“But winter has yet brighter scenes, he boasts
Splendours beyond what gorgeous summer knows,
Or autumn, with his many fruits, and woods
All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice,
While the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light.”
BRYANT.
Netnokwa, whom we left journeying to the lands of the Wabash, visited
the friends whom she was seeking, remained there sometime, and then
with her daughter and captive proceeded up far into the regions of the
North-west. Several months had elapsed, and the maiden, of whom no
tidings had been heard since her capture, might be seen standing in
the door of a bark hut, situated on the borders of Rainy Lake, and
gazing anxiously out as if expecting the arrival of some one. She was
closely muffled up in firs, and with increasing anxiety in her
countenance, would ever and anon step forth, and search in every
direction the dreary waste. Yet she remained out but a moment, for the
snow was falling fast, the earth was already covered to some depth,
and the winds as they hurried eddying past, drifted it up in heaps.
Forced in by the pitiless storm, she again resumed her situation at
the door.
A few months, what changes they sometimes produce! Yes, only a few
months had passed, and how changed in appearance was the captive! The
joyous expression of countenance which marked her happier days had
fled; gone was the beauty which mantled her cheeks, and in its stead,
there was melancholy stamped in every feature of her pale and delicate
face. Still she was beautiful, or perhaps I should say interesting
rather than beautiful. The fire of her dark eyes was undimmed, and
when in her anxiety, she moved them restlessly about, they served to
light up her pale and settled features, as beautifully as the moon
does a fleecy cloud when it passes over its face.
Night was now fast setting in, and still the storm abated not, but
rather appeared to drive on with more fury; dreary in the extreme,
would have been the prospect even to an old hunter, then doubly so
must it have been to our heroine; still she uttered no lament,
ventured no accusation against the authors of her misfortune, but
continued to search with the eyes of affection, the waste before her.
Netnokwa had not yet reached her place of destination, and being
prevented from journeying farther by the intense cold of the weather,
had here stopped to wait for a more auspicious season. Her conduct to
the captive maiden had been marked in its kindness, and the attention
of Miskwa might be regarded as sisterly, so freely, and with so much
apparent pleasure did she seem to bestow it. They treated her not as a
prisoner, they required no offices of drudgery from her, but supplied
all her wants, and endeavoured to make her as comfortable as possible.
This disposition on their part to please, sprung up from the meek and
unoffending manner of the captive, from the gentleness and timidity
which encircled her, and from the uncomplaining silence with which she
bore her misfortunes. She was an object of sorrow, and Netnokwa and
Miskwa pitied her, and regretted that she had not been permitted to
escape to the settlements, and would at that time have restored her to
her friends but for the dread fear of calling down upon their head the
wrath of the Prophet. Another reason was, that both Netnokwa and
Miskwa from their intercourse with the traders in selling their
peltries, had learned the meaning of a few English words, which
enabled them to comprehend the wants of the captive, and to make
themselves acquainted with many of the sad particulars of her story,
which, savage as the Indians may generally be deemed, only served to
awaken in their breasts feelings of the deepest sympathy.
As I have no fancy for broken dialects, I shall in the further
developement of this story, give a free translation to such
conversations as may occur between the captive and the two Indians who
have her in charge, and if in this I err, my apology must be, that it
is done with a hope, that on that account they may prove more
interesting to the reader.
As the life of one who depends on the casualties of the chase for
support is frequently one of great hardship and suffering, we must not
imagine an exemption in the case of Netnokwa and Miskwa, accustomed as
they were to the woods, and skilled as was the latter in the use of
her bow. No, far from it.
But to return to the captive, situated as we have described her. She
was alone. No living thing was at that time an inmate of her lodge,
and even if there had been, there were no means of sustaining life.
The last particle of food had been eaten hours before, and nothing now
remained but a few dried skins. About the centre of the cabin were the
embers of a dying fire, which she now proceeded to rebuild. While
engaged in this duty, there entered a light, graceful figure, clad in
rich skins, which fitted closely, and imparted to their wearer
somewhat the appearance of an Indian boy. A small rifle hung at his
back, yet a single glance at the delicate formation of his features
proclaimed him of a different sex. Gazing around but for an instant,
“where is my mother, Sweet Flower?” she said.
“I have not seen her since the morning,” replied the maiden, and a
partial gleam of joy shone for an instant on her wasted countenance,
upon the entrance of her friend.
“The storm hurries on, the snow is drifting fast in heaps, and
mother's blood courses slowly through her veins; I will go seek her.”
“Oh! do not, Miskwa, do not leave me,” cried the maiden, “you can
render no service this dark night, and will most probably be lost in
the snows. Oh! you know not how anxiously I have watched for you. Now
will you leave me? Let us raise a large fire; Netnokwa is wise in her
knowledge of the woods, and will be here presently.”
Yielding to the persuasion of the captive, Miskwa laid aside her cap
and rifle, and seated herself near the fire. Her dress consisted of a
kirtle or short frock, of English manufacture, fitting closely to her
chest, and extending down to her knees. Her feet were encased in
moccasins beautifully embroidered; the embroidery, the work of her own
hands, and tightly laced they displayed the proportions of a foot and
ankle which many a fairer face would envy. Her hair was simply parted
in front, and drawn behind her ears, it floated loosely over her
shoulders. She was beautiful, and withal, she was sprightly, and
playful, and seemingly unconscious of her situation.
“Did you kill any game to day, Miskwa?” inquired the captive.
“No,” said Miskwa, “not a foot print have I seen to day. The game is
wise, and the falling snow has driven it to its cover.”
“And did you walk far, Miskwa?”
“My path was long. I told thee I saw no foot-print. I mistake; I
followed a moose until the falling snow effaced its steps.”
“This is a hard life you lead,” said the captive, “you had better
carry me to the settlements. I have friends, and you and your mother
shall live with me. Several times, even since I have been with you,
have we been near starving, and if this snow storm continues, it will
end all our sufferings.”
“Never fear,” said Miskwa. “The red people are children of the Great
Spirit, and he will provide for them. The wild woods shall be our
home, and I will take care of ‘Sweet Flower.’ I will love her and give
her food.”
The captive needed no assurance of this, as far as it lay in the power
of Miskwa; for she had already received from her the most devoted
marks of affection, and if she now felt a doubt, it was because the
figure before her was so slight and delicate that it seemed rather to
need assistance than to be capable of affording it to others. Yet,
delicate as Miskwa seemed, few were able to undergo more fatigue. In
the chase she was not excelled. No one let fly a more unerring arrow,
no one shot with a rifle closer to the mark, nor was the bounding roe
of the forest more fleet. She owed her acquirements entirely to her
mother, who, as before stated, was one of the most remarkable women of
her age, and as much noted for her acquaintance with every species of
skill which belonged to her race, as she was conspicuous for the
clemency and humanity which adorned her character. She was likewise
superstitious in a great degree, so much so, that she mingled it with
all her acts, and it served to impart a mysterious colouring to her
character which only tended to increase her power.
However, the night wore on apace, and still the storm continued. Even
Miskwa's apprehensions for her mother began to increase, and she, with
the captive, sallied out to examine the state of the weather, and see
if any thing would offer itself as the means of relief. But all hope
of rendering any assistance was cut off; the night grew darker, and
the driving storm indicated that it would be madness to venture.
“Let us return,” said Miskwa, “I will pray to the Great Spirit:—he
will preserve me and my mother.”
“With all my heart,” said the captive, “and I too will unite in
prayer.”
Having entered the lodge, they had scarcely thrown themselves on their
knees, before a noise was heard at the door, and at the same moment,
Netnokwa entered, as calm and composed as though her journey had been
but an every day occurrence. Shaking the snow from her clothes, she
disencumbered herself of some of her garments, drew near the fire, and
lit her pipe.
“My children hunger, and have no food,” said she.
“None,” said Miskwa;—“no game has crossed my path to-day:—it heard the
storm in the whistling wind, and went to its hiding place.”
“And was Miskwa wise?”
“Miskwa searched for food for her mother; the path was far from her
lodge, yet she returned, and reached it before the night grew dark.”
“Thou wer't more wise than thy mother, Miskwa. Her blood is now like a
sluggish stream; it creeps slowly. The howling storm spent its force
upon the old oak, and racked it to its roots. Had Netnokwa remained
out an hour longer, she would not now want food; her spirit would be
in the happy hunting grounds with her warriors who have gone before
her. What would have become of her children?”
Miskwa renewed the fire, and drawing closer to her mother;—“Miskwa
always begs her mother that her path may not be far from her
wigwam,—She has seen many years, and should rest. Her daughter will
supply her with food.”
“We hunger now,—when morning comes, will it bring forth food?”
inquired Netnokwa.
“It will,” said Miskwa;—“the Great Spirit will take care of his
children. When morning comes, if Miskwa can find no game, she will
break the ice, and catch the dory.”
“Thou art good, my daughter. The Great Spirit will take care of his
children who love him. Let us pray to him, and ask him to give us food
in the morning. The pale face cannot live so long as we can without
food.”
“Be it as the Great Spirit wills,” said the captive, “but I had rather
do without it than that you should go out such weather as this to seek
it.”
“He that does not seek, shall never find,” said Netnokwa; “the Great
Spirit will not help those who do not help themselves.”
She then knelt, and prayed.
Some time was spent in prayer by Netnokwa, and then spreading their
pukkwi, and kindling up the fire, they lay around it, and nestling up
close to each other, slept away the night.
What a contrast had a few short months exhibited in the fortunes of
the captive;—one too so young, so beautiful, and so innocent that one
would have deemed her well calculated to disarm even fate of its
ire.—Yes, but a few short months had elapsed since she was in the
possession of parents, of friends, and the comforts of life. They have
passed, and she is an orphan, dwelling in the wilderness, and
suffering with want. Yet it was not hunger, nor bodily suffering which
caused her melancholy, but the loneliness of her situation, and the
gloom which hung over the future, brought up and educated as she had
been, and yet doomed to wear out her days in an Indian wigwam.
For some time she slept not, but thought of the past. She was sad, and
as the storm hurried howling around her little dwelling, she clung
closer to Miskwa, and felt a sympathy, in the driving blast, whose
notes touched a chord in unison with her own feelings, and even made
her more sad;—yet it was the joy of sorrow! for she contrasted the
present with the past, and her mind separating the sweet from the
bitter, dwelt only on the brighter recollections of her earlier days.
At last, day came, and with it came want, and knawing hunger, and the
prospect of starving to death; but with all this, never did a more
beautiful morn greet the children of Adam. The atmosphere was pure and
cloudless, and the reflection of the sun from the wide unbroken waste
of snow which lay before them, created a light as bright as though it
were reflected from so much burnished silver. The inmates of the lodge
having ventured out, were warmed into buoyancy of spirits by its
genial rays, and bright gleams of happiness for a moment passed before
them, upon beholding the dazzling splendour of the scene. Even
Netnokwa's swarthy features were moved, and the flow of earlier
feelings seemed struggling with the infirmities of age; but they soon
departed, and her present situation, with its sad circumstances, was
all she saw; calling her children to her, for she was pleased to
regard the captive in that light, she said:—
“My children, Netnokwa prayed last night to the Great Spirit. When you
slept, he came in a dream to me, and said: ‘Netnokwa, you shall feast
to-morrow, and plenty shall be in your wigwam.’ And a vision passed
before me, and in it I saw a stream, which found its way to the lake
now before me, and near its source, I saw a slaughtered bear. Will
Miskwa bring this meat to her mother?”
“Yes, and thank thee too,” said Miskwa;—and filled with life and
animation, she entered the hut, wrapped herself in furs, and seizing
her rifle, was equipped for the chase. Walking to the door, she
discharged it, saying, “Mother, the bear will be lucky which escapes
me to-day,” and then commenced reloading it.
“Thou art right, Miskwa,” said her mother;—“thy gun should not fail
thee when thou art hungry.”
“Say when my mother is hungry,” said Miskwa, “and ‘Sweet Flower’
drooping in our wigwam.”
Having rammed down the powder, she thrust her little hand into her
pockets, and drawing forth several balls, held them out to the
captive, “Wilt thou by choosing, give good luck to the red maiden,
‘Sweet Flower?’” said she.
Her companion complied, and thought these words, though she spoke them
not, “good as thou art pretty, Miskwa, may my fortune never betide
thee.” Miskwa being now ready, tripped out, as graceful and pretty a
figure as eyes ever beheld, and though not fashionably, she was
beautifully dressed. Closely muffling her neck was turned a rich fur,
as pure in whiteness as the fresh fallen snow, and which formed a
beautiful contrast with the jet black glossy hair which fell far below
it. Her cap was formed of the richest beaver, and that so tastefully
fashioned, that a maiden alone could have made it. She was a sweet
creature, and many a lassie who can boast the refinements of
civilization was far less interesting than the maid of the forest.
The captive went to the door, to see her labour her way through the
snow; but away she ran, like the bounding roe of the forest, and as
playful, and as happy, as though she were only running for pastime.
With so much cheerfulness did she hurry on to fulfil a dream. Yet
there was a holier purpose, it was to relieve the sufferings of a
mother and a friend.
Now, if the nature of her errand seems incompatible with the
gentleness of her sex, and the delicate formation of her frame, I pray
you, gentle reader, be not startled, for we are the creatures of
habit, and Miskwa had been trained to exercises of this kind from her
infancy; and if any fears should arise in your bosom as to the result
of the conflict, let me endeavour to allay them, as Miskwa did her
own, by saying, “one who shot so well, need fear no danger.” And if,
still unsatisfied, you should wonder that Miskwa, with so much
alacrity, would in such a season venture forth, merely to fulfil a
dream, let me say, that she lived surrounded by superstition, and that
her mother's dream was to her, pretty much what an authenticated
statement would be to one in civilized life; and furthermore, that
Netnokwa, though she had detailed a dream, always endeavoured to
produce ordinary events by supernatural means, and consequently, what
she had detailed as a dream, was but knowledge gained by previous
labour.
The captive having watched until Miskwa was lost to her view, entered
the lodge, and with much anxiety in her manner, said, “Mother, will no
harm come to Miskwa?”
“The Great Spirit will take care of his good children,” said Netnokwa,
“Miskwa is a good child.”
“But will not the beast she is gone to seek, harm her?” said the
captive.
“It will not bite so much as hunger,” said Netnokwa. “Miskwa is
prudent; fear not, daughter.”
I know not why, but at the close of this speech, the captive sat down
and wept, while Netnokwa prepared to enlarge the fire. A few hours
passed, and Miskwa returned successful from the chase, having found a
bear in such a place as the one described. Plenty was now in their
wigwam, and game soon after becoming abundant, they remained until the
melting of the snow enabled them to proceed on their journey to Red
River, which flows into Lake Winnipeek, whither they were now bound,
and where, at the period of our narrative, Netnokwa resided.[1]
[Footnote 1: See note C.]