Sketches of Aboriginal Life Part 13

Taking the eastern track, and moving on with accelerated speed, he overtook the flying party in the act of encamping for the night.

Concealing himself carefully from view, and watching his opportunity when all were busily engaged in pitching their tents, he raised the terrible war-whoop, with a volley of well directed arrows, and rushed, with his whole band, upon his unarmed victims. Not one of them escaped; and, so sudden and complete was the retribution, that not one remained to tell where the captive Tula had been carried. The real murderers had escaped with their captives, and the vengeance intended for _them_ had fallen upon the heads of their innocent comrades.

Tula was treated with kindness by the Athapuscow chief, who claimed her as his own. Every means was tried to reconcile her to her new lot, and to make her content to be the wife of her enemy. But her heart was bound up with the memories of the dead. Her parents, her husband, her child, filled all her thoughts. And the idea of being for ever bound to those whose hands were stained with the blood of these precious lost ones, was not to be endured for a moment. She was inconsolable, and her captors, for a time, respected her grief. Day after day, they travelled on, with long and weary marches, till the face of the country was changed, and the green forest gave way to the barren and rocky waste, that skirts the northern borders of the great valley of prairies. As they advanced, they grew more and more secure against pursuit, and less watchful of their captive. At length, she suddenly disappeared from their view.

They had pitched for the night, on the bank of the north branch of the Sascatchawan. The night was dark and tempestuous. The lightnings flashed vividly from the dark cloud, and threatened to "melt the very elements with fervent heat." The hoa.r.s.e thunders roared among the wildly careering clouds, and reverberated along the sh.o.r.es of the stream, and the cliffs of the distant mountains, as if those everlasting barriers were rent asunder, and nature were groaning from her utmost depths. The Indian feared not death, in whatever shape it might come. But he feared the angry voice of the Great Spirit. He shrunk with terror to the covert of his tent, and covered his eyes from the fearful glare of those incessant flashes, and prayed inwardly to his G.o.ds.

The poor disconsolate captive lay trembling under the side of the tent.

She thought of the storm that had swept over her beautiful home, and desolated her heart in the spring time of its love. She looked at her savage captors, now writhing in the agonies of superst.i.tious fear, which her more absorbing private grief alone prevented her from sharing to the full. They heeded her not. They scarcely remembered that she was among them. Something whispered to her heart--"No eye but that of the Great Spirit sees you. He bids you escape from your enemies."

In the ten-fold darkness that follows the all-revealing flash from the storm-cloud, Tula slipped noiselessly under the edge of the robe that sheltered her from the beating rain, and plunging into the stream, swam with the current a few rods, till she was arrested by a thick covert of overhanging shrubs, which grew to the water's edge. Thinking she might be able to cover her head with these bushes, while her body was hid by the water, she crept cautiously under, close to the bank, when, to her surprise and joy, she found that this shrubbery covered and curiously concealed a crevice in the jutting rock, sufficiently large to admit a free entrance to an ample cave within. Having carefully adjusted every limb and leaf without, and replaced with instinctive sagacity, the mosses that had been disturbed by her feet, she devoutly thanked the good spirit for her hope of deliverance, and anxiously watched for the morning.

The dark cloud of the night had pa.s.sed over. The voice of the tempest was hushed. The day broke clear and cloudless, amid the singing of birds, and the quickened music of the swollen stream. The first thought of the Athapuscow chief, as he started from his troubled slumbers, was of his captive. But she was gone. With a shrill and angry whoop, he roused the whole band, and all started in pursuit. The old woods rung again with the whoop and yell of the pursuers, and were answered by the sullen echoes of the hills and cliffs around. But neither wood, nor hill, nor cliff, revealed the hiding-place of the captive. The heavy torrents of rain had obliterated every mark of her footsteps, and neither gra.s.s, nor sand, nor the yielding soil of the river-bank afforded any clue to the path she had taken.

Safe in the close covert of her new found retreat, the poor captive heard all the loud and angry threats of her disappointed pursuers. She even heard their frequent conjectures and animated discussions of the means to be adopted for her recovery, and often, they were so near to her place of refuge, that she could see their anxious and angry looks, as they pa.s.sed, and almost feel their hands among the bushes that sheltered her, and the quick tramp of their feet over the roof of her cave. But there was no track or mark, on land or water, to guide them to that spot, and so naturally had every leaf been adjusted, that it had not attracted a single suspicion from any one of those sagacious and quick-sighted inquisitors.

Two hours of fruitless search for a hiding place, or a track that should reveal the course of her flight, brought them to the conclusion that the Great Spirit had taken her away, and that it was not for man to find her path again. With this conviction, they struck their tents, swam the stream, and resumed their march to the south.

Too cautious to leave her covert at once, and wearied with her anxious watchings, Tula composed herself to sleep, as soon as the last sound of the retiring party died on her ear. The sun had declined half way to his setting, when she awoke. She listened, with a suspicions ear for every sound without. The singing of birds, the rustling of the leaves, and the murmur of the waters, were all that disturbed the silence of the scene.

She put her ear to the rock, but it brought nothing to her sense that revealed the presence of man. With extreme caution, she ventured to look out from her cave, and, by slow degrees, peering on every side for some concealed enemy, she emerged into the light, and dropping noiselessly into the stream, swam to a point on the opposite sh.o.r.e, from which she could obtain a good view of the recent encampment. It was deserted and still. Not a trace was left behind, except the trampled gra.s.s, and the blackened embers.

Recrossing the stream, she commenced, with a light step, and a hopeful spirit, the seemingly impossible task of finding her way back to her home and her people. The consciousness of freedom buoyed her up, and inspired her with a new hope, at almost every step. With a light heart, and an elastic step, she bounded away over the desolate waste, that lay between the river and the forest, having neither path, nor track, nor land-mark, to guide her way, and with nothing but the instinct of affection to point out the course she should take. She had been so absorbed with her many griefs, during the long and weary march hitherto, and so little did she dream of the possibility of escape, that she had scarcely taken any notice of the direction, or attempted to observe any land-marks to guide her return. The way by which she had been led was circuitous and irregular, and she had only the vague general ideas, that her home was near "the star that never moves," and that she had been leaving her shadow behind, to aid her in her solitary wanderings. With a hopeful courageous heart, she sought only to widen the distance between her cruel captors and herself, trusting that her way would open as she went, and that her guardian angel, her tutelar divinity, would keep her from going astray. _Her_ tutelar divinity was the moon, whose light and protection she invoked, with a devout, if not an enlightened faith.

While she could enjoy her mild clear light, she was always happy and secure; but when those beams were withdrawn, a shadow came over her soul that was full of dark forebodings and anxious fears.

She had travelled several leagues, without seeing a track of any kind, and without the consciousness of fatigue or hunger. When night came on, she was just entering a deep forest, whose impenetrable shade made a sudden transition from twilight to utter darkness. With no star to guide her, and with no appearance of a path through thickets which seemed never to have been penetrated by a human footstep, she was soon bewildered, and felt that it was vain to proceed. With a few half-ripe nuts for a supper, and the soft moss which had gathered about the trunk of a fallen tree for a bed, she committed herself to sleep.

About midnight, her slumbers were disturbed by a heavy rustling among the bushes, at no great distance, accompanied by a constant crackling, as of some large animal, trying to penetrate the thicket. Perceiving that it approached nearer at every step, she seized a club, with which she had provided herself before entering the forest, and hastened to climb into the nearest tree. As she ascended, it began to grow lighter overhead. The stars looked smilingly down upon her, but it was darker than ever below. She breathed a silent prayer to the star of her faith--the bright orb where she supposed her guardian angel resided--and took courage. The mysterious step approached nearer and nearer. She soon perceived that it was a bear, and supposed he would follow her into the tree. She therefore seated herself upon a stout limb, a few feet from the main trunk, and prepared to give him a warm reception.

Presently the heavy trampling ceased, and was followed by a silence vastly more oppressive than the previous noise.

In this condition, the remaining hours of the night pa.s.sed away. With the first light of the morning, the s.h.a.ggy intruder was discerned, quietly reposing near the foot of the tree, and showing no signs of being in haste to depart. That he was conscious of the presence of a stranger, was evident only from an occasional upward glance of his eye, and a significant turning of the nose in that direction, as if there was something agreeable in prospect.

Tula would have been no match for Bruin on level ground, but she felt confident of her power in the position she had chosen, and therefore quietly waited the movements of her adversary. For two or three hours, he behaved himself with the gravity of a true philosopher, coolly expecting to weary out the patience of his victim by a close siege, and so save himself the trouble of taking the tree by a.s.sault. But Tula was as patient and prudent as Bruin, and could endure hunger, and thirst, and wakefulness as well as he. Rousing at length from his inactivity, he travelled round and round the tree, as if taking its measure, and estimating the probable result of an encounter. Tula watched his motions with more interest than anxiety, hoping soon to be relieved from her imprisonment, and at liberty to pursue her journey. It was near noon, when, having satisfied himself that offensive measures were necessary, he began to climb the tree. Having reached the leading branch, and embraced the trunk to raise himself to that on which Tula was seated, the brave girl rose suddenly to her feet, and brought down her club upon the enemy's nose with such desperate and well directed force, as to send him, stunned and insensible, to the ground. Without allowing him a moment to recover, she leaped down to his side, and dealt a succession of heavy blows upon his head, till the blood flowed in torrents, and his struggles and his breathing ceased.

In this manner, many days and nights pa.s.sed on, during which she encountered many imminent dangers, and severe conflicts, and made but little progress. Hunger, weariness, a continual sense of danger, and that sickness of the heart, which solitude and suspense beget, were her inseparable companions. Every day, her hope of ultimately reaching the home of her childhood grew fainter and fainter. But she had a woman's endurance, and a woman's fertility of resource. She never for a moment repented her flight. She would have preferred death in any form to a forced espousal with the murderer of her family. Sometimes with roots and herbs, sometimes with nutritious mosses, and sometimes with wild fruits and nuts, she continued to satisfy the cravings of appet.i.te, and to sustain her severely tried fort.i.tude, for the fatigues and perils that were yet before her.

The forest seemed interminable; and so indeed it might well have been regarded, for she was continually travelling round and round, in the same track, having only an occasional glimpse of the sun to direct her way, or a view of the stars, when she climbed some tall tree at night.

She knew little of the direction in which she was going; but she was sure that that forest lay between her enemy and her home, and was therefore resolved, at any expense of labor and suffering, to find her way through it, or perish in the attempt.

After several weeks of incredible toil, fatigue, hardship and danger, the brave persevering Tula emerged into a wide opening, having a considerable mountain on one side, and a large sheet of water, and a stream from the mountain pouring into it, on the other. It was a beautiful spot, but the whole aspect of it was new and strange. She was confident she had not pa.s.sed that way, while a captive in the hands of the Athapuscows. She was now wholly at a loss which way to turn. To retrace her steps through the intricacies of that dark forest, would be as vain as the thought of it was appalling. To go on, when she was absolutely certain she was out of her track, seemed little less than madness. To choose either the right hand or the left, was to leap in the dark, and involve herself in new doubts and difficulties. She needed rest. Her apparel was torn by her difficult pa.s.sages through the tangled thickets, and her frequent contests with the enemies she found there.

Pondering deeply on the difficulties before her, she began to think, that if there was any place of shelter near, she would make herself a new home, and live and die alone in the great wilderness.

"And why," said she to herself, "why should I return to the wigwam of my father? Kaf-ne-wah-go is not there. My mother, she has gone with him to the spirit land. O-ken-ah-ga waits no longer for my return. I left my brave chief in his blood. His voice will no longer be heard in the valley, with the hunters, nor his shout in the battle. He fell in the glory of his strength, like the young oak that is full of sap, and whose roots have struck deep into the earth. And my child, the son of O-ken-ah-ga, alas! he has not even a grave to sleep in. He lies on the cold bosom of the earth, and I know not where. Why then should I return to a desolate home, only made more desolate by the memory of what it was?"

With such thoughts as these, she beguiled her inward yearnings for the spot where all her joys had been, and where all her hopes were buried.

Wandering on the sh.o.r.es of the lake and the stream by day, and seeking such shelter as she could find in the clefts of the rocks at night, she sought for a place where she might provide a suitable protection against the cold and the storms of winter, which were not far distant. Wild berries and fruits afforded her only sustenance for a considerable time, until her own ingenuity provided her with the means of procuring a more certain substantial diet.

Having found a convenient spot in a deep ravine of the mountain, which opened towards the south, and was consequently always exposed to the sun, she immediately commenced the construction of a place to dwell in.

The spot selected was romantic and beautiful in the extreme, and seemed to have been designed by nature "for some especial use." It was sufficiently elevated to command a fine view of the opening, including all the meanderings of the river, and the whole extent of the lake, and yet it was not difficult of access, nor so high as to be too much exposed to the wintry storms. It was a little nook, chipped out from the solid rock, having a smooth slaty floor, about twelve feet square, with a semi-circular recess of about half that depth into the side of the mountain. A jutting rock, about ten feet above this floor, and overhanging it on every side, formed a natural ceiling. It only needed to be enclosed on two sides, to make a lodge that any of the great caciques of the wilderness might be proud of.

Fortunately Tula was not entirely dest.i.tute of tools to work with. A piece of an iron hoop, about six inches in length, and the shank of an arrow head, also of iron, both of which she had picked up while among the Athapuscows, const.i.tuted her whole stock. With these, which she sharpened upon the rocks, she contrived to cut down a number of young saplings, and shape them to her purpose. Planting two of them upright upon the outer line of the floor, and laying the end of one against the inside, and the end of the other against the outside of the cornice, or overhanging ceiling, she bound them firmly together with green withes.

In this manner she went all round, leaving a s.p.a.ce open for a door on the sunny side. This done, she wove it, inside and out, with willow boughs, stuffing the intervening s.p.a.ces with moss, till it was entirely impervious to the weather. The door was of close basket-work hung at the top, and secured at the sides, in a storm, or during the night, by means of withes fastened round the door-posts. This served the double purpose of door and window, while a crevice in the rock above, performed the part of a chimney.

The work went on slowly and heavily at first, but patience and perseverance, which can conquer all but impossibilities, accomplished it before the cold weather set in. Meanwhile, the ingenuity of the fair builder had found means to make a fire upon the hearth. Her materials for that purpose were two hard sulphureous stones, which, by long friction, or hard knocking, produced a few sparks. These, communicated to touchwood, were soon formed into a blaze.

When fruits, berries and nuts failed, her ready ingenuity supplied her with other means of sustaining life. She had, among her scanty stock of furniture, a few deer-sinews, which, with the Indians, are a common subst.i.tute for thread. With the aid of these, she managed to snare partridges, rabbits and squirrels. She also killed several beavers and porcupines. The sinews of the rabbit's legs and feet were twisted with great dexterity, to supply the place of deer-sinews, when _they_ were gone. Their skins also, with those of the squirrels, served to replenish her exhausted wardrobe, supplying, under her skilful hand, a neat and warm suit of winter clothing. Her industry was as untiring as her ingenuity was fruitful of resources. Forlorn as her situation was, she was composed and resigned, if not contented, and seemed to find pleasure in employing every moment of her waking hours in some useful or ornamental contrivance.

Her dress evinced much taste, and exhibited no little variety of ornament. The materials, though rude, were very curiously wrought, and so judiciously arranged, as to give to the whole a pleasing and romantic effect. Her tunic was composed of the skins of squirrels and rabbits, in alternate strips of grey and white. It was secured at the waist by a belt of skin, beautifully wrought with porcupine quills, colored pebbles, and strips of bark of various brilliant hues. Her mantle, which was large, was of the fairest and most delicate skins, arranged with a certain uniformity and harmony of design, which gave it all the grace and beauty, without the stiffness, of a regular pattern. It had a tasteful border, of brilliant feathers, and, like the belt before described, was fastened by a clasp of an unique and original contrivance, being made of the beaks and claws of her captives, arranged and secured so as to interlock with each other. Her head-dress, leggings and moccasins, were equally perfect in style and effect.

Besides accomplishing all this work, in her solitude, and even laying in a stock of provisions in advance, sufficient for her wants, in case of a long season of storms, sickness, or any other exigency, she had found time to make several hundred fathoms of net-twine, by twisting the inner rind, or bark, of willow boughs, into small lines. Of these, she intended to make a fishing-net, as soon as the spring should open, and thus enlarge her sources of subsistence and enjoyment.

It was past mid-winter. The snow lay deep and hard upon all the northern hills and valleys. The lakes and rivers were frozen. The fountains of nature were sealed up, and verdure, and fruitfulness, and almost all the elements of life, seemed to have followed the sun in his journey to the far south. A company of English traders, under the guidance of a party of Indians, were traversing the country from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean, in quest of furs and peltries. Emerging from a deep forest into a broad open plain, they discovered the track of a strange snow-shoe, which, from its lightness, they judged to belong to a woman.

Not knowing of any encampment in that vicinity, it excited the more curiosity. They followed it. It led them a considerable distance out of their way, across the valley, and into the gorge of the mountain on its southern side. Pursuing it still, as it ascended by a circuitous path, they came to a small cabin, perched like an eagle's nest in the clefts of the rock. They entered, and found a young and beautiful woman sitting alone at her work. It was Tula, the hermitess of Athabasca. For more than seven moons she had not seen a human face, nor heard a human voice, nor did she ever expect again to see the one, or hear the other. She had become reconciled to her lot. She loved the solitude where her spirit could commune with the departed, undisturbed, and where only the sun, the moon, and the stars, and the Great Spirit that controlled and guided them all, could read her thoughts, and know the history of her griefs.

The first surprise being over, Tula offered the strangers a place by her fire, and such other hospitalities as her cabin afforded.

"How comes the dove alone in the eagle's nest?" enquired the leader of the party.--And then, regarding her with a look of admiration, added--"does she not fear the hawk or the vulture, here in the cold cliffs of the mountain?"

Tula replied by relating the story of her life--her bereavement--her captivity--her escape--her weary wanderings--her hardships--and the repose she had found in her solitude; and concluded by saying, "If the eagle's nest be lonely and cold, it is quiet and safe. It is not too high for the moon to smile upon. It is not too cold for Tula."

"Would the 'singing bird' seek out her people, and let her song be heard again among the trees of the valley?"

"Tula is no longer the singing bird. Her song is shut up in her heart.

Her heart is with her kindred in the spirit land. Her father's cabin is more desolate than the wilderness, or the mountain top. Her tree is plucked up by the roots. It cannot live again."

After some considerable persuasion, in which the voice of the humane Englishman--suggesting that, if the Ottawas had discovered her retreat, the Athapuscows might discover it also,--had its full share of weight, the fair hermitess consented to accompany the strangers; though she could not conceal her regret, in abandoning her snug little castle, to set off on a new pilgrimage, she knew not whither.

"It matters little to Tula where she goes, so that she does not meet the Athapuscow. His hands are red with the blood of her father, her husband, her child. Let her never see his face, or walk in his shadow."

The singular romance of Tula's story, the comeliness of her person, and her approved accomplishments, touched the hearts of some of the young braves of the party. They had not gone far on their way, before a contest arose between them, who, according to immemorial usage among the tribes, should claim the privilege of making her his wife. The dispute--to which she was no party, for her views were not so much as consulted in the matter--ran very high, and had nearly resulted in serious consequences. The poor girl was actually won and lost, at wrestling, by near half a score of different men, in the course of as many days. When, at length, a compromise was effected, and the prize awarded to Lak-in-aw, a young warrior of the Temiscamings, Tula refused to receive the pipe at his hands, or to listen in any way to his suit.

"Tula is buried in the grave of O-ken-ah-ga," she said. "Tula will walk alone on the earth. Her heart is in the spirit land. It will never come back. It has nothing here to love."

Onward--onward--over interminable fields of snow and ice, where scarce a green thing appeared to relieve the utter desolation, the party proceeded, with their prize, on their journey to the far north. She was treated with chivalric tenderness and respect, and her comfort and convenience consulted in all the arrangements of the way. She needed but little indulgence, and solicited _none_. She was capable of enduring the fatigues and hardships of a man. She never flagged in the march, nor lingered a moment, when the word was given to go forward.

In traversing a deep valley near the eastern extremity of the Great Slave Lake, their track was crossed by that of a considerable party of Indians, returning from an expedition to the fur regions of the north.

Their course lay along the southern border of the lake. Perceiving their encampment at no great distance, on the other side of the valley, it was resolved to visit them, and, if they were found to be friendly, to join their camp for the night. On approaching the spot, they were met by the chief, who, with a few attendants, came out to bid them welcome to his tent. He was a fine specimen of a young Indian brave--one who, in his green youth, had gained laurels, which it usually requires a life-time to win. His costume, though adapted to the severity of the climate, was tasteful and picturesque, and so fitted and arranged as to develop, to the best advantage, the admirable proportions of his person.

The parley that ensued was a fine specimen of Indian courtesy and diplomacy. But it was suddenly and violently interrupted, when Tula, who had remained in the rear of her party, with the Englishmen, came up. At the first sight of the young chief, she uttered a loud and piercing shriek--for the extremes of joy and grief use similar tones and gestures--and rushing forward, pushed aside friend and stranger alike, and flung herself upon his neck, exclaiming--"Ish-ta-le-o-wah!--my brother! my brother!"