Logan Marshall - "Favorite Fairy Tales"

Katharine Tynan - "Mary Gray"

John H. Haaren, LL.D. and A. B. Poland, Ph.D. - "Famous Men of The Middle Ages"

Ferdinand Raimund - "Der Diamant des Geisterkoenigs"

Canadian Crusoes

C >> Catherine Parr Traill >> Canadian Crusoes




"What are you about, Louis?" asked Hector. "Lighting a fire."

"It is warm enough without a fire, I am sure."

"I know that, but I want to attract the notice of yonder tiresome
fisherman."

"And perhaps bring a swarm of savages down upon us, who may be lurking in
the bushes of the island."

"Pooh, pooh! Hec.:--there are no savages. I am weary of this
place--anything is better than this horrible solitude." And Louis fanned
the flame into a rapid blaze, and heaped up the light dry branches till
it soared up among the bushes. Louis watched the effect of his fire, and
rubbed his hands gleefully as the bark canoe was pushed off from the
island, and a few vigorous strokes of the paddle sent it dancing over the
surface of the calm lake.

Louis waved his cap above his head with a cheer of welcome as the vessel
lightly glided into the little cove, near the spot where the boys were
chopping, and a stout-framed, weather-beaten man, in a blanket coat, also
faded and weather-beaten, with a red worsted sash and worn mocassins,
sprung upon one of the timbers of Louis's old raft, and gazed with a keen
eye upon the lads. Each party silently regarded the other. A few rapid
interrogations from the stranger, uttered in the broad patois of the Lower
Province, were answered in a mixture of broken French and English by Louis.

A change like lightning passed over the face of the old man as he cried
out--"Louis Perron, son of my ancient compagnon."

"Oui! oui!"--with eyes sparkling through tears of joy, Louis threw himself
into the broad breast of Jacob Morelle, his father's friend and old
lumbering comrade.

"Hector, son of la belle Catharine Perron,--and Hector, in his turn,
received the affectionate embrace of the warm-hearted old man.

"Who would have thought of meeting with the children of my old comrade here
at the shore of the Rice Lake?--oh! what a joyful meeting!"

Jacob had a hundred questions to ask: Where were their parents? did they
live on the Plains now? how long was it since they had left the Cold
Springs? were there any more little ones? and so forth.

The boys looked sorrowfully at each other. At last the old man stopped for
want of breath, and remarked their sad looks.

"What, mes fils, are your parents dead? Ah well! I did not think to have
outlived them; but they have not led such healthy lives as old Jacob
Morelle--hunting, fishing, lumbering, trapping,--those are the things to
harden a man and make him as tough as a stock-fish--eh! mes enfans, is it
not so?"

Hector then told the old lumberer how long they had been separated from
their families, and by what sad accident they had been deprived of the
society of their beloved sister. When they brought their narrative down to
the disappearance of Catharine, the whole soul of the old trapper seemed
moved--he started from the log on which they were sitting, and with one of
his national asseverations, declared "That la bonne fille should not remain
an hour longer than he could help among those savage wretches. Yes, he, her
father's old friend, would go up the river and bring her back in safety, or
leave his grey scalp behind him among the wigwams."

"It is too late, Jacob, to think of starting today," said Hector. "Come
home with us, and eat some food, and rest a bit."

"No need of that, my son. I have a lot of fish here in the canoe, and
there is an old shanty on the island yonder, if it be still standing,--the
Trapper's Fort I used to call it some years ago. We will go off to the
island and look for it."

"No need for that," replied Louis, "for though I can tell you the old place
is still in good repair, for we used it this very spring as a boiling
house for our maple sap, yet we have a better place of our own nearer at
hand--just two or three hundred yards over the brow of yonder hill. So come
with us, and you shall have a good supper, and bed to lie upon."

"And you have all these, boys!" said Jacob opening his merry black eyes, as
they came in sight of the little log-house and the field of green corn. The
old man praised the boys for their industry and energy. "Ha! here is old
Wolfe too," as the dog roused himself from the hearth and gave one of his
low grumbling growls. He had grown dull and dreamy, and instead of going
out as usual with the young hunters, he would lie for hours dozing before
the dying embers of the fire. He pined for the loving hand that used to pat
his sides, and caress his shaggy neck, and pillow his great head upon her
lap, or suffer him to put his huge paws upon her shoulders, while he licked
her hands and face; but she was gone, and the Indian girl was gone, and
the light of the shanty had gone with them. Old Wolfe seemed dying of
sorrow.

That evening as Jacob sat on the three-legged stool, smoking his short
Indian pipe, he again would have the whole story of their wanderings over,
and the history of all their doings and contrivances.

"And how far, mes enfans, do you think you are from the Cold Springs?"

"At least twenty miles, perhaps fifty, for it is a long long time now since
we left home, three summers ago."

"Well, boys, you must not reckon distance by the time you have been
absent," said the old "Now I know the distance through the woods, for I
have passed through them on the Indian trail, and by my reckoning as the
bee flies, it cannot be more than seven or eight miles--no, nor that
either."

The boys opened their eyes. "Jacob, is this possible? So near, and yet to
us the distance has been as great as though it were a hundred miles or
more."

"I tell you what, boys, that is the provoking part of it. I remember when
I was out on the St. John's, lumbering, missing my comrades, and I was
well-nigh starving, when I chanced to come back to the spot where we
parted; and I verily believe I had not been two miles distant the whole
eight days that I was moving round and round, and backward and forward,
just in a circle, because, d'ye see, I followed the sun, and that led me
astray the whole time."

"Was that when you well-nigh roasted the bear?" asked Louis, with a sly
glance at Hector.

"Well, no; that was another time; your father was out with me then." And
old Jacob, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, settled himself to recount
the adventure of the bear. Hector, who had heard Louis's edition of the
roast bear, was almost impatient at being forced to listen to old Jacob's
long-winded history, which included about a dozen other stories, all tagged
on to this, like links of a lengthened chain; and was not sorry when the
old lumberer, taking his red nightcap out of his pocket, at last stretched
himself out on a buffalo skin that he had brought up from the canoe, and
soon was soundly sleeping.

The morning was yet grey when the old man shook himself from his slumber,
which, if not deep, had been loud; and after having roused up a good fire,
which, though the latter end of July, at that dewy hour was not unwelcome,
he lighted his pipe, and began broiling a fish on the coals for his
breakfast; and was thus engaged when Hector and Louis wakened.

"Mes enfans," said Jacob, "I have been turning over in my mind about your
sister, and have come to the resolution of going up the river alone without
any one to accompany me. I know the Indians; they are a suspicious people,
they deal much in stratagems, and they are apt to expect treachery in
others. Perhaps they have had some reason; for the white men have not
always kept good faith with them, which I take to be the greater shame, as
they have God's laws to guide and teach them to be true and just in their
dealing, which the poor benighted heathen have not, the more's the pity.
Now, d'ye see, if the Indians see two stout lads with me, they will say to
themselves, there may be more left behind, skulking in ambush. So, boys, I
go to the camp alone; and, God willing, I will bring back your sister,
or die in the attempt. I shall not go single-handed; see, I have here
scarlet-cloth, beads, and powder and shot. I carry no firewater; it is a
sin and a shame to tempt these poor wretches to their own destruction; it
makes fiends of them at once."

It was to no purpose that Hector and Louis passionately besought old Jacob
to let them share the dangers of the expedition; the old man was firm, and
would not be moved from his purpose.

"Look you, boys," he said, "if I do not return by the beginning of the rice
harvest, you may suppose that evil has befallen me and the girl; then I
would advise you to take care for your own safety, for if they do not
respect my grey head, neither will they spare your young ones. In such
case, make yourselves a good canoe--a dug-out [Footnote: Log canoe.] will
do--and go down the lake till you are stopped by the rapids; [Footnote:
Crook's Rapids.] make a portage there; but as your craft is too weighty to
carry far, e'en leave her and chop out another, and go down to the Falls;
[Footnote: Heeley's Falls, on the Trent.] then, if you do not like to be
at any further trouble, you may make out your journey to the Bay [Footnote:
Bay Quinte.] on foot, coasting along the river; there you will fall in
with settlers who know old Jacob Morelle--aye, and your two fathers--and
they will put you in the way of returning home. If I were to try ever so to
put you on the old Indian trail in the woods, though I know it myself right
well, you might be lost, and maybe never return home again. I leave my
traps and my rifle with you; I shall not need them: if I come back I may
claim the things; if not, they are yours. So now I have said my say, had
my _talk_, as the Indians say. Farewell. But first let us pray to Him who
alone can bring this matter to a safe issue." And the old man devoutly
kneeled down, and prayed for a blessing on his voyage and on those he was
leaving; and then hastened down to the beach, and the boys, with full
hearts, watched the canoe till it was lost to their sight on the wide
waters of the lake.




CHAPTER XV.

"Where wild in woods the lordly savage ran."
DRYDEN.

What changes a few years make in places! That spot over which the Indians
roved, free of all control, is now a large and wide-spreading town. Those
glorious old trees are fast fading away, the memory only of them remains to
some of the first settlers, who saw them twenty-five years ago, shadowing
the now open market-place; the fine old oaks have disappeared, but the
green emerald turf that they once shaded still remains. The wild rushing
river still pours down its resistless spring floods, but its banks have
been levelled, and a noble bridge now spans its rapid waters. It has seen
the destruction of two log-bridges, but this new, substantial, imposing
structure bids fair to stand from generation to generation. The Indian
regards it with stupid wonder: he is no mechanic; his simple canoe of birch
bark is his only notion of communication from one shore to another. The
towns-people and country settlers view it with pride and satisfaction,
as a means of commerce and agricultural advantage. That lonely hill, from
which Catharine viewed the rapid-flowing river by moonlight, and marvelled
at its beauty and its power, is now the Court-house Hill, the seat of
justice for the district,--a fine, substantial edifice; its shining roof
and pillared portico may be seen from every approach to the town. That grey
village spire, with its groves of oak and pine, how invitingly it stands!
those trees that embower it, once formed a covert for the deer. Yonder
scattered groups of neat white cottages, each with its garden of flowers
and fruit, are spread over what was once an open plain, thinly planted with
poplar, oaks, and pine. See, there is another church; and nearer, towards
the west end of the town, on that fine slope, stands another, and another.
That sound that falls upon the ear is not the rapids of the river, but the
dash of mill wheels and mill dams, worked by the waters of that lovely
winding brook which has travelled far through woods and deep forest dingles
to yield its tribute to the Otonabee. There is the busy post-office, on the
velvet carpet of turf; a few years, yes, even a few years ago, that spot
was a grove of trees. The neat log building that stood then alone there,
was inhabited by the Government Agent, now Colonel Macdonald, and groups
of Indians might be seen congregated on the green, or reposing under the
trees, forming meet subjects for the painter's pencil, for he knew them
well, and was kind to them.

The Indian only visits the town, once the favourite site for his hunting
lodge, to receive his annual government presents, to trade his simple wares
of basket and birch-bark work, to bring in his furs, or maybe to sell his
fish or venison, and take back such store goods as his intercourse with his
white brethren has made him consider necessary to his comforts, to supply
wants which have now become indispensable, before undreamed of. He
traverses those populous, busy streets, he looks round upon dwellings, and
gay clothes, and equipages, and luxuries which he can neither obtain nor
imitate; and feels his spirit lowered--he is no more a people--the tide of
intellect has borne him down, and swept his humble wigwam from the earth.
He, too, is changing: he now dwells, for the most part, in villages, in
houses that cannot be moved away at his will or necessity; he has become a
tiller of the ground, his hunting expeditions are prescribed within narrow
bounds, the forest is disappearing, the white man is everywhere. The Indian
must also yield to circumstances; he submits patiently. Perhaps he
murmurs in secret; but his voice is low, it is not heard; he has no
representative in the senate to take interest in his welfare, to plead in
his behalf. He is anxious, too, for the improvement of his race: he gladly
listens to the words of life, and sees with joy his children being brought
up in the fear and nurture of the Lord; he sees with pride some of his own
blood going forth on the mission of love to other distant tribes; he is
proud of being a Christian; and if there be some that still look back to
the freedom of former years, and talk of "the good old times," when they
wandered free as the winds and waters through those giant woods, they are
fast fading away. A new race is rising up, and the old hunter will soon
become a being unknown in Canada.

There is an old gnarled oak that stands, or lately stood, on the turfy
bank, just behind the old Government-house (as the settlers called it),
looking down the precipitous cliff on the river and the islands. The
Indians called it "the white girl's rest," for it was there that Catharine
delighted to sit, above the noise and bustle of the camp, to sing her
snatches of old Scottish songs, or pray the captive exile's prayer, unheard
and unseen.

The setting sun was casting long shadows of oak and weeping elm athwart the
waters of the river; the light dip of the paddle had ceased on the water,
the baying of hounds and life-like stirring sounds from the lodges came
softened to the listening ear. The hunters had come in with the spoils of a
successful chase; the wigwam fires are flickering and crackling, sending up
their light columns of thin blue smoke among the trees; and now a goodly
portion of venison is roasting on the forked sticks before the fires. Each
lodge has its own cooking utensils. That jar embedded in the hot embers
contains sassafras tea, an aromatic beverage, in which the squaws delight
when they are so fortunate as to procure a supply. This has been brought
from the Credit, far up in the west, by a family who have come down on a
special mission from some great chief to his brethren on the Otonabee, and
the squaws have cooked some in honour of the guests. That pot that sends up
such a savoury steam is venison pottage, or soup, or stew, or any name you
choose to give the Indian mess that is concocted of venison, wild rice, and
herbs. Those tired hounds that lay stretched before the fire have been out,
and now they enjoy the privilege of the fire, some praise from the hunters,
and receive withal an occasional reproof from the squaws, if they approach
their wishful noses too close to the tempting viands.

The elder boys are shooting at a mark on yonder birch-tree; the girls are
playing or rolling on the grass; "The Snow-bird" is seated on the floor of
the wigwam braiding a necklace of sweet grass, which she confines in links
by means of little bands of coloured quills; Catharine is working mocassins
beside her;--a dark shadow falls across her work from the open tent door--
an exclamation of surprise and displeasure from one of the women makes
Catharine raise her eyes to the doorway; there, silent, pale, and
motionless, the mere shadow of her former self, stands Indiana--a gleam of
joy lights for an instant her large lustrous eyes. Amazement and delight
at the sight of her beloved friend for a moment deprives Catharine of the
power of speech; then terror for the safety of her friend takes place of
her joy at seeing her. She rises regardless of the angry tones of the
Indian woman's voice, and throws her arms about Indiana as if to shield her
from threatened anger, and sobs her welcome in her arms.

"Indiana, dear sister! how came you hither, and for what purpose?"

"To free you, and then die," was the soft low tremulous answer. "Follow
me." Catharine, wondering at the calm and fearless manner with which the
young Mohawk waved back the dusky matron who approached as if with the
design of laying hands upon her unwelcome guest, followed with beating
heart till they stood in the entrance of the lodge of the Bald Eagle; it
was filled with the hunters, who were stretched on skins on the floor
reposing in quiet after the excitement of the chase.

The young Mohawk bent her head down and crossed her arms, an attitude of
submission, over her breast as she stood in the opening of the lodge; but
she spoke no word till the old chief waving back the men, who starting to
their feet were gathering round him as if to shield him from danger, and
sternly regarding her, demanded from whence she came and for what purpose.

"To submit myself to the will of my Ojebwa father," was the meek reply.
"May the daughter of the Bald Eagle's enemy speak to her great father?"

"Say on," was the brief reply, "the Bald Eagle's ears are open."

"The Bald Eagle is a mighty chief, the conqueror of his enemies and the
father of his people," replied the Mohawk girl, and again was silent. "The
Mohawk squaw speaks well; let her say on."

"The heart of the Mohawk is an open flower, it can be looked upon by the
eye of the Great Spirit. She speaks the words of truth. The Ojebwa chief
slew his enemies, they had done his good heart wrong; he punished them for
the wrong they wrought; he left none living in the lodges of his enemies
save one young squaw, the daughter of a brave, the grand-daughter of the
Black Snake. The Bald Eagle loves even an enemy that is not afraid to raise
the war-whoop or fling the tomahawk in battle. The young girl's mother was
a _brave."_ She paused, while her proud eye was fixed on the face of her
aged auditor. He nodded assent, and she resumed, while a flush of emotion
kindled her pale cheek and reddened her lips,--

"The Bald Eagle brought the lonely one to his lodge, he buried the hatchet
and the scalping knife, he bade his squaws comfort her; but her heart was
lonely, she pined for the homes of her fathers. She said, I will revenge my
father, my mother, and my brothers and sisters; and her heart burned within
her: but her hand was not strong to shed blood, the Great Spirit was about
my Ojebwa father; she failed, and would have fled, for an arrow was in her
flesh. The people of the Bald Eagle took her, they brought her down the
great river to the council hill, they bound her with thongs and left her to
die. She prayed, and the Great Spirit heard her prayer and sent her help.
The white man came; his heart was soft; he unbound her, he gave water
to cool her hot lips, he led her to his lodge. The white squaw (and she
pointed to Catharine) was there, she bound up her wounds, she laid her on
her own bed, she gave her meat and drink, and tended her with love. She
taught her to pray to the Good Spirit, and told her to return good for
evil, to be true and just, kind and merciful. The hard heart of the young
girl became soft as clay when moulded for the pots and she loved her white
sister and brothers, and was happy. The Bald Eagle's people came when my
white brothers were at peace, they found a trembling fawn within the lodge,
they led her away, they left tears and loneliness where joy and peace had
been. The Mohawk squaw could not see the hearth of her white brothers
desolate; she took the canoe, she to the lodge of the great father of his
tribe, and she says to him, 'Give back the white squaw to her home on the
Rice Lake, and take in her instead the rebellious daughter of the Ojebwa's
enemy, to die or be his servant; she fears nothing now the knife or the
tomahawk, the arrow or the spear: her life is in the hand of the great
chief.'" She sank on her knees as she spoke these last words and bowing
down her head on her breast remained motionless as a statue.

There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man rose and said:--

"Daughter of a brave woman, thou hast spoken long, and thou hast spoken
well; the ears of the Bald Eagle have been open. The white squaw shall be
restored to her brother's lodge--but thou remainest. I have spoken."

Catharine in tears cast her arms around her disinterested friend and
remained weeping--how could she accept this great sacrifice? She in her
turn pleaded for the life and liberty of the Mohawk, but the chief turned
a cold ear to her passionate and incoherent pleading. He was weary--he was
impatient of further excitement--he coldly motioned to them to withdraw;
and the friends in sadness retired to talk over all that had taken place
since that sad day when Catharine was taken from her home. While her heart
was joyful at the prospect of her own release, it was clouded with fears
for the uncertain fate of her beloved friend.

"They will condemn me to a cruel death," said Indiana, "but I can suffer
and die for my white sister."

That night the Indian girl slept sweetly and tranquilly beside Catharine;
but Catharine could not sleep; she communed with her own heart in the still
watches of the night--it seemed as if a new life had been infused within
her. She no longer thought and felt as a child; the energies of her mind
had been awakened, ripened into maturity as it were, and suddenly expanded.
When all the inmates of the lodges were profoundly sleeping, Catharine
arose,--a sudden thought had entered into her mind, and she hesitated not
to put her design into execution. There was no moon, but a bright arch of
light spanned the forest to the north; it was mild and soft as moonlight,
but less bright, and cast no shadow across her path; it showed her the
sacred tent of the widow of the murdered Mohawk. With noiseless step
she lifted aside the curtain of skins that guarded it, and stood at the
entrance. Light as was her step, it awakened the sleeper; she raised
herself on her arm and looked up with a dreamy and abstracted air as
Catharine, stretching forth her hand in tones low and tremulous, thus
addressed her in the Ojebwa tongue:--

"The Great Spirit sends me to thee, O woman of much sorrow; he asks of
thee a great deed of mercy and goodness. Thou hast shed blood, and he is
angry. He bids thee to save the life of an enemy--the blood of thy murdered
husband flows in her veins. See that thou disobey not the words that he
commands."

She dropped the curtain and retired as she had come, with noiseless step,
and lay down again in the tent beside Indiana. Her heart beat as though it
would burst its way through her bosom. What had she done?--what dared? She
had entered the presence of that terrible woman alone, at the dead hour of
night! she had spoken bold and presumptuous words to that strange being
whom even her own people hardly dared to approach uncalled-for! Sick with
terror at the consequences of her temerity, Catharine cast her trembling
arms about the sleeping Indian girl, and hiding her head in her bosom, wept
and prayed till sleep came over her wearied spirit. It was late when she
awoke. She was alone: the lodge was empty. A vague fear seized her: she
hastily arose to seek her friend. It was evident that some great event was
in preparation. The Indian men had put on the war-paint, and strange and
ferocious eyes were glancing from beneath their shaggy locks. A stake was
driven in the centre of the cleared space in front of the chief's lodge:
there, bound, she beheld her devoted friend; pale as ashes, but with a calm
unshaken countenance, she stood. There was no sign of woman's fear in her
fixed dark eye, which quailed not before the sight of the death-dooming men
who stood round her, armed with their terrible weapons of destruction.
Her thoughts seemed far away: perhaps they were with her dead kindred,
wandering in that happy land to which the Indian hopes to go after life;
or, inspired with the new hope which had been opened to her, she was
looking to Him who has promised a crown of life to such as believe in His
name. She saw not the look of agony with which Catharine regarded her; and
the poor girl, full of grief, sunk down at the foot of a neighbouring tree,
and burying her face between her knees, wept and prayed--oh! how fervently!
A hope crept to her heart--even while the doom of Indiana seemed
darkest--that some good might yet accrue from her visit to the wigwam of
the Great Medicine squaw. She knew that the Indians have great belief in
omens, and warnings, and spirits, both good and evil; she knew that her
mysterious appearance in the tent of the Mohawk's widow would be construed
by her into spiritual agency; and her heart was strengthened by this hope.
Yet just now there seems little reason to encourage hope: the war-whoop is
given, the war-dance is begun--first slow, and grave, and measured; now
louder, and quicker, and more wild become both sound and movement. But why
is it hushed again? See, a strange canoe appears on the river; anon an
old weather-beaten man, with firm step, appears on the greensward and
approaches the area of the lodge.

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