Young Lion of the Woods Part 8

She said she would go and see Newall, and if he could not come, she would walk down and let her (Margaret) know how her husband was.

Mrs. G.o.dfrey told the squaw where she would find her at ten o'clock the next morning, and then taking the hand of the Indian woman into that of her own, looked carefully at the ring, as she bid her good day.

Margaret recognized the ring as the one she had lost during the a.s.sault of the rebels at Grimross, in 1776. She missed it from off her finger soon after the cross-eyed, monkey-faced rebel "Will," had pulled her about the floor by the hand, and never saw or heard of it after. Paul Guidon often said to Mrs. G.o.dfrey, that he believed the rebel "Will" had stolen her ring.

It was a very valuable one, set with a choice emerald, surrounded by precious stones. It was presented to Margaret by her father, on the day he was elected Mayor of Cork, and cost forty-live guineas. It had never occurred to Margaret, during her conversation with the squaw, to ask her name.

Mrs. G.o.dfrey said to herself, "This Indian girl may be a daughter of one of the savages who attacked us at Grimross. Perhaps she has lied to me and I may never again see her or the ring. I may possibly get some information to-morrow that will satisfy me. I must wait."

At ten o'clock the next morning a strapping big Indian knocked at the door of the house where Mrs. G.o.dfrey was lodging, and inquired if "woman lived there who wanted go in canoe and see sick Injun up river?"

He was informed that there was a lady inside, ready and waiting for a man named Jim Newall, to take her up the river. "Me Jim," he replied.

Margaret came to the door. She said, "Are you Jim Newall?" "Yes, me Jim Newall," he answered gruffly.

Margaret asked Jim how far it was to where he had left his canoe. "Just few steps," he replied. "Down among stumps at water edge." Margaret accompanied the Indian, and finding out where the canoe was, told Jim to remain there until she returned, as she wanted to get a few things for the sick man.

Half an hour later Mrs. G.o.dfrey and a Mrs. Fowler were making their way by stumps of trees and over branches, with their arms loaded with things for the sick Indian. They were soon on board, and then Jim Newall paddled away up stream.

As the canoe slipped along, every spot on the sh.o.r.es seemed familiar to Margaret's eyes, and many sad thoughts flashed across her mind; memories of days never to be forgotten rose in her soul. She remarked to Mrs.

Fowler, "How little everything has changed since I was here last, eight years ago, except at the settlement."

The morning was a charming one, the river was running, fairly rushing up, otherwise all nature seemed to sleep. The splash of the paddle, the ripple of the water along the sides of the canoe, and the gentle rolling of the little bark, were the only things that disturbed the quiet that reigned supreme all about. The Indian never spoke, and Margaret and her companion, as they sat one ahead of the other in the bottom of the canoe, seldom exchanged a word.

Mrs. G.o.dfrey saw at a glance that the canoe was nearing the place where Paul Guidon and his mother had once lived. As she looked toward the sh.o.r.e her eyes rested upon a form standing at the water's edge, and as the canoe approached nearer and nearer the sh.o.r.e, she recognized the form as that of the pretty squaw she had met at the settlement the previous day. Margaret G.o.dfrey remarked to Mrs. Fowler, "There stands the pretty creature I met yesterday." Mrs. Fowler replied, "She does not look like the squaws we so often see about the settlement." She continued, "What a neat, tidy girl she is. I have never seen her at Parrtown, what a handsome face and fine form she has"

"And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form, or lovelier face."

The bow of the canoe had now touched the sh.o.r.e, and the Indian la.s.s most politely made a courtesy to the ladies in the canoe.

After landing, Mrs. Fowler put a piece of silver in Jim Newall's hand and asked him if he would take them back home again in an hour or two.

Jim nodded an a.s.sent as he pulled his little bark out of the water to the dry land.

Mrs. G.o.dfrey, once on sh.o.r.e, fully recognized that she was at the old camping ground of her protector in by gone days, Paul Guidon.

The squaw replied to Mrs. G.o.dfrey's inquiry after her sick husband, that he was very weak, almost dead. Does he know that a white woman is doming to see him this morning? asked Margaret G. "Yes," replied the Indian woman, "he be so glad see you, but he be very weak, no speak, he told me in whisper last night, after I come back camp from Jim Newall wigwam, best friend, best woman ever saw, was pale face woman, who told him of Great Chief, Big Spirit, and great hunting ground way back sun, where old Mag, (mother) was now. Pale face woman gave him book, and would talk Great Spirit and tell him look after Paul and make him good man."

Is your husband's name Paul? asked Margaret G.o.dfrey. "Yes mam," she answered, "Paul Guidon his name." Mrs. G.o.dfrey felt all must be a dream.

She appeared lost and bewildered after she had heard the name Paul Guidon. She cast a glance at her companion and exclaimed, "Am I back to the old camping ground of Paul Guidon, and is he here?" Then her faculties seemed to desert her, for at that instant she staggered and fell into the arms of the Indian woman, with such force as to almost knock the squaw over. Mrs. Fowler noticing the stupor of her companion and her pallid features, asked her if she felt ill. She did not reply.

Little Mag, for such was the name of the handsome squaw, ran down to the river side, filled her moccasins with water and tripping back, she poured the contents full in the face of Mrs. G.o.dfrey. She went again and again to the river, filled her moccasins and poured the water over Margaret's face and temples.

Jim Newall, who was sitting in his canoe a few yards distant, seeing the woman lying on the ground, came up and proposed to carry her to the wigwam two hundred yards distant, or under the shade of some trees near by. The latter proposition was acted upon. Jim, Mrs. Fowler and Little Mag, carried Margaret to a shaded spot a few yards away. They all sat down beside her, as she lay stretched and apparently lifeless upon the ground. After little Mag had once more poured the contents of her shoes down the neck of Margaret, and Mrs. Fowler had steadily rubbed her temples and wrists, she opened her eyes, looked wildly about, and then sat up supported by her companion.

She then commenced to speak in a low weak voice. Mrs. Fowler, listening attentively, heard her say, "Forever honored be this spot of earth: Here 'Old Mag' departed this life. Here her son Paul, that most n.o.ble spirit of the woods, who when I was weary, distressed, and a wanderer, broken in everything but spirit, poor in all but faith and courage: Here! Here!

Paul took refuge, and my husband, my children and myself rested. Never shall that day be forgotten by me. I shall always look back during my life, and when I get to that other home, I shall, too, look back to this sacred spot with unabated affection and regard. Here! Here was I eight years ago with husband and children, unprovided for, unprotected, on the sh.o.r.e of this river, in a rude and fearful wilderness, surrounded by savages, but that n.o.ble Indian, that splendid Iroquois, whose old mother lies in everlasting sleep near here, protected us and provided for us.

The hills around are hallowed in my memory, and these trees seem to stand with grace and beauty. This sh.o.r.e is as sacred to my mind as those of the Jordan were to the people of old. Here! yes here! how often have I communed with my loving Saviour! This ground is sacred to me because it incloses the dust of the mother of my protector. The ashes of old Margaret Guidon repose here. Is this sacred ground soon to claim the dust of her loving son? It may be that both came here to live for a brief s.p.a.ce and then to die and mingle their ashes with this Acadian soil."

Tears streamed down over her beautiful waxen features, as Mrs. Fowler and little Mag a.s.sisted her to her feet. No penitent at a Methodist revival-service ever looked more serious than did Jim Newall, as Margaret G.o.dfrey uttered the above.

Margaret had at length sufficiently recovered to proceed to the wigwam, a.s.sisted on either side by little Mag and Mrs. Fowler. The three walked slowly toward the home of Paul Guidon. Arriving at the entrance of the wigwam the little Chipewayan led the way inside.

The first object that met the eyes of Mrs. G.o.dfrey was the sick Indian lying, wasted and emaciated, on a bed of spruce-boughs covered with a blanket.

Margaret G.o.dfrey at once knelt at his bed-side and placing his dark thin hand in that of her own, said "Dear Paul, I come to see you."

He looked up at her and stared in a sort of vacant manner. He tried to raise his head, but was too weak to do so. She looked straight in his eyes, and said again, "Paul, you remember your old pale-faced friend who used to live at Grimross Neck?" As Margaret spoke the last word, Paul Guidon faintly whispered, "Thank Great Chief, I told him get you come me, Paul must not be made die till you come." Great tears rolled down his sunken cheeks as he whispered the above, and Margaret G.o.dfrey, overpowered with emotion, lightly rested her forehead on his thin sinewy arm. Not a step. Not a sound was heard for a few minutes within the narrow circle of the wigwam, all rested as if in silent prayer, a more touching, a more peaceful, a more solemn scene, was never witnessed in palace or cottage. Deep grief, real sorrow, took full possession of those women who knelt around the bed of the dying Iroquois, in that birchen home on the banks of the St John, on the morning of September the 20th, 1784.

There in the stillness of a North American forest, on a magnificent autumn day, when the trees were dressed in all their gorgeous loveliness, and at an hour when not even the rustling of a leaf could be heard, death was gradually releasing the spirit of Paul Guidon from its swarthy tenament.

Margaret G.o.dfrey raised her head from off the arm of the Indian, and as she did so, he again whispered, "me soon be on hunting ground behind setting sun, you must come see Paul." Mrs. G.o.dfrey, promised him that she would. He looked at his little wife and tried to move his right hand toward his breast. She knew what he wanted her to do. She knelt down, kissed him and took from inside his shirt a book. It was the old service book. She handed it to Margaret G.o.dfrey, who opened it and read to Paul, whose eyes were steadfastly fixed on the reader. As she continued reading, the eyes of the dying Indian gradually closed, and as she, shut the book he ceased breathing. The spirit of the "Young Lion of the Woods" had taken its everlasting flight.

"Like a shadow thrown Softly and sweetly from a pa.s.sing cloud, Death fell upon him."

An hour after Paul Guidon had died, Jim Newall, Mrs. G.o.dfrey, Mrs.

Fowler and Mag Guidon went to the sh.o.r.e and brought Newall's canoe to the wigwam. The dead chief was laid out in a military coat, which he had kept with great care, on his head was an undress cap, and his lower limbs were dressed in dark trousers, and long military or hunting boots coming up to the knee.

Paul Guidon was united in marriage to Margaret Reonadi at Quebec in the summer of 1760, and several military gentlemen were present at the ceremony. He was dressed for burial in the same suit in which he was married.

Newall's canoe, on which the body was laid, was draped along the sides with evergreens. Spruce boughs were laid athwart the canoe forming a bed for the body of the departed hero. On his breast were placed his bow and arrow, also his moccasins. The widowed squaw said the canoe would help his soul to cross rivers and lakes on the way to the happy hunting grounds, the arrow would bring down game and the moccasins protect his feet. When all preparations were completed Newall had arrived back with another canoe. Mrs. G.o.dfrey and Mrs. Fowler were then taken to the mouth of the river by Jim, where they secured the services of a man named c.o.c.k to accompany Newall up the river and a.s.sist him in digging a grave. A person by the name of Farris presented Mrs. G.o.dfrey with a British flag, which he wished displayed at Paul's burial.

The following morning, according to an agreement, Newall came to the settlement and took Margaret G. and Mrs. Fowler to the wigwam which should hold the n.o.ble Paul no more forever. The British ensign was drawn over the body of the dead Indian. He lay in a sort of state till next day, the body being viewed by many of the Indians of the district, and also by not a few people from the settlement. All those that came expressed great sorrow for the quiet little Chipewayan widow, who was far away from her home and people. On the day of the burial there was a great gathering of the tribes. The body was borne to its final resting place by ten stalwart Indians, five on each side of the canoe, which was placed on five paddles. The procession was a most solemn one. The forest, the rugged scenery, the quiet retreat, all these appeared to add to the solemnity of the occasion. The grave was alongside that of his mother, and neatly lined with spruce. At five o'clock in the afternoon all that was mortal of Paul Guidon was lowered into its last abode.

"They laid them fondly side by side, And near their icy hearts They placed their arrows and their bows, Their clubs, and spears, and darts; For use when they with life are crowned In heaven's happy hunting ground."

Margaret G.o.dfrey read the burial service from the old service book, while rivers of tears flowed down a score of swarthy faces, and an occasional low wail uttered by the Indians standing round the open grave, told of their sorrow and superst.i.tious fear. The British ensign was then placed over the dead Iroquois. It was the flag under which he had lived and died, and a fit emblem to cover the remains of so true and brave a man. (The characters of American sympathizers, of traitors and rebels, as black as they appear in Colonial History, will appear deeper-dyed as they stand in contrast to the loyalty of this true Indian.) Margaret G.o.dfrey spoke to them as follows: "I believe it to be my solemn duty, yea, my special duty on this most sorrowful occasion, that I should express my feelings. If there ascends from my heart a prayer to the throne of the Great Chief, in behalf of this youthful widow and in behalf of you people, let it be a prayer that the Great Chief may turn the hearts of all from the thoughts of war to sentiments of mercy and peace, such as our dear brother, whose remains we have just committed to the grave, possessed in his life. When I think of that true, and n.o.ble man, whose remains lie before us, I thank Him who rules the winds and guides the stars in their courses, that such a man was ever born. And if, at some distant period, it may be many years remote, one of my own or my husband's countrymen (some of whom are now peopling this country) should visit this spot or this neighbourhood, I trust that tradition or history may inform such a one that here sleeps one of the bravest, truest, and most n.o.ble sons of the forest that ever lived and roamed over the hunting grounds of time. He was true to his adopted country, true to its king, and true to its loyal people. An Indian, but too honest and n.o.ble-minded to be a rebel, he not only discountenanced the dark plottings of enemies within Acadia, but his sagacity sometimes was the means of frustrating them. He was an Indian, high in character; a n.o.ble example to some pale faces, to all. His body now rests beside that little brook, but his spirit is in a country of light and peace.

This country is a good and pleasant country, and those who are coming to live here are sprung from a n.o.ble race, and if you, my friends, all prove as good and true as this departed red-man, you will have no cause to complain at the pale faces settling around you. You will secure a righteous treatment of your race, and your people will be a happy people. The British people (my people) are a great people, and where they settle they govern wisely, and in their dealings with all peoples they are guided by that justice and generosity which alone becomes a Christian people. These may be the last words I shall ever speak to you.

These may be the last moments I shall ever be with you. Remember my loving advice and act upon it. If you do this you will earn the love of the pale faces and build up for your race a lasting renown. You and I, all of us, can learn good lessons from the life of Paul Guidon. If we live as he lived we will be happy here, and bye-and-by be more happy in the hunting fields of the hereafter. If we are as true to our Great Chief, and as true to our king and country as he was, we will worship the Great Spirit and never talk against our king and our country. Then bye and-by we shall go to meet Paul Guidon in a country where there will be no more wars, no more sighs, no more tears, no more parting, no more dying."

The Red men paid the utmost attention to the words as they dropped from Margaret G.o.dfrey's lips. The grave was then filled in and the mourners dispersed to their homes along the river, leaving Paul Guidon to rest beside his mother.

For more than a century the "Young Lion of the Woods" has slept on the banks of the St. John. His loyal spirit took its flight to another sphere about the time thousands of united loyal spirits were forming a city near his tomb. The few thousand people that had settled in the colony in the days of Paul Guidon, were the ancestry of the nearly one million true, loyal subjects who inhabit the Maritime Provinces at the beginning of this year 1889. The colony, of which the n.o.ble Iroquois was a citizen, was confined within narrow bounds. Now the sons of the Loyalists are on the sh.o.r.es of the Pacific. Our country extends there.

It is a n.o.ble faculty of our nature which enables us to connect our thoughts with the past as well as with the future, and by contemplating the example and studying the character of Paul Guidon, we must come to the conclusion that were that Indian living now his heart would glow with patriotic pride at the strides the country has taken, and that our destiny is Canadian, not American.

It is a pleasure to be able to exhibit to the present generation something of the splendid character of the Iroquois, whose ashes, commingled with those of the Union Jack, repose near the loyal City of St. John.

"And has he not high honor, The hill side for a pall, He lies in state while angels wait With stars for tapers tall; And the dark rock pines, with tossing plumes, Over his tomb to wave; 'Twas a kind dear hand in that lonely land, That laid him in the grave."

"In that lonely grave without a name, Where his uncoffined clay Shall break again, O, wondrous thought!

Before the Judgment Day, And stand with glory wrapped around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life, And the Incarnate Son of G.o.d."

CHAPTER XI.

MARGARET G.o.dFREY'S FAREWELL.