of every other exclamation, he advanced, and taking the
girl's ice-cold hands in his, tightly bound them with a thong of deer's
hide, and led her unresistingly away. By a circuitous path through the
ravine they reached the foot of the mount, where lay a birch canoe, rocking
gently on the waters, in which a middle-aged female and a young girl were
seated. The females asked no questions, and expressed no word indicative of
curiosity or surprise, as the strong arm of the Indian lifted his captive
into the canoe, and made signs to the elder squaw to push from the shore.
When all had taken their places, the woman, catching up a paddle from the
bottom of the little vessel, stood up, and with a few rapid strokes sent it
skimming over the lake.

The miserable captive, overpowered with the sense of her calamitous
situation, bowed down her head upon her knees, and concealing her agitated
face in her garments, wept in silent agony. Visions of horror presented
themselves to her bewildered brain--all that Indiana had described of the
cruelty of this vindictive race, came vividly before her mind. Poor child,
what miserable thoughts were thine during that brief voyage!

Had the Indians also captured her friends? or was she alone to be the
victim of their vengeance? What would be the feelings of those I beloved
ones on returning to their home and finding it desolate! Was there no hope
of release? As these ideas chased each other through her agitated mind, she
raised her eyes all streaming with tears to the faces of the Indian and his
companions with so piteous a look, that any heart but the stoical one of an
Indian would have softened at its sad appeal; but no answering glance of
sympathy met hers, no eye gave back its silent look of pity--not a nerve
or a muscle moved the cold apathetic features of the Indians, and the
woe-stricken girl again resumed her melancholy attitude, burying her
face in her heaving bosom to hide its bitter emotions from the heartless
strangers.

She was not folly aware that it is part of the Indian's education to hide
the inward feelings of the heart, to check all those soft and tender
emotions which distinguish the civilized man from the savage.

It does indeed need the softening influence of that powerful Spirit, which
was shed abroad into the world to turn the hearts of the disobedient to the
wisdom of the just, to break down the strongholds of unrighteousness, and
to teach man that he is by nature the child of wrath and victim of sin, and
that in his unregenerated nature his whole mind is at enmity with God and
his fellow-men, and that in his flesh dwelleth no good thing. And the
Indian has acknowledged that power,--he has cast his idols of cruelty and
revenge, those virtues on which he prided himself in the blindness of his
heart, to the moles and the bats; he has bowed and adored at the foot of
the Cross;--but it was not so in the days whereof I have spoken. [Footnote:
Appendix K.]

CHAPTER XII.

"Must this sweet new-blown rose find such, a winter
Before her spring be past?"
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

The little bark touched the stony point of Long Island. The Indian lifted
his weeping prisoner from the canoe, and motioned to her to move forward
along the narrow path that led to the camp, about twenty yards higher up
the bank, where there was a little grassy spot enclosed, with shrubby
trees--the squaws tarried at the lake-shore to bring up the paddles and
secure the canoe.

It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of an enemy, but doubly so,
when that enemy is a stranger to the language in which we would plead for
mercy--whose God is not our God, nor his laws those by which we ourselves
are governed. Thus felt the poor captive as she stood alone, mute with
terror among the half-naked dusky forms with which she now found herself
surrounded. She cast a hurried glance round that strange assembly, if by
chance her eye might rest upon some dear familiar face, but she saw not
the kind but grave face of Hector, nor met the bright sparkling eye of her
cousin Louis, nor the soft, subdued, pensive features of the Indian girl,
her adopted sister--she stood alone among those wild gloomy-looking men;
some turned away their eyes as if they would not meet her woe-stricken
countenance, lest they should be moved to pity her sad condition; no wonder
that, overcome by the sense of her utter friendliness, she hid her face
with her fettered hands and wept in despair. But the Indian's sympathy is
not moved by tears and sighs; calmness, courage, defiance of danger and
contempt of death, are what he venerates and admires even in an enemy.

The Indians beheld her grief unmoved. At length the old man, who seemed to
be a chief among the rest, motioned to one of the women who leant against
the side of the wigwam, to come forward and lead away the stranger;
Catharine, whose senses were beginning to be more collected, heard the old
man give orders that she was to be fed and cared for. Gladly did she escape
from the presence of those pitiless men, from whose gaze she shrunk with
maidenly modesty. And now when alone with the women she hesitated not to
make use of that natural language which requires not the aid of speech to
make itself understood; clasping her hands imploringly, she knelt at the
feet of the Indian woman, her conductress--kissed her dark hands and bathed
them with her fast flowing tears, while she pointed passionately to the
shore where lay the happy home from which she had been so suddenly torn.

The squaw, though she evidently comprehended the meaning of her imploring
gestures, shook her head, and in plaintive earnest tone replied in her own
language, that she must go with the canoes to the other shore,--and she
pointed to the north as she spoke. She then motioned to the young girl--the
same that had been Catharine's companion in the canoe--to bring a hunting
knife, which was thrust into one of the folds of the birch-bark of the
wigwam. Catharine beheld the deadly weapon in the hands of the Indian woman
with a pang of agony as great as if its sharp edge was already at her
throat. So young--so young, to die by a cruel bloody death! what had been
her crime?--how should she find words to soften the heart of her murderess?
The power of utterance seemed denied--she cast herself on her knees and
held up her hands in silent prayer; not to the dreaded Indian woman, but to
Him who heareth the prayer of the poor destitute--who alone can order the
unruly wills and affections of men.

The squaw stretched forth one dark hand and grasped the arm of the
terror-struck girl, while the other held the weapon of destruction; with a
quick movement she severed the thongs that bound the fettered wrists of the
pleading captive, and with a smile that seemed to light up her whole face
she raised her from her prostrate position, laid her hand upon her young
head, and with an expression of good-humoured surprise lifted the flowing
tresses of her sunny hair and spread them over the back of her own swarthy
hand; then, as if amused by the striking contrast, she shook down her own
jetty-black hair and twined a tress of it with one of the fair haired
girl's--then laughed till her teeth shone like pearls within her red lips.
Many were the exclamations of childish wonder that broke from the other
females, as they compared the snowy arm of the stranger with their own
dusky skins; it was plain that they had no intention of harming her, and by
degrees distrust and dread of her singular companions began in some measure
to subside.

The squaw motioned her to take a seat on a mat beside her, and gave her a
handful of parched rice and some deer's flesh to eat; but Catharine's heart
was too heavy; she was suffering from thirst, and on pronouncing the Indian
word for water, the young girl snatched up a piece of birch-bark from the
floor of the tent, and gathering the corners together, ran to the lake, and
soon returned with water in this most primitive drinking vessel, which
she held to the lips of her guest, and she seemed amused by the long deep
draught with which Catharine slaked her thirst; and something like a gleam
of hope came over her mind as she marked the look of kindly feeling with
which she caught the young Indian girl regarding her, and she strove to
overcome the choking sensation that would from time to time rise to her
throat, as she fluctuated between hope and fear. The position of the Indian
camp was so placed that it was quite hidden from the shore, and neither
could Catharine see the mouth of the ravine, nor the steep side of the
mount that her brothers were accustomed to ascend and descend in their
visits to the lake shore, nor had she any means of making a signal to them
even if she had seen them on the beach.

The long, anxious, watchful night passed, and soon after sunrise, while
the morning mists still hung over the lake, the canoes of the Indians
were launched, and long before noon they were in the mouth of the river.
Catharine's heart sunk within her as the fast receding shores of the lake
showed each minute fainter in the distance. At midday they halted at a
fine bend in the river, where a small open place and a creek flowing down
through the woods afforded them cool water; and here they found several
tents put up and a larger party awaiting their return. The river was here
a fine, broad, deep and tranquil stream; trees of many kinds fringed the
edge; beyond was the unbroken forest, whose depths had never been pierced
by the step of man--so thick and luxuriant was the vegetation that even the
Indian could hardly have penetrated through its dark swampy glades: far
as the eye could reach, that impenetrable interminable wall of verdure
stretched away into the far off distance.

On that spot where our Indian camp then stood, are now pleasant open
meadows, with an avenue of fine pines and balsams; showing on the eminence
above, a large substantial dwelling-house surrounded by a luxuriant orchard
and garden, the property of a naval officer, [Footnote: Lt. Rubidge,
whose interesting account of his early settlement may be read in a letter
inserted in Captain Basil Hall's Letters from Canada.] who with the
courage and perseverance that mark brave men of his class, first ventured
to break the bush and locate himself and his infant family in the lonely
wilderness, then far from any beaten road or the haunts of his fellow-men.

But at the period of which I write, the axe of the adventurous settler had
not levelled one trunk of that vast forest, neither had the fire scathed
it; no voices of happy joyous children had rung through those shades, nor
sound of rural labour nor bleating flock awakened its echoes.

All the remainder of that sad day, Catharine sat on the grass under a shady
tree, her eyes mournfully fixed on the slow flowing waters, and wondering
at her own hard fate in being thus torn from her home and its dear inmates.
Bad as she had thought her separation from her father and mother and her
brothers, when she first left her home to become a wanderer on the Rice
Lake Plains, how much more dismal now was her situation, snatched from the
dear companions who had upheld and cheered her on in all her sorrows! But
now she was alone with none to love or cherish or console her, she felt a
desolation of spirit that almost made her forgetful of that trust that had
hitherto always sustained her in time of trouble or sickness. She looked
round, and her eye fell on the strange unseemly forms of men and women,
who cared not for her, and to whom she was an object of indifference or
aversion: she wept when she thought of the grief that her absence would
occasion to Hector and Louis; the thought of their distress increased her
own.

The soothing quiet of the scene, with the low lulling sound of the little
brook as its tiny wavelets fell tinkling over the massy roots and stones
that impeded its course to the river, joined with fatigue and long exposure
to the sun and air, caused her at length to fall asleep. The last rosy
light of the setting sun was dyeing the waters with a glowing tint when she
awoke; a soft blue haze hung upon the trees; the kingfisher and dragon-fly,
and a solitary loon, were the only busy things abroad on the river; the
first darting up and down from an upturned root near the water's edge,
feeding its youngings; the dragon-fly hawking with rapid whirring sound for
insects, and the loon, just visible from above the surface of the still
stream, sailed quietly on companionless, like her who watched its
movements.

The bustle of the hunters returning with game and fish to the encampment
roused many a sleepy brown papoose, the fires were renewed, and the evening
meal was now preparing,--and Catharine, chilled by the falling dew, crept
to the enlivening warmth. And here she was pleased at being recognised by
one friendly face--it was the mild and benevolent countenance of the widow
Snowstorm, who, with her three sons, came to bid her to share their camp
fire and food. The kindly grasp of the hand, the beaming smile that was
given by this good creature, albeit she was ugly and ill-featured, cheered
the sad captive's heart. She had given her a cup of cold water and what
food her log-cabin afforded, and in return the good Indian took her to her
wigwam and fed, and warmed, and cherished her with the loving-kindness of
a Christian; and during all her sojourn in the Indian camp she was as a
tender mother over her, drying her tears and showing her those little
acts of attention that even the untaught Indians know are grateful to the
sorrowful and destitute. Catharine often forgot her own griefs to repay
this worthy creature's kindness, by attending to her little babe and
assisting her in some of her homely preparations of cookery or household
work. She knew that a selfish indulgence in sorrow would do her no good,
and after the lapse of some days she so well disciplined her own heart as
to check her tears at least in the presence of the Indian women, and to
assume an air of comparative cheerfulness. Once she found Indian words
enough to ask the Indian widow to convey her back to the lake, but she
shook her head and bade her not think anything about it; and added, that in
the fall, when the ducks came to the rice-beds, they should all return, and
then if she could obtain leave from the chief, she would restore her to
her lodge on the plains; but signified to her that patience was her only
present remedy, and that submission to the will of the chief was her wisest
plan. Comforted by this vague promise, Catharine strove to be reconciled to
her strange lot, and still stranger companions. She could not help being
surprised at the want of curiosity respecting her that was shown by the
Indians in the wigwam, when she was brought thither; they appeared to take
little notice that a stranger and one so dissimilar to themselves had been
introduced into the camp, for before her they asked no questions about her,
whatever they might do when she was absent, though they surveyed her with
silent attention. Catharine learned, by long acquaintance with this people,
that an outward manifestation of surprise [Footnote: See Appendix L.] is
considered a want of etiquette and good breeding, or rather a proof of
weakness and childishness. The women, like other females, are certainly
less disposed to repress this feeling of inquisitiveness than the men, and
one of their great sources of amusement, when Catharine was among them, was
examining the difference of texture and colour of her skin and hair, and
holding long consultations over them. The young girl and her mother, those
who had paddled the canoe the day she was carried away to the island,
showed her much kindness in a quiet way. The young squaw was granddaughter
to the old chief, and seemed to be regarded with considerable respect by
the rest of the women; she was a gay lively creature, often laughing, and
seemed to enjoy an inexhaustible fund of good humour. She was inclined to
extend her patronage to the young stranger, making her eat out of her own
bark dish, and sit beside her on her own mat. She wove a chain of the
sweet-scented grass with which the Indians delight in adorning themselves,
likewise in perfuming their lodges with bunches or strewings upon the
floor. She took great pains in teaching her how to acquire the proper
attitude of sitting, after the fashion of the Eastern nations, which
position the Indian women assume when at rest in their wigwams. The Indian
name of this little damsel signified the Snow-bird. She was, like that
lively restless bird, always flitting to and fro from tent to tent, as
garrulous and as cheerful too as that merry little herald of the spring.

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