Chapter Twenty Three.
Deliverance
Fortunately for Captain Trench, and indeed for the whole party, the execution of his plan was rendered unnecessary by an incident the full significance of which requires that we should transport the reader to another, but not far distant, part of the beautiful wilderness of Newfoundland.
Under the boughs of a spreading larch, on the summit of a mound which commanded a wide prospect of plain and morass, sat an Indian woman. She might have been taken for an old woman, so worn and thin was she, and so hollow were her cheeks; but the glossy blackness of her hair, the smoothness of her brow, and the glitter of her dark eyes told that she was yet in her youthful years.
She sat perfectly listless, with a vacant yet steadfast expression on her thin features, as if she were dreaming with her eyes open. The view before her was such as might indeed arouse the admiration of the most stolid; but it was evident that she took no notice of it, for her eyes were fixed on the clouds above the horizon.
Long she sat, almost motionless, thus gazing into space. Then she began to sing in a low sweet voice a plaintive air, which rose and fell for some time more like a tuneful wail than a song. Suddenly, and in the very midst of her song, she burst into a wild laugh, which increased in vehemence until it rang through the forest in a scream so terrible that it could be accounted for by nothing but insanity. That the poor creature’s reason was indeed dethroned became evident from her subsequent movements, for after falling backwards from the exhaustion produced by her effort, or, it might be, from the sheer weakness resulting from partial starvation, she got up and began quietly to cut up and devour raw a small bird which she had killed with a stone. Strengthened a little by this food, she rose and made a futile effort to draw more closely around her a little shawl, or rather kerchief of deerskin, which covered her shoulders, shuddering with cold as she did so.
Her short leathern gown and leggings were so soiled and torn that the ornamental work with which they had been originally decorated was almost invisible, and the moccasins she had worn hung in mere shreds upon her little feet.
Rising slowly, and with a weary sigh, the poor creature descended the side of the hill and entered the forest at the foot of it.
Lying concealed in a neighbouring thicket an Indian youth had watched the motions of the girl. It was evident, from his gaze of surprise, that he had just discovered her. It was equally evident, from his expression of perplexity, that he hesitated to intrude upon one who, he could not help seeing, was mad; but when she moved forward he followed her with the soft wary tread of a panther.
At first the girl’s step was slow and listless. Then it became rapid. A fit of excitement seemed to come on, and she began to run. Presently the excitement seemed to have passed, for she fell again into the listless walk. After a time she sat down, and recommenced her low wailing song.
At this point, taking advantage of a neighbouring thicket, the young Indian drew as near to the girl as possible, and, in a low voice, uttered the Indian word for—“Rising Sun!”
Starting violently, the girl turned round, stretched out both arms, and, with intense hope expressed in every feature, took a step forward. In an instant the expression vanished. Another terrible scream resounded in the air, and, turning quickly away, she fled like a hunted deer.
The young man pursued, but he evidently did not try to overtake her—only to keep her in sight. The maniac did not choose her course, but ran straight before her, leaping over fallen trees and obstructions with a degree of agility and power that seemed marvellous. Sometimes she shrieked as she ran, sometimes she laughed fiercely, but she never looked back. At last she came to a small lake—about a quarter of a mile wide. She did not attempt to skirt it, but went straight in with a wild rush, and, being well able to swim, struck out for the opposite shore. The young man followed without hesitation, but could not overtake her, and when he landed she had disappeared in the woods beyond.
Skilled to follow a trail, however, the youth soon recovered sight of her, but still did not try to overtake her—only to keep her in view.
At length the fire which had sustained the poor creature seemed to have burned itself out. In attempting to leap over a low bush Rising Sun stumbled, fell, and lay as if dead.
The Indian youth came up and, raising her in his arms, looked very sadly into her face. She still breathed, but gave no other sign of life. The youth, therefore, lifted her from the ground. He was tall and strong. She was small in person, and reduced almost to skin and bone. He carried her in his arms as though she had been but a little child, and, an hour later, bore her into the Indian camp, for which for many days past she had been making—straight as the arrow flies from the bow.
He carried her at once to the chief’s tent and laid his burden softly down, at the same time explaining how and where he had found her.
Bearpaw sprang up with an air of excitement which an Indian seldom displays. Evidently his feelings were deeply touched, as he knelt and raised the girl’s head. Then he ordered his chief squaw to supply Rising Sun with some warm food.
It was evening when this occurred. Most of the people were supping in their tents. No one was with the chief save his own family and two of his braves.
When the poor maniac revived under the influence of the warm food, she started up with wild looks and sought again to fly, but was forcibly detained by one of the braves.
“Oh, let me go—let me go!—to his mother!” she wailed piteously, for she felt herself to be helpless in the youth’s strong grasp.
“Has Rising Sun forgotten Bearpaw?” said the chief tenderly, as he stood before her.
“Yes—yes—no. I have not forgotten,” she said, passing her hand over her brow; “but, oh! let me go to her before I die!”
“Rising Sun shall not die. She is among friends now. The pale-faced enemies who killed Little Beaver can do her no harm.”
“Killed him—enemies!” murmured the poor girl, as if perplexed; then, quickly, “Yes—yes—he is dead. Does not Rising Sun know it? Did she not see it with her own eyes? He was killed—killed!”
The poor girl’s voice rose as she spoke until it was almost a shriek.
“Rising Sun,” said the chief, in a tone which the girl could not choose but obey, “tell us who killed him?”
“Killed him? No one killed him!” she answered, with a return of the perplexed look. “He missed his footing and fell over the cliff, and the Great Spirit took him.”
“Then the palefaces had nothing to do with it?” asked the chief eagerly.
“Oh! yes; the palefaces had to do with it. They were there, and Rising Sun saw all that they did; but they did not see her, for when she saw them coming she hid herself, being in great fear. And she knew that Little Beaver was dead. No man could fall from such a cliff and live. Dead—dead! Yes, he is dead. Oh! let me go.”
“Not yet, Rising Sun. What did the palefaces do? Did they take his scalp?”
“No; oh! no. The palefaces were kind. They lifted him tenderly. They dug his grave. They seemed as if they loved him like myself. Then they went away, and then—Rising Sun forgets! She remembers running and bounding like the deer. She cannot—she forgets!”
The poor girl stopped speaking, and put her hand to her brow as if to restrain the tumult of her thoughts. Then, suddenly, she looked up with a wild yet intelligent smile.
“Yes, she remembers now. Her heart was broken, and she longed to lay it on the breast of Little Beaver’s mother—who loved him so well. She knew where the wigwams of Bearpaw stood, and she ran for them as the bee flies when laden with honey to its home. She forgets much. Her mind is confused. She slept, she fell, she swam, she was cold—cold and hungry—but—but now she has come home. Oh, let me go!”
“Let her go,” said the chief, in a low voice.
The young brave loosed his hold, and Rising Sun bounded from the tent.
It was dark by that time, but several camp-fires threw a lurid glare over the village, so that she had no difficulty in finding the hut of her dead husband’s mother, for, during the interchange of several visits between members of the two tribes, she had become very familiar with the camp. All ignorant of the poor maniac’s arrival, for the news had not yet spread, the mother of Little Beaver sat embroidering a moccasin with dyed quill-work. The traces of profound grief were on her worn face, and her meek eyes were dim as she raised them to see who lifted the curtain of the tent so violently.
Only one word was uttered by Rising Sun as she sprang in and fell on her knees before the old woman:—“Mother!”
No cry was uttered, not even an expression of surprise moved the old woman’s face; but her ready arms were extended, and the girl laid her head, with a long-drawn sigh, upon the old bosom.
Long did she lie there that night, while a tender hand smoothed her coal-black hair, and pressed the thin cheek to a warm throbbing heart, which feared to move lest the girl’s rest should be disturbed; but there was no need to fear that. Even the loving old heart could no longer warm the cheek that was slowly but surely growing cold. When the face was at last turned anxiously towards the firelight it was seen that a rest which could not be disturbed had been found at last—for Rising Sun was dead.
While this solemn scene was enacting in the old mother’s tent, a very different one was taking place in the cave prison, where the captives still sat, bound hand and foot leaning against the wall.
Captain Trench and his son sat in front of them. A small fire burned in the cave, the smoke of which found an exit among the crevices of the high roof. It cast a lurid light on the faces of the men and on projections of the wall, but left the roof in profound darkness.
The captain was still much excited, for the moment for his desperate venture was rapidly approaching.
“Now, Grummidge,” he said, in a low but earnest voice, “it’s of no use your objectin’ any more, for I’ve made up my mind to do it.”
“Which means,” returned the seaman, “that for the sake of savin’ my life, you’re a-goin’ to risk your own and the lives of all consarned. Now it’s my opinion that as the sayin’ goes, of two evils a man should choose the least. It’s better that I should die quietly than that the whole of us should die fightin’, and, maybe, killin’ savages as well, which would be of no manner of use, d’ye see. I can only die once, you know, so I advise ye to give it up, an’ leave the whole matter in the hands of Providence.”
“Not at all,” said Squill stoutly. “It’s my opinion that when they’ve kilt you, Grummidge, they’ll be like tigers when they’ve tasted blood: they’ll want to kill the rest of us. No; I’ve made up me mind to bolt, and, if need be, fight, an’ so has all the rest on us—so heave ahead, cappen, an’ tell us what we’ve got to do.”
“Well, boys, here it is,” said the captain. “You see this weapon.” He took up the heavy bludgeon that Oliver had made for himself on commencing his travels in Newfoundland. “Well, I’ve brought this here every time I’ve come just to get the two sentries accustomed to see me with it. This is your last night on earth, Grummidge, so I’m goin’ to pay you an extra visit about midnight, by way of sayin’ farewell. As I pass the sentries—who are quite used to me now—I’ll fetch the first one I come to such a crack with this here that he will give no alarm. Before the other has time to wink I’ll treat him to the same. It’s a mean sort o’ thing to do, but necessity has no law, so I’ve made up my mind to go through with it.”
“It’ll be a bad look-out if you do,” said Grummidge.
“It’ll be a worse look-out if I don’t,” replied the captain. “Then, when that’s done,” he continued, “I’ll cut your lashin’s, an’ we’ll crowd all sail for the woods, where I have already concealed some arms an’ dried deer’s-meat, an’ if we can’t get fair off and make for the east coast, we’ll get on the top o’ some mound or rock an’ show these Redskins what English seamen can do when they’re hard pressed.”
“Not to mintion Irish wans!” said Squill.
“An’ have Master Paul an’ Hendrick agreed to fall in wi’ this mad plan?” asked Grummidge.
“No, I can’t say they have. To say truth, considerin’ that Hendrick’s a relation o’ the Redskins an’ that Master Paul is his friend, I thought it best to say nothing to them about it. So I’ll—”
He was interrupted here by the sudden entrance of Hendrick and Paul themselves, accompanied by Bearpaw and the sentries. To one of the latter the chief gave an order, and the man, drawing his knife, advanced to Grummidge. The seaman instinctively shrank from him, but was agreeably surprised on having his bonds cut. The others having also been liberated, the chief said:—
“My pale-faced brothers are free.”
“Yes, lads,” said Paul, heartily grasping Grummidge by the hand. “God has sent deliverance at the eleventh hour—you are all free.”
Chapter Twenty Four.
The Last
The joy with which the news was received by our seamen and their friends was somewhat marred by the death of the poor girl who had unconsciously been the means of their deliverance. During several days there was profound grief in the Indian village, for Rising Sun had been a favourite with every one.
About this time one or two scattered bands of the party, which had gone to attack the paleface settlement, returned to the village, and when they found what had occurred in their absence, their enmity was turned into friendship, and general goodwill prevailed among all.
From the men just arrived Paul and his friends heard of the fate of poor Swinton and Jim Heron, but at the same time were relieved to find that none of the other seamen had been slain.
A grand council and palaver was held in front of Bearpaw’s tent not long afterwards. It was a very grave and orderly council—one which would contrast favourably with many of our nineteenth century councils, for those savages had not at that time acquired the civilised capacity for open offhand misrepresentation, calumny, and personal abuse which is so conspicuous in these days, and which must be so gratifying to those who maintain that civilisation is the grand panacea for all the moral ills that flesh is heir to. Whether the Bethucks ever improved in this matter is not known, for history is silent on the point; but it is, perhaps, of little consequence, the Bethuck race having become extinct.
“It is now a matter for our consideration, my friends and warriors,” said Bearpaw, in opening the palaver, “whether the palefaces are to spend the winter here and hunt with us, or to return to the Crooked Lake to stay with our kinsman, the white hunter, and his wife, the sweet singer. Of course, my warriors know well that we could keep the palefaces by force just as easily as we could take their scalps, if we were so disposed; but Bearpaw is not a tyrant. He will not inflict kindness on his friends. His heart is great. It swells within him. Something inside of him whispers, ‘Let them do as they please.’ That must be right, for if circumstances were reversed, it would be right to let Bearpaw do as he pleases.”
The chief paused and looked sternly round, as if to say, “Contradict that if you dare!” Possibly he felt that the “something inside of him” might have stated the golden rule more simply. Returning to the point, he continued—
“Bearpaw is glad that Rising Sun came home before he killed the palefaces, for her words have saved their lives. He is also glad that the friends of the palefaces came, for they have taught him wisdom. They have shown him that he was going to act in haste; they have told him that the Great Spirit orders all events here, and the Great Spirit himself has proved the truth of what they said; for, when Bearpaw refused to believe the palefaces, He sent Rising Sun to confirm their words, and to convince Bearpaw that he was wrong.”
Again the chief paused, and looked round upon his men, some of whom appeared to dissent from what he said in condemnation of himself by slightly shaking their heads.
“Bethuck warriors,” continued the chief, “have often told Bearpaw that he is wise. Bearpaw now tells his warriors that they are fools—fools for telling their chief that he is wise! If he had been wise he would not have come so near to shedding the blood of innocent men; but the Great Spirit prevented him. If the Great Spirit had not prevented him, still that would have been right, for the Great Spirit cannot do wrong, and He is not bound to give explanations to his creatures; though, doubtless, we will do it in the end. The heart of Bearpaw is grateful to his paleface brothers, and he would be glad if they will stay to hunt over his lands and palaver in his wigwam during the winter; but if they prefer to go, they may do as they please. Waugh! Bearpaw has spoken.”
The chief sat down with emphasis, as if he felt that he had done his duty, and his men uttered a decided “Ho!” of approval.
Then Hendrick rose, and, looking round the circle with that grave dignity of countenance and manner which was not less natural to himself than characteristic of his Indian friends, delivered himself as follows:—
“I and my friends are glad that Bearpaw recognises the hand of the Great Spirit in all that has occurred, for we rejoice to believe that He is the great First Cause of all things, and that men are only second causes, gifted, however, with the mysterious power to do evil.
“In thanking my Bethuck brother and his warriors for their kind invitation—I speak for all my party—we are all grateful, and we would greatly like to spend the winter here, and enjoy the hospitality of our red brothers. Especially would my friend Paul Burns rejoice to read more to you from his wonderful writing, and explain it; but we cannot stay. My paleface brothers wish to return with me to Crooked Lake, where the sweet singer and her little ones await the return of the hands that feed and protect them.”
Hendrick, pausing, looked round and received some nods of approval at this point.
“The winter is long, however,” he continued, “and when the snow is deep over all the land we can put on our snow-shoes and revisit Bearpaw; or, better still, Bearpaw and his warriors may come to Crooked Lake, when the sweet singer and her daughter will give them hearty welcome, supply them with more food than they can consume, and cause their ears and hearts to thrill with music.”
Hendrick paused again, and decided marks of approval greeted his last words.
“But, my friends and kinsmen,” he resumed, “when winter draws to a close, the palefaces will go to the coast to see how it fares with their comrades, and to try whether it is not possible for them to make a big canoe in which to cross the great Salt Lake, for some of them have wives and mothers, sisters, fathers, and other relations whom they love, in the mighty land that lies far away where the sun rises—the land of my own fathers, about which I have often talked to you. If they cannot make a big enough canoe, they will wait and hope till another great canoe, like the one they lost, comes to this island—as come it surely will, bringing many palefaces to settle in the land.”
“When they come they shall be welcome,” said Bearpaw, as Hendrick sat down, “and we will hunt for them till they learn to hunt for themselves; we will teach them how to capture the big fish with the red flesh, and show them how to track the deer through the wilderness—waugh! But will our guests not stay with us till the hard frosts set in?”
“No; we must leave before the deep snow falls,” said Hendrick. “Much of that which fell lately has melted away; so we will start for Crooked Lake without further delay.”
The Indian chief bowed his head in acquiescence with this decision, and the very next day Paul and the captain and Oliver, with their rescued comrades and Strongbow, set out for Hendrick’s home, which they reached not long after, to find that all was well, that the old Indian servant had kept the family fully supplied with fish, flesh, and fowl; that no one had visited the islet since they left, that the sweet singers were in good voice; and that the family baby was as bright as ever, as great an anxiety to its mother, and as terrible a torment to its idolising nurse!
Among others who took up their abode at that time on the hunter’s islet was the large dog Blackboy. That faithful creature, having always had a liking for Hendrick, and finding that the old master and mistress never came back, had attached itself to the party of palefaces, and quietly accepted the English name of Blackboy.
Now, it is impossible, with the space at our command, to recount all the sayings and doings of this section of the
Water Wagtail’s
crew during that winter: how they built a hut for themselves close to that of their host; how they learned to walk on snowshoes when the deep snow came; how, when the lake set fast and the thick ice formed a highway to the shore, little Oscar taught Oliver Trench how to cut holes through to the water and fish under the ice; how hunting, sledging, football, and firewood-cutting became the order of the day; supping, story-telling, singing, and reading the manuscript Gospel according to John, the order of the evening, and sleeping like tops, with occasional snoring, the order of the night, when the waters were thus arrested by the power of frost, and the land was smothered in snow. All this and a great deal more must be left untold, for, as we have said, or hinted, or implied before, matters of greater moment claim our attention.
One night, towards the close of that winter, Paul Burns suggested that it was about time to go down to the coast and visit their comrades there.
“So say I,” remarked Grummidge, who at the time was feeding the baby, to the grave satisfaction of Blackboy.
“Sure, an’ I’m agreeable,” said Squills, who was too busy feeding himself to say more.
As Little Stubbs, George Blazer, Fred Taylor, and David Garnet were of the same opinion, and Hendrick had no objection, except that Trueheart, Goodred, and Oscar would be very sorry to part with them, and the family baby would be inconsolable, it was decided that a start should be made without delay.
They set out accordingly, Hendrick and Strongbow alternately leading, and, as it is styled, beating the track, while the rest followed in single file. It was a long, hard journey, but our travellers were by that time inured to roughing it in the cold. Every night they made their camp by digging a hole in the snow under the canopy of a tree, and kindling a huge fire at one end thereof. Every morning at dawn they resumed the march over the snow-clad wilderness, and continued till sun-down. Thus, day by day they advanced, living on the dried meat they carried on their backs, and the fresh meat and ptarmigan they procured with bolt and arrow. At last the