Canadian Crusoes

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"Depend upon it," he added, "cowards are never safer than brave men. The
Indians despise cowards, and would be more likely to kill us if they found
us cowering here in this hole like a parcel of wolf-cubs, than if we openly
faced them and showed that we neither feared them, nor cared for them."

"Hector, dear Hector, be not so rash!" cried his sister, passionately
weeping. "Ah! if we were to lose you, what would become of us?"

"Never fear, Kate; I will run into no needless danger. I know how to take
care of myself. I am of opinion, that the Indian camp is broken up; they
seldom stay long in one place. I will go over the hills and examine the
camp at a distance and the lake shore. You and Louis may keep watch for my
return from the big pine that we halted under on our way hither."

"But, Hector, if the savages should see you and take you prisoner," said
Catharine, "what would you do?" "I will tell you what I would do. Instead
of running away, I would boldly walk up to them, and by signs make them
understand that I am no scout, but a friend in need of nothing but kindness
and friendship. I never yet heard of the Indian that would tomahawk the
defenceless stranger that sought his camp openly in peace and goodwill."

"If you do not return by sunset, Hector, we shall believe that you have
fallen into the hands of the savages," said Catharine, mournfully regarding
her brother.

"If it were not for Catharine," said Louis, "you should not go alone, but,
if evil befel this helpless one, her blood would be upon my head, who led
her out with us, tempting her with false words."

"Never mind that now, dearest cousin," said Catharine, tenderly laying her
hand on his arm. "It is much better that we should have been all three
together; I should never have been happy again if I had lost both Hec and
you. It is better as it is; you and Hec would not have been so well off if
I had not been with you to help you, and keep up your spirits by my songs
and stories."

"It is true, ma chere; but that is the reason that I am bound to take care
of my little cousin, and I could not consent to exposing you to danger, or
leaving you alone; so, if Hec will be so headstrong, I will abide by you."

Hector was so confident that he should return in safety, that at last Louis
and Catharine became more reconciled to his leaving them, and soon busied
themselves in preparing some squirrels that Louis had brought in that
morning.

The day wore away slowly, and many were the anxious glances that Catharine
cast over the crest of the high bank to watch for her brother's return; at
last, unable to endure the suspense, she with Louis left the shelter of the
valley; they ascended the high ground, and bent their steps to the trysting
tree, which commanded all the country within a wide sweep.

A painful and oppressive sense of loneliness? and desolation came over the
minds of the cousins as they sat together at the foot of the pine, which
cast its lengthened shadow upon the ground before them. The shades of
evening were shrouding them, wrapping the lonely forest in gloom. The full
moon had not yet risen, and they watched for the first gleam that should
break above the eastern hills to cheer them, as for the coming of a friend.

Sadly these two poor lonely ones sat hand in hand, talking of the happy
days of childhood, or the perplexing present and the uncertain future. At
last, wearied out with watching and anxiety, Catharine leaned her head upon
the neck of old Wolfe and fell asleep, while Louis restlessly paced to
and fro in front of the sleeper; now straining his eye to penetrate the
surrounding gloom, now straining his ear to catch the first sound that
might indicate the approach of his absent cousin.

It was almost with a feeling of irritability that he heard the quick sharp
note of the "Whip-poor-will," as she flew from bough to bough of an old
withered tree beside him. Another, and again another of these midnight
watchers took up the monotonous never-varying cry of "Whip-poor-will,
Whip-poor-will;" and then came forth, from many a hollow oak and birch, the
spectral night-hawk from hidden dens, where it had lain hushed in silence
all day, from dawn till sunset. Sometimes their sharp hard wings almost
swept his cheek as they wheeled round and round in circles, first narrow,
then wide, and wider extending, till at last they soared far above the
tallest tree-tops and launching out in the high regions of the air,
uttered from time to time a wild shrill scream, or hollow booming sound,
as they suddenly descended to pounce with wide-extended throat upon some
hapless moth or insect, that sported all unheeding in mid air, happily
unconscious of the approach of so unerring a foe.

Petulantly Louis chid these discordant minstrels of the night, and joyfully
he hailed the first gush of moonlight that rose broad and full and red,
over the Oak-hills to the eastward.

Louis envied the condition of the unconscious sleeper, who lay in happy
forgetfulness of all her sorrows, her fair curls spread in unbound
luxuriance over the dark shaggy neck of the faithful Wolfe, who seemed
as if proud of the beloved burden that rested so trustingly upon him.
Sometimes the careful dog just unclosed his large eyes, raised his nose
from his shaggy paws, snuffed the night air, growled in a sort of under
tone, and dosed again, but watchfully.

It would be no easy task to tell the painful feelings that agitated young
Louis's breast. He was angry with Hector, for having thus madly, as he
thought, rushed into danger. "It was wilful and almost cruel," he thought
"to leave them the prey of such tormenting fears on his account;" and then
the most painful fears for the safety of his beloved companion took the
place of less kindly thoughts, and sorrow filled his heart. The broad
moon now flooded the hills and vales with light, casting broad checkering
shadows of the old oaks' grey branches and now reddened foliage across the
ground.

Suddenly the old dog raises his head, and utters a short half angry note:
slowly and carefully he rises, disengaging himself gently from the form of
the sleeping girl, and stands forth in the full light of the moon. It is an
open cleared space, that mound beneath the pine-tree; a few low shrubs and
seedling pines, with the slender waving branches of the late-flowering
pearly tinted asters, the elegant fringed gentian, with open bells of
azure blue, the last and loveliest of the fall flowers and winter-greens,
brighten the ground with wreaths of shining leaves and red berries.

Louis is on the alert, though as yet he sees nothing. It is not a full free
note of welcome, that Wolfe gives; there is something uneasy and half angry
in his tone. Yet it is not fierce, like the bark of angry defiance he
gives, when wolf, or bear, or wolverine is near.

Louis steps forward from the shadow of the pine branches, to the edge of
the inclined plane in the foreground. The slow tread of approaching steps
is now distinctly heard advancing--it may be a deer. Two figures approach,
and Louis moves a little, within the shadow again. A clear shrill whistle
meets his ear. It is Hector's whistle, he knows that, and assured by its
cheerful tone, he springs forward and in an instant is at his side, but
starts at the strange, companion that he half leads, half carries. The
moonlight streams broad and bright upon the shrinking figure of an Indian
girl, apparently about the same age as Catharine: her ashy face is
concealed by the long masses of raven black hair, which falls like a dark
veil over her features; her step is weak and unsteady, and she seems ready
to sink to the earth with sickness or fatigue. Hector, too, seems weary.
The first words that' Hector said were, "Help me, Louis, to lead this poor
girl to the foot of the pine; I am so tired I can hardly walk another
step."

Louis and his cousin together carried the Indian girl to the foot of the
pine. Catharine was just rousing herself from sleep, and she gazed with a
bewildered air on the strange companion that Hector had brought with him.
The stranger lay down, and in a few minutes sank into a sleep so profound
it seemed to resemble that of death itself. Pity and deep interest soon
took the place of curiosity and dread in the heart of the gentle Catharine,
and she watched the young stranger's slumber as tenderly as though she had
been a sister, or beloved friend, while Hector proceeded to relate in what
manner he had encountered the Indian girl.

"When I struck the high slope near the little birch grove we called the
_'birken shaw,'_ I paused to examine if the council-fires were still
burning on Bare-hill, but there was no smoke visible, neither was there
a canoe to be seen at the lake shore where Louis had described their
landing-place at the mouth of the creek. All seemed as silent and still
as if no human footstep had trodden the shore. I sat down and watched for
nearly an hour till my attention was attracted by a noble eagle, which was
sailing in wide circles over the tall pine-trees on Bare-hill. Assured that
the Indian camp was broken up, and feeling some curiosity to examine the
spot more closely, I crossed the thicket of cranberries and cedars and
small underwood that fringed the borders of the little stream, and found
myself, after a little pushing and scrambling, among the bushes at the foot
of the hill.

"I thought it not impossible I might find something to repay me for my
trouble--flint arrow-heads, a knife, or a tomahawk--but I little thought
of what these cruel savages had left there,--a miserable wounded captive,
bound by the long locks of her hair to the stem of a small tree, her hands,
tied by thongs of hide to branches which they had bent down to fasten them
to her feet, bound fast to the same tree as that against which her head was
fastened; her position was one that must have been most painful: she had
evidently been thus left to perish by a miserable death, of hunger and
thirst; for these savages, with a fiendish cruelty, had placed within sight
of their victim an earthen jar of water, some dried deers' flesh, and a cob
[Footnote: A head of the Maize, or Indian corn, is called a "cob."] of
Indian corn. I have the corn here," he added, putting his hand in his
breast, and displaying it to view.

"Wounded she was, for I drew this arrow from her shoulder," and he showed
the flint head as he spoke, "and fettered; with food and drink in sight,
the poor girl was to perish, perhaps to become a living prey to the wolf,
and the eagle that I saw wheeling above the hill top. The poor thing's lips
were black and parched with pain and thirst; she turned her eyes piteously
from my face to the water jar as if to implore a draught. This I gave her,
and then having cooled the festering wound, and cut the thongs that bound
her, I wondered that she still kept the same immoveable attitude, and
thinking she was stiff and cramped with remaining so long bound in one
position, I took her two hands and tried to induce her to move. I then for
the first time noticed that she was tied by the hair of her head to the
tree against which her back was placed; I was obliged to cut the hair with
my knife, and this I did not do without giving her pain, as she moaned
impatiently. She sunk her head on her breast, and large tears fell over my
hands, as I bathed her face and neck with the water from the jar; she then
seated herself on the ground, and remained silent and still for the space
of an hour, nor could I prevail upon her to speak, or quit the seat she had
taken. Fearing that the Indians might return, I watched in all directions,
and at last I began to think it would be best to carry her in my arms; but
this I found no easy task, for she seemed greatly distressed at any attempt
I made to lift her, and by her gestures I fancy she thought I was going to
kill her. At last my patience began to be exhausted, but I did not like to
annoy her. I spoke to her as gently and soothingly as I could. By degrees
she seemed to listen with more composure to me, though she evidently knew
not a word of what I said to her. She rose at last, and taking my hands,
placed them above her head, stooping low as she did so, and this seemed to
mean, she was willing at last to submit to my wishes; I lifted her from
the ground, and carried her for some little way, but she was too heavy for
me,--she then suffered me to lead her along whithersoever I would take her,
but her steps were so slow and feeble, through weakness, that many times I
was compelled to rest while she recovered herself. She seems quite subdued
now, and as quiet as a lamb."

Catharine listened, not without tears of genuine sympathy, to the recital
of her brother's adventures. She seemed to think he had been inspired by
God to go forth that day to the Indian camp, to rescue the poor forlorn one
from so dreadful a death.

Louis's sympathy was also warmly aroused for the young savage, and he
commended Hector for his bravery and humanity.

He then set to work to light a good fire, which was a great addition to
their comfort as well as cheerfulness. They did not go back to their cave
beneath the upturned trees, to sleep, preferring lying, with their feet to
the fire, under the shade of the pine. Louis, however, was despatched for
water and venison for supper.

The following morning, by break of day, they collected their stores, and
conveyed them back to the shanty. The boys were thus employed, while
Catharine watched beside the wounded Indian girl, whom she tended with the
greatest care. She bathed the inflamed arm with water, and bound the cool
healing leaves of the _tacamahac_ [Footnote: Indian balsam.] about it with
the last fragment of her apron, she steeped dried berries in water, and
gave the cooling drink to quench the fever-thirst that burned in her veins,
and glittered in her full soft melancholy dark eyes, which were raised at
intervals to the face of her youthful nurse, with a timid hurried glance,
as if she longed, yet feared to say, "Who are you that thus tenderly bathe
my aching head, and strive to soothe my wounded limbs, and cool my fevered
blood? Are you a creature like myself, or a being sent by the Great Spirit,
from the far-off happy land to which my fathers have gone, to smooth my
path of pain, and lead me to those blessed fields of sunbeams and flowers
where the cruelty of the enemies of my people will no more have power to
torment me?"

CHAPTER VI.

"Here the wren of softest note
Builds its nest and warbles well;
Here the blackbird strains his throat;
Welcome, welcome to our cell."--COLERIDGE.

The day was far advanced, before the sick Indian girl could be brought home
to their sylvan lodge, where Catharine made up a comfortable couch for her,
with boughs and grass, and spread one of the deer-skins over it, and laid
her down as tenderly and carefully as if she had been a dear sister. This
good girl was overjoyed at having found a companion of her own age and sex.
"Now," said she, "I shall no more be lonely, I shall have a companion and
friend to talk to and assist me;" but when she turned in the fulness of
her heart to address herself to the young stranger, she felt herself
embarrassed in what way to make her comprehend the words she used to
express the kindness that she felt for her, and her sorrow for her
sufferings.

The young stranger would raise her head, look intently at her, as if
striving to interpret her words, then sadly shake her head, and utter her
words in her own plaintive language, but, alas! Catharine felt it was to
her as a sealed book.

She tried to recall some Indian words of familiar import, that she had heard
from the Indians when they came to her father's house, but in vain; not the
simplest phrase occurred to her, and she almost cried with vexation at her
own stupidity; neither was Hector or Louis more fortunate in attempts at
conversing with their guest.

At the end of three days, the fever began to abate; the restless eye grew
more steady in its gaze, the dark flush faded from the cheek, leaving it of
a grey ashy tint, not the hue of health, such as even the swarthy Indian
shows, but wan and pallid, her eyes bent mournfully on the ground.

She would sit quiet and passive while Catharine bound up the long tresses
of her hair, and smoothed them with her hands and the small wooden comb
that Louis had cut for her use. Sometimes she would raise her eyes to her
new friend's face, with a quiet sad smile, and once she took her hands
within her own, and gently pressed them to her breast and lips and forehead
in token of gratitude, but she seldom gave utterance to any words, and
would remain with her eyes fixed vacantly on some object which seemed
unseen or to awaken no idea in her mind. At such times the face of the
young squaw wore a dreamy apathy of expression, or rather it might with
more propriety have been said, the absence of all expression, almost as
blank as that of an infant of a few weeks old.

How intently did Catharine study that face, and strive to read what was
passing within her mind! how did the lively intelligent Canadian girl, the
offspring of a more intellectual race, long to instruct her Indian friend,
to enlarge her mind by pointing out such things to her attention as she
herself took interest in! She would then repeat the name of the object that
she showed her several times over, and by degrees the young squaw learned
the names of all the familiar household articles about the shanty, and
could repeat them in her own soft plaintive tone; and when she had learned
a new word, and could pronounce it distinctly, she would laugh, and a gleam
of innocent joy and pleasure would lighten up her fine dark eyes, generally
so fixed and sad-looking.

It was Catharine's delight to teach her pupil to speak a language familiar
to her own ears; she would lead her out among the trees, and name to her
all the natural objects that presented themselves to view. And she in her
turn made "Indiana" (for so they named the young squaw, after a negress
that she had heard her father tell of, a nurse to one of his Colonel's
infant children,) tell her the Indian names for each object they saw.
Indiana soon began to enjoy in her turn the amusement arising from
instructing Catharine and the boys, and often seemed to enjoy the blunders
they made in pronouncing the words she taught them. When really interested
in anything that was going on, her eyes would beam out, and her smile gave
an inexpressible charm to her face, for her lips were red and her teeth
even and brilliantly white, so purely white that Catharine thought she had
never seen any so beautiful in her life before; at such times her face
was joyous and innocent as a little child's, but there were also hours of
gloom, that transformed it into an expression of sullen apathy; then a dull
glassy look took possession of her eye, the full lip drooped and the form
seemed rigid and stiff; obstinate determination neither to move nor speak
characterised her in what Louis used to call the young squaw's "_dark
hour._" Then it was that the savage nature seemed predominant, and her
gentle nurse almost feared to look at her protegee or approach her.

"Hector," said Louis, "you spoke about a jar of water being left at the
camp; the jar would be a great treasure to us, let us go over for it."
Hector assented to the proposal. "And we may possibly pick up a few grains
of Indian corn, to add to what you showed us."

"If we are here in the spring," said Hector, "you and I will prepare a
small patch of ground and plant it with this corn;" and he sat down on the
end of a log and began carefully to count the rows of grain on the cob, and
then each corn grain by grain. "Three hundred and ten sound grains. Now if
every one of these produces a strong plant, we shall have a great increase,
and beside seed for another year, there will be, if it is a good year,
several bushels to eat."

"We shall have a glorious summer, mon ami, no doubt, and a fine flourishing
crop, and Kate is a good hand at making supporne." [Footnote: Supporne,
probably an Indian word for a stir-about, or porridge, made of Indian meal,
a common dish in every Canadian or Yankee farmer's house.]

"You forget we have no porridge pot."

"I was thinking of that Indian jar all the time. You will see what fine
cookery we will make when we get it, if it will but stand fire. Come, let
us be off, I am impatient till we get it home;" and Louis, who had now a
new crotchet at work in his fertile and vivacious brain, was quite on the
_qui vive_, and walked and danced along at a rate which proved a great
disturbance to his graver companion, who tried to keep down his cousin's
lively spirits, by suggesting the probability of the jar being cracked, or
that the Indians might have returned for it; but Louis was not one of the
doubting sort, and Louis was right in not damping the ardour of his mind by
causeless fears. The jar was there at the deserted camp, and though it had
been knocked over by some animal, it was sound and strong, and excited
great speculation in the two cousins, as to the particular material of
which it was made, as it was unlike any sort of pottery they had ever
before seen. It seemed to have been manufactured from some very dark
red earth, or clay mixed up with pounded granite, as it presented the
appearance of some coarse crystals; it was very hard and ponderous, and
the surface was marked over in a rude sort of pattern as if punctured and
scratched with some pointed instrument. It seemed to have been hardened by
fire, and, from the smoked hue of one side, had evidently done good service
as a cooking utensil. Subsequently they learned the way in which it was
used:[Footnote: Pieces of this rude pottery are often found along theshores
of the inland lakes, but I have never met with any of the perfect vessels
in use with the Indians, who probably find it now easier to supply
themselves with iron pots and crockery from the towns of the European
settlers.] the jar being placed near but not on the fire, was surrounded
by hot embers, and the water made to boil by stones being made red hot and
plunged into it: in this way soup and other food were prepared, and kept
stewing, with no further trouble after once the simmering began, than
adding a few fresh embers at the side furthest from the fir; a hot stone
also placed on the top, facilitated the cooking process.

Louis, who like all French people was addicted to cookery,--indeed it was
an accomplishment he prided himself on,--was enchanted with the improvement
made in their diet by the acquisition of the said earthen jar, or pipkin,
and gave Indiana some praise for initiating his cousin in the use of it.
Catharine and Hector declared that he went out with his bow and arrows, and
visited his dead-falls and snares, ten times oftener than he used to do,
just for the sake of proving the admirable properties of this precious
utensil, and finding out some new way of dressing his game. At all events
there was a valuable increase of furs, for making up into clothing, caps,
leggings, mitts, and other articles.

From the Indian girl Catharine learned the value of many of the herbs and
shrubs that grew in her path, the bark and leaves of various trees, and
many dyes she could extract, with which she stained the quills of the
porcupine and the strips of the wood of which she made baskets and
mats. The little creeping winter-green, [Footnote: _Gualtheria
procumbens_,--Spice Winter-green.] with its scarlet berries, that grows on
the dry flats, or sandy hills, which the Canadians call spice-berry, she
showed them was good to eat, and she would crush the leaves, draw forth
their fine aromatic flavour in her hands, and then inhale their fragrance
with delight. She made an infusion of the leaves, and drank it as a tonic.
The inner bark of the wild black cherry, she said was good to cure ague and
fever. The root of the _dulcamara_, or bitter-sweet, she scraped down
and boiled in the deer-fat, or the fat of any other animal, and made an
ointment that possessed very healing qualities, especially as an immediate
application to fresh burns.

Sometimes she showed a disposition to mystery, and would conceal the
knowledge of the particular herbs she made use of; and Catharine several
times noticed that she would go out and sprinkle a portion of the food she
had assisted her in preparing, on the earth, or under some of the trees or
bushes. When she was more familiar with their language, she told Catharine
this was done in token of gratitude to the Good Spirit, who had given them
success in hunting or trapping; or else it was to appease the malice of
the Evil Spirit, who might bring mischief or loss to them, or sickness or
death, unless his forbearance was purchased by some particular mark of
attention. [Footnote: By the testimony of many of the Indians themselves,
they appear to entertain a certain Polytheism in their belief. "We believed
in one great wise benevolent being, Thesha-mon-e-doo, whose dwelling was
in the sun. We believed also in many other lesser spirits--gods of the
elements, and in one bad unappeasable spirit, Mah-je-mah-ne-doo, to whom
we attributed bad luck, evil accidents, and sickness and death. This bad
spirit has to be conciliated with meat and drink offerings."--_Life of
George Copway, Native Missionary_]

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