“Must this sweet new-blown rose find such, a winter
Before her spring be past?”
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER
The little bark touched the stony point of Long Island. The Indian
lifted his weeping prisoner from the canoe, and motioned to her to move
forward along the narrow path that led to the camp, about twenty yards
higher up the bank, where there was a little grassy spot enclosed, with
shrubby trees--the squaws tarried at the lake-shore to bring up the
paddles and secure the canoe.
It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of an enemy, but doubly so,
when that enemy is a stranger to the language in which we would plead
for mercy--whose God is not our God, nor his laws those by which we
ourselves are governed. Thus felt the poor captive as she stood alone,
mute with terror among the half-naked dusky forms with which she now
found herself surrounded. She cast a hurried glance round that strange
assembly, if by chance her eye might rest upon some dear familiar face,
but she saw not the kind but grave face of Hector, nor met the bright
sparkling eye of her cousin Louis, nor the soft, subdued, pensive
features of the Indian girl, her adopted sister--she stood alone among
those wild gloomy-looking men; some turned away their eyes as if they
would not meet her woe-stricken countenance, lest they should be moved
to pity her sad condition; no wonder that, overcome by the sense of her
utter friendliness, she hid her face with her fettered hands and wept
in despair. But the Indian’s sympathy is not moved by tears and sighs;
calmness, courage, defiance of danger and contempt of death, are what he
venerates and admires even in an enemy.
The Indians beheld her grief unmoved. At length the old man, who seemed
to be a chief among the rest, motioned to one of the women who leant
against the side of the wigwam, to come forward and lead away the
stranger; Catharine, whose senses were beginning to be more collected,
heard the old man give orders that she was to be fed and cared for.
Gladly did she escape from the presence of those pitiless men, from
whose gaze she shrunk with maidenly modesty. And now when alone with
the women she hesitated not to make use of that natural language which
requires not the aid of speech to make itself understood; clasping
her hands imploringly, she knelt at the feet of the Indian woman, her
conductress--kissed her dark hands and bathed them with her fast flowing
tears, while she pointed passionately to the shore where lay the happy
home from which she had been so suddenly torn.
The squaw, though she evidently comprehended the meaning of her
imploring gestures, shook her head, and in plaintive earnest tone
replied in her own language, that she must go with the canoes to the
other shore,--and she pointed to the north as she spoke. She then
motioned to the young girl--the same that had been Catharine’s companion
in the canoe--to bring a hunting knife, which was thrust into one of
the folds of the birch-bark of the wigwam. Catharine beheld the deadly
weapon in the hands of the Indian woman with a pang of agony as great as
if its sharp edge was already at her throat. So young--so young, to die
by a cruel bloody death! what had been her crime?--how should she find
words to soften the heart of her murderess? The power of utterance
seemed denied--she cast herself on her knees and held up her hands in
silent prayer; not to the dreaded Indian woman, but to Him who heareth
the prayer of the poor destitute--who alone can order the unruly wills
and affections of men.
The squaw stretched forth one dark hand and grasped the arm of the
terror-struck girl, while the other held the weapon of destruction; with
a quick movement she severed the thongs that bound the fettered wrists
of the pleading captive, and with a smile that seemed to light up her
whole face she raised her from her prostrate position, laid her hand
upon her young head, and with an expression of good-humoured surprise
lifted the flowing tresses of her sunny hair and spread them over
the back of her own swarthy hand; then, as if amused by the striking
contrast, she shook down her own jetty-black hair and twined a tress of
it with one of the fair haired girl’s--then laughed till her teeth shone
like pearls within her red lips. Many were the exclamations of childish
wonder that broke from the other females, as they compared the snowy arm
of the stranger with their own dusky skins; it was plain that they had
no intention of harming her, and by degrees distrust and dread of her
singular companions began in some measure to subside.
The squaw motioned her to take a seat on a mat beside her, and gave her
a handful of parched rice and some deer’s flesh to eat; but Catharine’s
heart was too heavy; she was suffering from thirst, and on pronouncing
the Indian word for water, the young girl snatched up a piece of
birch-bark from the floor of the tent, and gathering the corners
together, ran to the lake, and soon returned with water in this most
primitive drinking vessel, which she held to the lips of her guest, and
she seemed amused by the long deep draught with which Catharine slaked
her thirst; and something like a gleam of hope came over her mind as she
marked the look of kindly feeling with which she caught the young Indian
girl regarding her, and she strove to overcome the choking sensation
that would from time to time rise to her throat, as she fluctuated
between hope and fear. The position of the Indian camp was so placed
that it was quite hidden from the shore, and neither could Catharine
see the mouth of the ravine, nor the steep side of the mount that her
brothers were accustomed to ascend and descend in their visits to the
lake shore, nor had she any means of making a signal to them even if she
had seen them on the beach.
The long, anxious, watchful night passed, and soon after sunrise, while
the morning mists still hung over the lake, the canoes of the Indians
were launched, and long before noon they were in the mouth of the river.
Catharine’s heart sunk within her as the fast receding shores of the
lake showed each minute fainter in the distance. At midday they halted
at a fine bend in the river, where a small open place and a creek
flowing down through the woods afforded them cool water; and here they
found several tents put up and a larger party awaiting their return. The
river was here a fine, broad, deep and tranquil stream; trees of many
kinds fringed the edge; beyond was the unbroken forest, whose depths had
never been pierced by the step of man--so thick and luxuriant was the
vegetation that even the Indian could hardly have penetrated through
its dark swampy glades: far as the eye could reach, that impenetrable
interminable wall of verdure stretched away into the far off distance.
On that spot where our Indian camp then stood, are now pleasant open
meadows, with an avenue of fine pines and balsams; showing on the
eminence above, a large substantial dwelling-house surrounded by
a luxuriant orchard and garden, the property of a naval officer,
_[FN: Lt. Rubidge, whose interesting account of his early
settlement may be read in a letter inserted in Captain Basil Hall’s
Letters from Canada.]_ who with the courage and perseverance that mark
brave men of his class, first ventured to break the bush and locate
himself and his infant family in the lonely wilderness, then far from
any beaten road or the haunts of his fellow-men.
But at the period of which I write, the axe of the adventurous settler
had not levelled one trunk of that vast forest, neither had the fire
scathed it; no voices of happy joyous children had rung through those
shades, nor sound of rural labour nor bleating flock awakened its
echoes.
All the remainder of that sad day, Catharine sat on the grass under a
shady tree, her eyes mournfully fixed on the slow flowing waters, and
wondering at her own hard fate in being thus torn from her home and its
dear inmates. Bad as she had thought her separation from her father
and mother and her brothers, when she first left her home to become
a wanderer on the Rice Lake Plains, how much more dismal now was her
situation, snatched from the dear companions who had upheld and cheered
her on in all her sorrows! But now she was alone with none to love or
cherish or console her, she felt a desolation of spirit that almost made
her forgetful of that trust that had hitherto always sustained her in
time of trouble or sickness. She looked round, and her eye fell on the
strange unseemly forms of men and women, who cared not for her, and to
whom she was an object of indifference or aversion: she wept when she
thought of the grief that her absence would occasion to Hector and
Louis; the thought of their distress increased her own.
The soothing quiet of the scene, with the low lulling sound of the
little brook as its tiny wavelets fell tinkling over the massy roots
and stones that impeded its course to the river, joined with fatigue and
long exposure to the sun and air, caused her at length to fall asleep.
The last rosy light of the setting sun was dyeing the waters with a
glowing tint when she awoke; a soft blue haze hung upon the trees;
the kingfisher and dragon-fly, and a solitary loon, were the only
busy things abroad on the river; the first darting up and down from
an upturned root near the water’s edge, feeding its youngings; the
dragon-fly hawking with rapid whirring sound for insects, and the loon,
just visible from above the surface of the still stream, sailed quietly
on companionless, like her who watched its movements.
The bustle of the hunters returning with game and fish to the encampment
roused many a sleepy brown papoose, the fires were renewed, and the
evening meal was now preparing,--and Catharine, chilled by the falling
dew, crept to the enlivening warmth. And here she was pleased at
being recognised by one friendly face--it was the mild and benevolent
countenance of the widow Snowstorm, who, with her three sons, came to
bid her to share their camp fire and food. The kindly grasp of the hand,
the beaming smile that was given by this good creature, albeit she was
ugly and ill-featured, cheered the sad captive’s heart. She had given
her a cup of cold water and what food her log-cabin afforded, and in
return the good Indian took her to her wigwam and fed, and warmed, and
cherished her with the loving-kindness of a Christian; and during all
her sojourn in the Indian camp she was as a tender mother over her,
drying her tears and showing her those little acts of attention that
even the untaught Indians know are grateful to the sorrowful and
destitute. Catharine often forgot her own griefs to repay this worthy
creature’s kindness, by attending to her little babe and assisting her
in some of her homely preparations of cookery or household work. She
knew that a selfish indulgence in sorrow would do her no good, and after
the lapse of some days she so well disciplined her own heart as to check
her tears at least in the presence of the Indian women, and to assume an
air of comparative cheerfulness. Once she found Indian words enough to
ask the Indian widow to convey her back to the lake, but she shook her
head and bade her not think anything about it; and added, that in the
fall, when the ducks came to the rice-beds, they should all return, and
then if she could obtain leave from the chief, she would restore her to
her lodge on the plains; but signified to her that patience was her only
present remedy, and that submission to the will of the chief was her
wisest plan. Comforted by this vague promise, Catharine strove to be
reconciled to her strange lot, and still stranger companions. She could
not help being surprised at the want of curiosity respecting her that
was shown by the Indians in the wigwam, when she was brought thither;
they appeared to take little notice that a stranger and one so
dissimilar to themselves had been introduced into the camp, for before
her they asked no questions about her, whatever they might do when she
was absent, though they surveyed her with silent attention. Catharine
learned, by long acquaintance with this people, that an outward
manifestation of surprise _[FN: See Appendix L.]_ is considered a
want of etiquette and good breeding, or rather a proof of weakness and
childishness. The women, like other females, are certainly less disposed
to repress this feeling of inquisitiveness than the men, and one of
their great sources of amusement, when Catharine was among them, was
examining the difference of texture and colour of her skin and hair,
and holding long consultations over them. The young girl and her mother,
those who had paddled the canoe the day she was carried away to the
island, showed her much kindness in a quiet way. The young squaw
was granddaughter to the old chief, and seemed to be regarded with
considerable respect by the rest of the women; she was a gay lively
creature, often laughing, and seemed to enjoy an inexhaustible fund
of good humour. She was inclined to extend her patronage to the young
stranger, making her eat out of her own bark dish, and sit beside her on
her own mat. She wove a chain of the sweet-scented grass with which
the Indians delight in adorning themselves, likewise in perfuming their
lodges with bunches or strewings upon the floor. She took great pains
in teaching her how to acquire the proper attitude of sitting, after the
fashion of the Eastern nations, which position the Indian women assume
when at rest in their wigwams. The Indian name of this little damsel
signified the Snow-bird. She was, like that lively restless bird, always
flitting to and fro from tent to tent, as garrulous and as cheerful too
as that merry little herald of the spring.
Once she seemed particularly attracted by Catharine’s dress, which she
examined with critical minuteness, evincing great surprise at the cut
fringes of dressed doeskin with which Indiana had ornamented the border
of the short jacket which she had manufactured for Catharine. These
fringes she pointed out to the notice of the women, and even the old
chief was called in to examine the dress; nor did the leggings and
mocassins escape their observation. There was something mysterious about
her garments. Catharine was at a loss to imagine what caused those deep
guttural exclamations, somewhat between a grunt and a groan, that burst
from the lips of the Indians, as they one by one examined them with
deep attention. These people had recognised in these things the peculiar
fashion and handiwork of the young Mohawk girl whom they had exposed to
perish by hunger and thirst on Bare Hill, and much their interest was
excited to know by what means Catharine had become possessed of a dress
wrought by the hand of one whom they had numbered with the dead. Strange
and mysterious did it seem to them, and warily did they watch the
unconscious object of their wonder.
The knowledge that she possessed of the language of her friend Indiana,
enabled Catharine to comprehend a great deal of what was said; yet she
prudently refrained from speaking in the tongue of one, to whose
whole nation she knew these people to be hostile, but she sedulously
endeavoured to learn their own peculiar dialect, and in this she
succeeded in an incredibly short time, so that she was soon able to
express her own wants, and converse a little with the females who were
about her.
She had noticed that among the tents there was one which stood
apart from the rest, and was only visited by the old chief and his
granddaughter, or by the elder women. At first she imagined it was some
sick person, or a secret tent set apart for the worship of the Great
Spirit; but one day when the chief of the people had gone up the river
hunting, and the children were asleep, she perceived the curtain of
skins drawn back, and a female of singular and striking beauty appeared
standing in the open space in front. She was habited in a fine tunic of
white dressed doeskin richly embroidered with coloured beads and stained
quills, a full petticoat of dark cloth bound with scarlet descended
to her ancles, leggings fringed with deer-skin knotted with bands of
coloured quills, with richly wrought mocassins on her feet. On her
head she wore a coronet of scarlet and black feathers; her long shining
tresses of raven hair descended to her waist, each thick tress confined
with a braided band of quills dyed scarlet and blue; her stature was
tall and well-formed; her large, liquid, dark eye wore an expression so
proud and mournful that Catharine felt her own involuntarily fill with
tears as she gazed upon this singular being. She would have approached
nearer to her, but a spell seemed on her; she shrunk back timid and
abashed beneath that wild melancholy glance. It was she, the Beam of the
Morning, the self-made widow of the young Mohawk, whose hand had wrought
so fearful a vengeance on the treacherous destroyer of her brother. She
stood there, at the tent door, arrayed in her bridal robes, as on the
day when she received her death-doomed victim. And when she recalled her
fearful deed, shuddering with horror, Catharine drew back and shrouded
herself within the tent, fearing again to fall under the eye of that
terrible woman. She remembered how Indiana had told her that since
that fatal marriage-feast she had been kept apart from the rest of the
tribe,--she was regarded by her people as a sacred character, a great
_Medicine_, a female _brave_, a being whom they regarded with mysterious
reverence. She had made this great sacrifice for the good of her nation.
Indiana said it was believed among her own folks that she had loved the
young Mohawk passionately, as a tender woman loves the husband of her
youth; yet she had hesitated not to sacrifice him with her own hand.
Such was the deed of the Indian heroine--and such were the virtues of
the unregenerated Greeks and Romans!