Lost in the Backwoods Part 17

"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 eyes were fixed on the face of her aged auditor. He nodded a.s.sent, 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 came 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 stead the rebellious daughter of the Ojebwa's enemy, to die or be his servant; she fears not 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 opened. The white squaw shall be restored to her brother's lodge; but thou remainest. I have spoken."

Catharine, in tears, cast her arms round 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 pa.s.sionate 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 s.h.a.ggy locks. A stake was driven in the centre of the cleared s.p.a.ce 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 at 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.

The Bald Eagle greets him with friendly courtesy, the dance ceases and the death-song is hushed; a treaty is begun. It is for the deliverance of the captives. The chief points to Catharine--she is free; his white brother may take her--she is his. But the Indian law of justice must take its course: the condemned, who raised her hand against an Ojebwa chief, must die. In vain are the tempting stores of scarlet cloth and beads for the women, with powder and shot, laid before the chief: the arrows of six warriors are fitted to the string, and again the dance and song commence, as if, like the roll of the drum and, clangour of the trumpet, they were necessary to the excitement of strong and powerful feelings, and the suppression of all tenderer emotions.

And now a wild and solemn voice is heard, unearthly in its tones, rising above the yells of those savage men. At the sound every cheek becomes pale: it strikes upon the ear as some funeral wail. Is it the death-song of the captive girl bound to that fearful stake? No; for she stands unmoved, with eyes raised heavenward, and lips apart,--

"In still but brave despair."

Shrouded in a mantle of dark cloth, her long black hair unbound and streaming over her shoulders, appears the Mohawk widow, the daughter of the Ojebwa chief. The gathering throng fall back as she approaches, awed by her sudden appearance among them. She stretches out a hand on which dark stains are visible--it is the blood of her husband, sacrificed by her on that day of fearful deeds: it has never been effaced. In the name of the Great Spirit she claims the captive girl--the last of that devoted tribe--to be delivered over to her will. Her right to this remnant of her murdered husband's family is acknowledged. A knife is placed in her hand, while a deafening yell of triumph bursts from the excited squaws, as this their great high priestess, as they deem her, advances to the criminal. But it is not to shed the heart's blood of the Mohawk girl, but to sever the thong that bind her to the deadly stake, for which that glittering blade is drawn, and to bid her depart in peace whithersoever she would go.

Then, turning to the Bald Eagle, she thus addresses him: "At the dead of night, when the path of light spanned the sky, a vision stood before mine eyes. It came from the Great and Good Spirit, and bade me to set free the last of a murdered race, whose sun had gone down in blood shed by my hand and by the hands of my people. The vision told me that if I did this my path should henceforth be peace, and that I should go to the better land and be at rest if I did this good deed."

She then laid her hands on the head of the young Mohawk, blessed her, and, enveloping herself in the dark mantle, slowly retired back to her solitary tent once more.

CHAPTER XVI.

"Hame, hame, hame, Hame I soon shall be-- Hame, hame, hame, In mine own countrie"

--_Scotch Ballad_

Old Jacob and Catharine, who had been mute spectators of the scene so full of interest to them, now presented themselves before the Ojebwa chief and besought leave to depart. The presents were again laid before him, and this time were graciously accepted. Catharine, in distributing the beads and cloth, took care that the best portion should fall to the grand-daughter of the chief, the pretty, good-humoured "Snow-bird." The old man was not insensible to the n.o.ble sacrifice which had been made by the devoted Indiana, and he signified his forgiveness of her fault by graciously offering to adopt her as his child, and to give her in marriage to one of his grandsons, an elder brother of the "Snow-bird;" but the young girl modestly but firmly refused this mark of favour, for her heart yearned for those whose kindness had saved her from death, and who had taught her to look beyond the things of this world to a brighter and a better state of being. She said "she would go with her white sister, and pray to G.o.d to bless her enemies, as the Great Spirit had taught her to do."

It seems a lingering principle of good in human nature that the exercise of mercy and virtue opens the heart to the enjoyment of social happiness. The Indians, no longer worked up by excitement to deeds of violence, seemed disposed to bury the hatchet of hatred, and the lodge was now filled with mirth and the voice of gladness, feasting, and dancing. A covenant of peace and good-will was entered upon by old Jacob and the chief, who bade Catharine tell her brothers that from henceforth they should be free to hunt the deer, fish, or shoot the wild-fowl of the lake whenever they desired to do so, "he, the Bald Eagle, had said so."

On the morrow, with the first dawn of day, the old trapper was astir; the canoe was ready, with fresh cedar boughs strewed at the bottom. A supply of parched rice and dried fish had been presented by the Indian chief for the voyage, that his white brother and the young girls might not suffer from want. At sunrise the old man led his young charges to the lodge of the Bald Eagle, who took a kindly farewell of them. The "Snow-bird" was sorrowful, and her bright, laughing eyes were dimmed with tears at parting with Catharine. She was a gentle, loving thing, as soft and playful as the tame fawn that nestled its velvet head against her arm. She did not let Catharine depart without many tokens of her regard, the work of her own hands,--bracelets of porcupine quills cut in fine pieces, and strung in fanciful patterns, moccasins richly wrought, and tiny bark dishes and boxes, such as might have graced a lady's work-table, so rare was their workmanship.

Just as they were about to step into the canoe, the "Snow-bird"

reappeared, bearing a richly worked bark box, "From the Great Medicine," she said in a low voice, "to the daughter of the Mohawk brave." The box contained a fine tunic, soft as a lady's glove, embroidered and fringed, and a fillet of scarlet and blue feathers, with the wings and breast of the war-bird as shoulder ornaments. It was a token of reconciliation and good-will worthy of a generous heart.

The young girl pressed the gifts to her bosom and to her lips reverentially, and the hand that brought them to her heart, as she said in her native tongue, "Tell the Great Medicine I kiss her in my heart, and pray that she may have peace and joy till she departs for the spirit land."

With joyful heart they bade adieu to the Indian lodges, and rejoiced in being once more afloat on the bosom of the great river. To Catharine the events of the past hours seemed like a strange bewildering dream. She longed for the quiet repose of home; and how gladly did she listen to that kind old man's plans for restoring Hector, Louis, and herself to the arms of their beloved parents. How often did she say to herself, "Oh that I had wings like a dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest!"--in the shelter of that dear mother's arms whom she now pined for with a painful yearning of the heart that might well be called home-sickness. But in spite of anxious wishes, the little party were compelled to halt for the night some few miles above the lake. There is on the eastern bank of the Otonabee a pretty, rounded knoll, clothed with wild cherries, hawthorns, and pine-trees, just where a creek half hidden by alder and cranberry bushes works its way below the shoulder of the little eminence. This creek grows broader and becomes a little stream, through which the hunters sometimes paddle their canoes, as a short cut to the lower part of the lake near Crook's Rapids.

To this creek old Jacob steered his little craft, and bidding the girls collect a few dry sticks and branches for an evening fire on the sheltered side of the little bank, he soon lighted the pile into a cheerful blaze by the aid of birch bark, the hunter's tinder--a sort of fungus that is found in the rotten oak and maple trees--and a knife and flint. He then lifted the canoe, and having raised it on its side, by means of two small stakes which he cut from a bush hard by, he spread down his buffalo robe on the dry gra.s.s.

"There is a tent fit for a queen to sleep under, _mes cheres filles_,"

he said, eying his arrangements for their night shelter with great satisfaction.

He baited his line, and in a few minutes had a dish of splendid ba.s.s ready for the fire. Catharine selected a large flat block of limestone on which the fish when broiled was laid; but old Jacob opened his wide mouth and laughed when she proceeded to lay her bush table with large ba.s.swood leaves for platters. Such nicety he professed was unusual on a hunter's table. He was too old a forester to care how his food was dished, so that he had wherewithal to satisfy his hunger.

Many were the merry tales he told and the songs he sung, to while away the time, till the daylight faded from the sky, and the deep blue heavens were studded with bright stars, which were mirrored in countless hosts deep deep down in that calm waveless river, while thousands of fire-flies lighted up the dark recesses of the forest's gloom. High in the upper air the hollow booming of the night-hawk was heard at intervals; and the wild cry of the night-owl from a dead branch, shouting to its fellow, woke the silence of that lonely river scene.

The old trapper, stretched before the crackling fire, smoked his pipe or hummed some French _voyageur's_ song. Beneath the shelter of the canoe soundly slept the two girls; the dark cheek of the Indian girl pillowed on the arm of her fairer companion, her thick tresses of raven hair mingling with the silken ringlets of the white maiden. They were a lovely pair--one fair as morning, the other dark as night.

How gaily did they spring from their low bed, wakened by the early song of the forest birds! The light curling mist hung in fleecy volumes on the river, like a flock of sheep at rest; the tinkling sound of the heavy dew-drops fell in mimic showers upon the stream.

See that red squirrel, how lightly he runs along that fallen trunk!

how furtively he glances with his sharp bright eye at the intruders on his silvan haunts! Hark! there is a rustling among the leaves; what strange creature works its way to the sh.o.r.e? A mud turtle: it turns, and now is trotting along the little sandy ridge to some sunny spot, where, half buried, it may lie unseen near the edge of the river. See that musk-rat, how boldly he plunges into the stream, and, with his oar-like tail, stems the current till he gains in safety the sedges on the other side.

What gurgling sound is that?--it attracts the practised ear of the old hunter. What is that object which floats so steadily down the middle of the stream, and leaves so bright a line in its wake?--it is a n.o.ble stag. Look at the broad chest with which he b.r.e.a.s.t.s the water so gallantly; see how proudly he carries his antlered head! He has no fear in those lonely solitudes--he has never heard the crack of the hunter's rifle--he heeds not the sharp tw.a.n.g of that bow-string, till the arrow rankles in his neck, and the crimson flood dyes the water around him. He turns, but it is only to present a surer mark for the arrow from the old hunter's bow. And now the n.o.ble beast turns to bay, and the canoe is rapidly launched by the hand of the Indian girl. Her eye flashes with the excitement; her whole soul is in the chase; she stands up in the canoe, and steers it full upon the wounded buck, while a shower of blows is dealt upon his head and neck with the paddle. Catharine buries her face in her hands: she cannot bear to look upon the sufferings of the n.o.ble animal. She will never make a huntress; her heart is cast in too soft a mould. See they have towed the deer ash.o.r.e, and Jacob is in all his glory. The little squaw is an Indian at heart--see with what expertness she helps the old man. And now the great business is completed, and the venison is stowed away at the bottom of the canoe. They wash their hands in the river, and come at Catharine's summons to their breakfast.

The sun is now rising high above the pine-trees; the morning mist is also rising and rolling off like a golden veil as it catches those glorious rays; the whole earth seems wakening into new life: the dew has brightened every leaf and washed each tiny flower-cup: the pines and balsams give out their resinous fragrance: the aspens flutter and dance in the morning breeze, and return a mimic shower of dew-drops to the stream; the sh.o.r.es become lower and flatter; the trees less lofty and more mossy; the stream expands, and wide beds of rushes spread out on either side; what beds of snowy water-lilies: how splendid the rose tint of those perseicarias that glow so brightly in the morning sun; the rushes look like a green meadow, but the treacherous water lies deep below their gra.s.sy leaves; the deer delights in these verdant aquatic fields: and see what flocks of redwings rise from among them as the canoe pa.s.ses near--their bright shoulder-knots glance like flashes of lightning in the sunbeams.

This low swampy island, filled with drift-wood; these gray h.o.a.ry trees, half choked and killed with gray moss and lichens, those straggling alders and black ash, look melancholy; they are like premature old age, gray-headed youths. That island divides the channel of the river: the old man takes the nearest, the left hand. And now they are upon the broad Rice Lake, and Catharine wearies her eye to catch the smoke of the shanty rising among the trees: one after another the islands steal out into view; the capes, bays, and sh.o.r.es of the northern side are growing less distinct. Yon hollow bay, where the beaver has hidden till now, backed by that bold sweep of hills that look in the distance as if only covered with green ferns, with here and there a tall tree, stately as a pine or oak,--that is the spot where Louis saw the landing of the Indians: now a rising village--Gore's Landing. On yon lofty hill now stands the village church,--its white tower rising amongst the trees forms a charming object from the lake; and there, a little higher up, not far from the plank road, now stand pretty rural cottages: one of these belongs to the spirited proprietor of the village that bears his name. That tasteful garden before the white cottage, to the right, is Colonel Brown's, and there are pretty farms and cultivated spots; but silence and loneliness reigned there at the time of which I write.

Where those few dark pines rise above the oak groves like the spires of churches in a crowded city, is Mount Ararat. The Indian girl steers straight between the islands for that ark of refuge, and Catharine's eyes are dimmed with grateful tears as she pictures to herself the joyful greeting in store for her. In the overflowings of her gladness she seizes the old man's rugged hand and kisses it, and flings her arms about the Indian girl and presses her to her heart, when the canoe has touched the old well-remembered landing-place, and she finds herself so near, so very near her lost home. How precious are such moments--how few we have in life! They are created from our very sorrows; without our cares our joys would be less lively. But we have no time to moralize. Catharine flies with the speed of a young fawn to climb the cliff-like shoulder of that steep bank; and now; out of breath, she stands at the threshold of her log-house. How neat and nice it looks compared with the Indians' tents! The little field of corn is green and flourishing. There is Hector's axe in a newly-cut log: it is high noon; the boys ought to have been there taking their mid-day meal, but the door is shut. Catharine lifts the wooden latch, and steps in. The embers are nearly burned out to a handful of gray ashes. Old Wolfe is not there--all is silent; and Catharine sits down to still the beating of her heart, and await the coming of her slower companions, and gladdens her mind with the hope that her brother and Louis will soon be home. Her eye wanders over every old familiar object. All things seem much as she had left them; only, the maize is in the ear, and the top feather waves gracefully in the summer breeze.

It promises an abundant crop. But that harvest is not to be gathered by the hands of the young planters: it was left to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field--to those humble reapers who sow not, neither do they gather into barns, for the heavenly Father feedeth them. While the two girls busied themselves in preparing a fine roast of venison, old Jacob stalked away over the hills to search for the boys, and it was not long before he returned with Hector and Louis.

I must not tell tales, or I might say what tears of joy were mingled with the rapturous greetings with which Louis embraced his beloved cousin; or I might tell that the bright flush that warmed the dusky cheek of the young Indian and the light that danced in her soft black eyes owed their origin to the kiss that was pressed on her red lips by her white brother. Nor will we say whose hand held hers so long in his, while Catharine related the n.o.ble sacrifice made for her sake, and the perils encountered by the devoted Indiana, whose eyes were moistened with tears as the horrors of that fearful trial were described; or who stole out alone over the hills, and sat him down in the hush and silence of the summer night to think of the acts of heroism displayed by that untaught Indian girl, and to dream a dream of youthful love: with these things, my young readers, we have nothing to do.

"And now, my children," said old Jacob, looking round the little dwelling, "have you made up your minds to live and die here on the sh.o.r.es of this lake, or do you desire again to behold your fathers'

home? Do your young hearts yearn after the hearth of your childhood?"'

"After our fathers' home!" was Louis's emphatic reply. "After the home of our childhood!" was Catharine's earnest answer. Hector's lips echoed his sister's words, while a furtive troubled glance fell upon the orphan stranger; but her timid eye was raised to his young face with a trusting look, as if she would have said, "Thy home shall be my home, thy G.o.d my G.o.d."

"Well, I believe, if my old memory fails me not, I can strike the Indian trail that used to lead to the Cold Springs over the pine hills. It will not be difficult for an old trapper to find his way."

"For my part, I shall not leave this lovely spot without regret," said Hector. "It would be a glorious place for a settlement--all that one could desire--hill and valley, and plain, wood, and water. I will try and persuade my father to leave the Cold Springs, and come and settle hereabouts. It would be delightful--would it not, Catharine?--especially now we are friends with the Indians."

With their heads full of pleasant schemes for the future, our young folks laid them down that night to rest. In the morning they rose, packed up such portable articles as they could manage to carry, and with full hearts sat down to take their last meal in their home--in that home which had sheltered them so long--and then, with one accord, they knelt down upon its hearth, so soon to be left in loneliness, and breathed a prayer to Him who had preserved them thus far in their eventful lives; and then they journeyed forth once more into the wilderness. There was one, however, of their little band they left behind this was the faithful old dog Wolfe. He had pined during the absence of his mistress, and only a few days before Catharine's return he had crept to the seat she was wont to occupy, and there died. Louis and Hector buried him, not without great regret beneath the group of birch-trees on the brow of the slope near the corn-field.