Canadian Crusoes by Catherine Parr Traill

C >> Catherine Parr Traill >> Canadian Crusoes

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

Once she seemed particularly attracted by Catharine's dress, which she
examined with critical minuteness, evincing great surprise at the cut
fringes of dressed doeskin with which Indiana had ornamented the border of
the short jacket which she had manufactured for Catharine. These fringes
she pointed out to the notice of the women, and even the old chief was
called in to examine the dress; nor did the leggings and mocassins escape
their observation. There was something mysterious about her garments.
Catharine was at a loss to imagine what caused those deep guttural
exclamations, somewhat between a grunt and a groan, that burst from the
lips of the Indians, as they one by one examined them with deep attention.
These people had recognised in these things the peculiar fashion and
handiwork of the young Mohawk girl whom they had exposed to perish by
hunger and thirst on Bare Hill, and much their interest was excited to know
by what means Catharine had become possessed of a dress wrought by the hand
of one whom they had numbered with the dead. Strange and mysterious did it
seem to them, and warily did they watch the unconscious object of their
wonder.

The knowledge that she possessed of the language of her friend Indiana,
enabled Catharine to comprehend a great deal of what was said; yet she
prudently refrained from speaking in the tongue of one, to whose whole
nation she knew these people to be hostile, but she sedulously endeavoured
to learn their own peculiar dialect, and in this she succeeded in an
incredibly short time, so that she was soon able to express her own wants,
and converse a little with the females who were about her.

She had noticed that among the tents there was one which stood apart from
the rest, and was only visited by the old chief and his granddaughter, or
by the elder women. At first she imagined it was some sick person, or a
secret tent set apart for the worship of the Great Spirit; but one day when
the chief of the people had gone up the river hunting, and the children
were asleep, she perceived the curtain of skins drawn back, and a female of
singular and striking beauty appeared standing in the open space in front.
She was habited in a fine tunic of white dressed doeskin richly embroidered
with coloured beads and stained quills, a full petticoat of dark cloth
bound with scarlet descended to her ancles, leggings fringed with deer-skin
knotted with bands of coloured quills, with richly wrought mocassins on her
feet. On her head she wore a coronet of scarlet and black feathers; her
long shining tresses of raven hair descended to her waist, each thick tress
confined with a braided band of quills dyed scarlet and blue; her stature
was tall and well-formed; her large, liquid, dark eye wore an expression
so proud and mournful that Catharine felt her own involuntarily fill with
tears as she gazed upon this singular being. She would have approached
nearer to her, but a spell seemed on her; she shrunk back timid and abashed
beneath that wild melancholy glance. It was she, the Beam of the Morning,
the self-made widow of the young Mohawk, whose hand had wrought so fearful
a vengeance on the treacherous destroyer of her brother. She stood there,
at the tent door, arrayed in her bridal robes, as on the day when she
received her death-doomed victim. And when she recalled her fearful deed,
shuddering with horror, Catharine drew back and shrouded herself within
the tent, fearing again to fall under the eye of that terrible woman. She
remembered how Indiana had told her that since that fatal marriage-feast
she had been kept apart from the rest of the tribe,--she was regarded by
her people as a sacred character, a great _Medicine_, a female _brave_, a
being whom they regarded with mysterious reverence. She had made this great
sacrifice for the good of her nation. Indiana said it was believed among
her own folks that she had loved the young Mohawk passionately, as a
tender woman loves the husband of her youth; yet she had hesitated not
to sacrifice him with her own hand. Such was the deed of the Indian
heroine--and such were the virtues of the unregenerated Greeks and Romans!

CHAPTER XIII.

"Now where the wave, with loud unquiet song,
Dash'd o'er the rocky channel, froths along,
Or where the silver waters soothed to rest,
The tree's tall shadow sleeps upon its breast."
COLERIDGE.

The Indian camp remained for nearly three weeks on this spot, [Footnote:
Now known by the name of Cambelltown, though, there is but one log-house
and some pasture fields; it is a spot long used as a calling place for the
steamer that plies on the Otoanbee, between Gore's Landing on the Rice Lake
and Peterborough, to take in fire-wood.] and then early one morning the
wigwams were all taken down, and the canoes, six in number, proceeded
up the river. There was very little variety in the scenery to interest
Catharine; the river still kept its slow flowing course between low shores,
thickly clothed with trees, without an opening through which the eye might
pierce to form an idea of the country beyond; not a clearing, not a sight
or sound of civilized man was there to be seen or heard; the darting flight
of the wild birds as they flitted across from one side to the other, the
tapping of the woodpeckers or shrill cry of the blue jay, was all that was
heard, from sunrise to sunset, on that monotonous voyage. After many hours
a decided change was perceived in the current, which ran at a considerable
increase of swiftness, so that it required the united energy of both men
and women to keep the light vessels from drifting down the river again.
They were in the Rapids, [Footnote: Formerly known as Whitla's Rapids, now
the site of the Locks.] and it was hard work to stem the tide, and keep
the upward course of the waters. At length the rapids were passed, and
the weary Indian voyagers rested for a space on the bosom of a small but
tranquil lake. [Footnote: The little lake about a mile below Peterborough
and above the Locks, formerly girt in by woods of pine and beech and maple,
now entirely divested of trees and forming part of the suburbs of the town.
] The rising moon shed her silvery light upon the calm waters, and heaven's
stars shone down into its quiet depths, as the canoes with their dusky
freight parted the glittering rays with their light paddles. As they
proceeded onward the banks rose on either side, still fringed with pine,
cedar and oaks. At an angle of the lake the banks on either side ran
out into two opposite peninsulas, forming a narrow passage or gorge,
contracting the lake once more into the appearance of a broad river, much
wider from shore to shore than any other part they had passed through since
they had left the entrance at the Rice Lake.

Catharine became interested in the change of scenery, her eye dwelt with
delight on the forms of glorious spreading oaks and lofty pines, green
cliff-like shores and low wooded islands; while as they proceeded the sound
of rapid flowing waters met her ear, and soon the white and broken eddies
rushing along with impetuous course were seen by the light of the moon;
and while she was wondering if the canoes were to stem those rapids, at a
signal from the old chief, the little fleet was pushed to shore on a low
flat of emerald verdure nearly opposite to the last island. [Footnote:
Over the Otonabee, just between the rapids and the island, a noble and
substantial bridge has been built.]

Here, under the shelter of some beautiful spreading black oaks, the women
prepared to set up their wigwams. They had brought the poles and birch-bark
covering from the encampment below, and soon all was bustle and business;
unloading the canoes, and raising the tents. Even Catharine lent a willing
hand to assist the females in bringing up the stores, and sundry baskets
containing fruits and other small wares. She then kindly attended to the
Indian children, certain dark-skinned babes, who, bound upon their wooden
cradles, were either set up against the trunks of the trees, or swung to
some lowly depending branch, there to remain helpless and uncomplaining
spectators of the scene.

Catharine thought these Indian babes were almost as much to be pitied as
herself, only that they were unconscious of their imprisoned state, having
from birth been used to no better treatment, and moreover they were sure
to be rewarded by the tender caresses of living mothers when the season of
refreshment and repose arrived; but she alas! was friendless and alone, an
orphan girl, reft of father, mother, kindred and friends. One Father, one
Friend, poor Catharine, thou hadst, even He--the Father of the fatherless.

That night when the women and children were sleeping, Catharine stole out
of the wigwam, and climbed the precipitous bank beneath the shelter of
which the lodges had been erected. She found herself upon a grassy plain,
studded with majestic oaks and pines, so beautifully grouped that they
might have been planted by the hand of taste upon that velvet turf. It was
a delightful contrast to those dense dark forests through which for so many
many miles the waters of the Otonabee had flowed on monotonously; here
it was all wild and free, dashing along like a restive steed rejoicing in
its liberty, uncurbed and tameless.

Yes, here it was beautiful! Catharine gazed with joy upon the rushing
river, and felt her own heart expand as she marked its rapid course, as it
bounded murmuring and fretting over its rocky bed. "Happy, glorious waters!
you are not subject to the power of any living creature, no canoe can
ascend those surging waves; I would that I too, like thee, were free to
pursue my onward way--how soon would I flee away and be at rest!" Such
thoughts perhaps might have passed through the mind of the lonely captive
girl, as she sat at the foot of one giant oak, and looked abroad over those
moonlit waters, till, oppressed by the overwhelming sense of the utter
loneliness of the scene, the timid girl with faltering step hurried down
once more to the wigwams, silently crept to the mat where her bed was
spread, and soon forgot all her woes and wanderings in deep tranquil sleep.

Catharine wondered that the Indians in erecting their lodges always seemed
to prefer the low, level, and often swampy grounds by the lakes and rivers
in preference to the higher and more healthy elevations. So disregardful
are they of this circumstance, that they do not hesitate to sleep where the
ground is saturated with moisture. They will then lay a temporary flooring
of cedar or any other bark beneath their feet, rather than remove the tent
a few feet higher up, where a drier soil may always be found. This either
arises from stupidity or indolence, perhaps from both, but it is no doubt
the cause of much of the sickness that prevails among, them. With his feet
stretched to the fire the Indian cares for nothing else when reposing in
his wigwam, and it is useless to urge the improvement that might be made in
his comfort; he listens with a face of apathy, and utters his everlasting
guttural, which saves him the trouble of a more rational reply.

"Snow-bird" informed Catharine that the lodges would not again be removed
for some time, but that the men would hunt and fish, while the squaws
pursued their domestic labours. Catharine perceived that the chief of the
laborious part of the work fell to the share of the females, who were very
much more industrious and active than their husbands; these, when not out
hunting or fishing, were to be seen reposing in easy indolence under the
shade of the trees, or before the tent fires, giving themselves little
concern about anything that was going on. The squaws were gentle, humble,
and submissive; they bore without a murmur pain, labour, hunger, and
fatigue, and seemed to perform every task with patience and good humour.
They made the canoes, in which the men sometimes assisted them, pitched the
tents, converted the skins of the animals which the men shot into clothes,
cooked the victuals, manufactured baskets of every kind, wove mats, dyed
the quills of the porcupine, sewed the mocassins, and in short performed a
thousand tasks which it would be difficult to enumerate.

Of the ordinary household work, such as is familiar to European females,
they of course knew nothing; they had no linen to wash or iron, no floors
to clean, no milking of cows, nor churning of butter.

Their carpets were fresh cedar boughs spread upon the ground, and only
renewed when they became offensively dirty from the accumulation of fish
bones and other offal, which are carelessly flung down during meals. Of
furniture they had none, their seat the ground, their table the same, their
beds mats or skins of animals,--such were the domestic arrangements of the
Indian camp. [Footnote: Much improvement has taken place of late years in
the domestic economy of the Indians, and some of their dwellings are clean
and neat even for Europeans.] In the tent to which Catharine belonged,
which was that of the widow and her sons, a greater degree of order and
cleanliness prevailed than in any other, for Catharine's natural love of
neatness and comfort induced her to strew the floor with fresh cedar or
hemlock every day or two, and to sweep round the front of the lodge,
removing all unseemly objects from its vicinity. She never failed to wash
herself in the river, and arrange her hair with the comb that Louis had
made for her; and took great care of the little child, which she kept clean
and well fed. She loved this little creature, for it was soft and gentle,
meek and playful as a little squirrel, and the Indian mothers all looked
with kinder eyes upon the white maiden, for the loving manner in which
she tended their children. The heart of woman is seldom cold to those who
cherish their offspring, and Catharine began to experience the truth, that
the exercise of those human charities is equally beneficial to those who
give and those that receive; these things fall upon the heart as dew upon a
thirsty soil, giving and creating a blessing. But we will leave Catharine
for a short season, among the lodges of the Indians, and return to Hector
and Louis.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Cold and forsaken, destitute of friends,
And all good comforts else, unless some tree
Whose speechless chanty doth better ours,
With which the bitter east-winds made their sport
And sang through hourly, hath invited thee
To shelter half a day. Shall she be thus,
And I draw in soft slumbers?"
BRAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

It was near sunset before Hector and his cousin returned on the evening of
the eventful day that had found Catharine a prisoner on Long Island. They
had met with good success in hunting, and brought home a fine half-grown
fawn, fat and in good order. They were surprised at finding the fire nearly
extinguished, and no Catharine awaiting their return. There, it is true,
was the food that she had prepared for them, but she was not to be seen;
supposing that she had been tired of waiting for them, and had gone out to
gather strawberries, they did not at first feel very anxious, but ate some
of the rice and honey, for they were hungry with long fasting; and taking
some Indian meal cake in their hands, they went out to call her in, but no
trace of her was visible. They now became alarmed, fearing that she had set
off by herself to seek them, and had missed her way home again.

They hurried back to the happy valley--she was not there; to Pine-tree
Point--no trace of her there; to the edge of the mount that overlooked the
lake--no, she was not to be seen; night found them still unsuccessful in
their search. Sometimes they fancied that she had seated herself beneath
some tree and fallen asleep; but no one imagined the true cause, having
seen nothing of the Indians.

Again they retraced their steps back to the house; but they found her not
there. They continued their unavailing search till the moon setting left
them in darkness, and they laid down to rest, but not to sleep. The first
streak of dawn saw them again hurrying to and fro, calling in vain upon the
name of the loved and lost companion of their wanderings. Desolation had
fallen upon their house, and the evil which of all others they had most
feared, had happened to them.

Indiana, whose vigilance was more untiring, for she yielded not so easily
to grief and despair, now returned with the intelligence that she had
discovered the Indian trail, through the big ravine to the lake shore; she
had found the remains of a wreath of oak leaves which had been woven by
Catharine, and probably been about her hair; and she had seen the mark
of feet, Indian feet, on the soft clay, at the edge of the lake, and the
furrowing of the shingles by the pushing off of a canoe. It was evident
that she had been taken away from her home by these people. Poor Louis gave
way to transports of grief and despair; he knew the wreath, it was such
as Catharine often made for herself, and Mathilde, and petite Louise, and
Marie; his mother had taught her to make them; they were linked together
by the stalks, and formed a sort of leaf chain. The remembrance of many of
their joyous days of childhood made Louis weep sorrowful tears for happy
days, never to return again; he placed the torn relic in his breast, and
sadly turned away to hide his grief from Hector and the Indian girl.

Indiana now proposed searching the island for further traces, but advised
wariness in so doing. They saw, however, no smoke nor canoes. The Indians
had departed while they were searching the ravines and flats round Mount
Ararat, and the lake told no tales, The following day they ventured to land
on Long Island, and on going to the north side saw evident traces of a
temporary encampment having been made. This was all they could do, further
search was unavailing; as they found no trace of any violence having been
committed, they still cherished hopes that no personal harm had been done
to the poor captive, It was Indiana's opinion that, though a prisoner, she
was unhurt, as the Indians rarely killed women and children, unless
roused to do so by some signal act on the part of their enemies, when an
exterminating spirit of revenge induced them to kill and spare not; but
where no offence had been offered, they were not likely to take the life of
an helpless, unoffending female.

The Indian is not cruel for the wanton love of blood, but to gratify
revenge for some injury done to himself, or to his tribe; but it was
difficult to still the terrible apprehensions that haunted the minds of
Louis and Hector. They spent much time in searching the northern shores and
the distant islands, in the vain hope of finding her, as they still thought
the camp might have been moved to the opposite side of the lake.

Inconsolable for the loss of their beloved companion, Hector and Louis no
longer took interest in what was going on; they hardly troubled themselves
to weed the Indian corn, in which they had taken such great delight; all
now seemed to them flat, stale, and unprofitable; they wandered listlessly
to and fro, silent and sad; the sunshine had departed from their little
dwelling; they ate little, and talked less, each seeming absorbed in his
own painful reveries.

In vain the gentle Indian girl strove to revive their drooping spirits;
they seemed insensible to her attentions, and often left her for hours
alone. They returned one evening about the usual hour of sunset, and missed
their meek, uncomplaining guest from the place she was wont to occupy. They
called, but there was none to reply--she too was gone. They hurried to the
shore just time enough to see the canoe diminishing to a mere speck upon
the waters, in the direction of the mouth of the river; they called to her
in accents of despair, to return, but the wind wafted back no sound to
their ears, and soon the bark was lost to sight, and they sat them down
disconsolately on the shore.

"What is she doing?" said Hector; "this is cruel to abandon us thus."

"She has gone up the river, with the hope of bringing us some tidings of
Catharine," said Louis. "How came you to think that such is her intention?"

"I heard her say the other day that she would go and bring her back, or
die."

"What! do you think she would risk the vengeance of the old chief whose
life she attempted to take?"

"She is a brave girl; she does not fear pain or death to serve those she
loves."

"Alas!" said Hector, "she will perish miserably and to no avail; they would
not restore our dear sister, even at the sacrifice of Indiana's life."

"How can she, unprotected and alone, dare such perils? Why did she not tell
us? we would have shared her danger."

"She feared for our lives more than for her own; that poor Indian girl has
a noble heart. I care not now what befals us, we have lost all that made
life dear to us," said Louis gloomily, sinking his head between his knees.

"Hush, Louis, you are older than I, and ought to bear these trials with
more courage. It was our own fault, Indiana's leaving us, we left her so
much alone to pine after her lost companion; she seemed to think that we
did not care for her. Poor Indiana, she must have felt lonely and sad." "I
tell you what we will do, Hec.--make a log canoe. I found an old battered
one lying on the shore, not far from Pine-tree Point; we have an axe and a
tomahawk,--what should hinder us from making one like it?"

"True! we will set about it to-morrow."

"I wish it were morning, that we might set to work to cut down a good pine
for the purpose."

"As soon as it is done, we will go up the river; anything is better than
this dread suspense and inaction."

The early dawn saw the two cousins busily engaged chopping at a tree of
suitable dimensions, and they worked hard all that day, and the next, and
the next, before the canoe was hollowed out, and then, owing to their
inexperience and the bluntness of their tools, their first attempt proved
abortive; it was too heavy at one end, and did not balance well in the
water.

Louis, who had been quite sure of success, was disheartened; not so Hector.

"Do not let us give it up; my maxim is perseverance; let us try again, and
again--aye! and a third and a fourth time. I say, never give it up, that is
the way to succeed at last."

"You have ten times my patience, Hec." "Yes! but you are more ingenious
than I, and are excellent at starting an idea."

"We are a good pair then for partnership."

"We will begin anew; and this time I hope we shall profit by our past
blunders."

"Who would imagine that it is now more than a month since we lost
Catharine!"

"I know it, a long, long, weary month," replied Louis, and he struck his
axe sharply into the bark of the pine as he spoke, and remained silent for
some minutes. The boys, wearied by chopping down the tree, rested from
their work, and sat down on the side of the condemned canoe to resume their
conversation. Suddenly Louis grasped Hector's arm, and pointed to a bark
canoe that appeared making for the westernmost point of the island. Hector
started to his feet, exclaiming, "It is Indiana returned!"

"Nonsense! Indiana!--it is no such thing. Look you, it is a stout man in a
blanket coat."

"The Indians?" asked Hector inquiringly.

"I do not think he looks like an Indian; but let us watch. What is he
doing?"

"Fishing. See now, he has just caught a fine bass--another--he has great
luck-now he is pushing the canoe ashore."

"That man does not move like an Indian--hark! he is whistling. I ought to
know that tune. It sounds like the old chanson my father used to sing;" and
Louis, raising his voice, began to sing the words of an old French Canadian
song, which we will give in the English as we heard it sung by an old
lumberer.

"Down by those banks where the pleasant waters flow,
Through the wild woods we'll wander, and we'll chase the buffalo.
And we'll chase the buffalo."

"Hush, Louis! you will bring the man over to us," said Hector.

"The very thing I am trying to do mon ami. This is our country, and that
may be his; but we are lords here, and two to one--so I think he will not
be likely to treat us ill. I am a man now, and so are you, and he is but
one, so he must mind how he affronts us," replied Louis laughing.

"I wish the old fellow was inclined to be sociable. Hark, if he is not
singing now! aye, and the very chorus of the old song,"--and Louis raised
his voice to its highest pitch as he repeated,

"Through the wild woods well wander,
And well chase the buffalo--
And we'll chase the buflalo."

"What a pity I have forgotten the rest of that dear old song. I used to
listen with open ears to it when I was a boy. I never thought to hear it
again, and to hear it here of all places in the world!"

"Come, let us go on with our work," said Hector, with something like
impatience in his voice; and the strokes of his axe fell once more in
regular succession on the log; but Louis's eye was still on the mysterious
fisher, whom he could discern lounging on the grass and smoking his pipe.
"I do not think he sees or hears us," said Louis to himself, "but I think
I'll manage to bring him over soon"--and he set himself busily to work to
scrape up the loose chips and shavings, and soon began to strike fire with
his knife and flint.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19