AT CAUGHNAWAGA.
The lacrosse match proceeded all the same, though M. Rouget had
withdrawn the patronage of his presence. The interest felt in the
second game was greater than that in the first. Every one with money
to stake was on the _qui vive_; the chances were considered even now,
whereas in the first innings, every one believed in Caughnawaga, and
odds had to be given to tempt the few down-hearted Upper Canadians to
back Brautford. The second game ended like the first, to the general
surprise, and again Brautford's success was largely due to the clever
stripling, who, bounding about the field as nimbly as the ball itself,
was always where he was most wanted, and calmly did the best thing to
do at the time. "Who is the little one?" was asked on every hand; but
no one was ready with an answer other than the obvious one, "Injun,
like the rest," till a squaw--one of the many who circulated among the
crowd, brown as horse chestnuts, with little beads of eyes and broad
flat faces, arrayed in moccasins and blankets, yellow, red, and blue,
selling bark and bead work--vouchsafed the laconic information, "name
Paul."
The third game was longer and more obstinately contested than either
of its predecessors. Caughnawaga braced itself for a supreme effort,
under the reproaches of its backers and the taunts of the very squaws.
The best of five were to take the stakes. If Brautford won this third,
the match was over, and Caughnawaga "knocked into a cocked hat." The
players fought their most strenuous on either side, with tight set
teeth and wicked-looking eyes, which boded ill for joint or limb which
should happen within the swing of a lacrosse. Caughnawaga was
desperate, following up its capture of the ball with a compact rush,
and interposing their wiry bodies recklessly between it and the
uplifted sticks of the other side. Rushing and scuffling, they had
carried it nearly to their goal, another lick, and the game were won;
when, in front, there leaped the redoubtable Paul, scooped it up on
his netting, and threw it back over their heads.
It was done in a moment, while yet the rush and impetus were
unstemmed; an instant later and he was stumbled upon and run down by
his eager opponents, trampled on and stunned, before they could stay
themselves in their rush. They tripped over him and fell in a heap,
while the Brautford men caught the ball in the undefended middle and
had little opposition in carrying it to the other goal.
"Brautford! Hurrah for Brautford!" The Caughnawaga's heard the shout
while they were still disentangling and picking themselves up, a
defeated band. They picked themselves up and slunk away like cats,
that, raiding a dairy, are suddenly drenched and discomfited by an
ambushed milker. Only Paul was left on the ground, stunned and unable
to rise.
His comrades were the first to miss him; and they, perhaps, were
reminded of him by their backers in the crowd, for triumph is a
self-engrossing passion, and glory so sweet a sugar-stick, that, while
sucking it, we are not too likely to go in search of the comrade to
whom the most of it is due.
"Where is the young 'un?" was questioned in the crowd. "Where is
Paul?" and the crowd turned to the now deserted portion of the field
where he had last been seen. He was there still. A squaw in a red
blanket was beside him; she had raised his head and was chafing his
temples. Another squaw--a young one, this--was seen fetching water to
pour on him. But now the crowd was interested, they had gathered round
him, and soon carried him into the refreshment tent, where whisky, the
sporting man's nostrum, was used to restore him.
The notable Indians on the ground, the elders who did not join in
youthful sports, had gathered to look at the youth who had done so
well, and who might yet, for anything they could know, come forth one
day, a champion of their race. For who can tell what fancies may be
cherished by the red man? The white does not sympathize with them, and
therefore he puts them away, behind his impenetrable stolidity of
bearing, which might conceal so much, but more frequently and with
equal success hides nothing at all. They were once possessors of the
land, in so far, at least, as being there, for they shared it with the
beasts. Traditions of the physical prowess of their fathers are handed
down among them, and who can tell but, in their dreams, they may look
forward to a hero like those of old to arise and vindicate their place
among the whites.
Our old friend, Paul, of long ago, was a leading figure among these
elders, and one of evident consideration. A tall man, grown fleshy
from ease and lack of exercise, the violent exercises of his youth,
with his straight black hair threaded plentifully with white--a
"respectable" Indian, one seemingly well to do. The token of his
respectability was likewise that which deprived him of every vestige
of dignity or grace, to wit, a suit of rusty black clothes. It is the
queer tribute of respect which men of other races pay to our European
civilization. They cast away their native braveries and
picturesqueness of apparel, and accept the clothing of the white man
taken at its baldest and worst. An Indian, a Japanese, or a negro,
goes into full dress by putting on a chimney-pot hat and black
raiment, resembling that worn by undertakers' mutes, never
well-fitting, never well cared for, and harmonizing vilely with his
dusky skin, while his own natural instincts can arrange combinations
so suitable and becoming.
Paul stepped forward to where the lad lay, and surveyed the shapely
limbs. He was conscious now, but still dull and stupid, and not averse
to being a centre of interest. Paul laid his hand on his brow, and
felt his chest, and thought he was as fine a man of his years as he
ever beheld. The squaw in the red blanket looked up at him, while she
continued to chafe the boy's hands, and seemed greatly moved; but it
would have been unworthy of a "respectable" Indian of Paul's standing,
to take notice of a squaw on a public occasion like the present. He
moved away, and out of the throng in time, preparing to smoke a pipe
in quiet. The squaw in the red blanket followed him, and when she had
got him well out of notice, that his lordly superiority might not be
ruffled by the familiarity in public, she laid her hand on his arm,
and said, "Paul."
Paul turned his sleepy eyes that way, but it was only a squaw, a
strange squaw. He had nothing to say.
"Your son!" said the squaw, touching his arm again. He stopped at
that, and she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb to the crowd
they had come from.
"Mine?"
"Yours, Paul."
"Who are you?"
"His mother--Fidèle--Your squaw."
"My son? Where born?"
"Brautford. You bade me go to Brautford."
"Ouff." It would have been undignified for a man like Paul to say
more. It meant all he had to say, too, very likely. For, doubtless,
language which is never uttered ceases to be given birth to in the
mind. He turned, however, with Fidèle, and both walked back to the
tent.
The lad was better now. Refreshment was going on, the people seeing
him able to dispense with their care, had turned their attention to
sustaining themselves. He got up and joined his mother coming in, and
they went out again to a quiet place, followed by Paul, that his
parental feelings might be gratified with an interview, without
compromising his dignity by an exhibition before the world.
It seemed an unnecessary precaution. Paul's feelings, if he had any,
were under far too good control to lead him into impropriety. He sat
down with them on a deserted bench, however, questioned them both, and
finally accepted his son and his long absent spouse to his heart; that
is to say, he bade them follow him to Lachine, and then conducted them
across the river, and to his home in Caughnawaga.
Thérèse had ruled there as mistress from the day Fidèle had gone away.
That was so long ago now, that it had never occurred to her that her
sister would return, and the Père Théophile, a wise ruler, who, while
his flock did their duty according to what he considered their lights,
and were duly submissive, did not unnecessarily fret them with
abstract questions of affinity, ignored any irregularity, collected
the church dues from them, and christened the children. There were but
two of these, and girls both, to the intense disappointment and
mortification of Paul. Imagine his satisfaction, then, to find himself
in possession of a well-grown son of fifteen years--well-grown, and
such a player at lacrosse. Was it not he alone, and not the Brautford
band in general, who had beaten the Caughnawagas? And now he would be
of the Caughnawagas himself, and Paul would make much money, in bets
and otherwise, out of his son's fine play.
He received, then, his new-found family into his home and established
them there with honour. Young Paul, with the privileges of a "buck,"
lolled about the place, eating, sleeping, smoking all day long, like
his father. Fidèle sat by the hearth in her blanket and smoked her
pipe, while the household drudgery, now doubled by the addition to the
household, trebled by the presence of a squaw claiming to be first
wife, criticizing, ordering, and doing no work, fell on Thérèse and
her girls--to cut and carry wood, draw water, dig potatoes, cook, and
share the leavings, after the more considered members had eaten their
fill. It was hard lines.
The village was speedily aware of the accession to its inhabitants.
That same evening the crest-fallen lacrosse players were told that old
Paul had recognized young Paul as his son, and brought him away from
the Brautford band to themselves; and all the bucks in the Reservation
came to welcome the certain winner of games, and congratulate his
father. The middle-aged squaws recollected Fidèle, and came to praise
her son, squatting round the hearth in their blankets with lighted
pipes, while poor Thérèse, deposed from her motherhood of the house,
stole out to the garden-patch to dig and bewail her fate.
It cannot be supposed that the relations of the two squaws could be
cordial when they found themselves alone together. Their being sisters
made it none the less intolerable to be, or to have been, supplanted.
Thérèse felt injured now, and Fidèle remembered the wrongs and the
jealousy of fifteen years. It was not many days before they came to
blows, scolding, screaming, scratching, and pulling handfuls of each
other's hair, till a crowd of squaws had gathered from the surrounding
cabins; when Paul, the lord and master, appeared upon the scene, and,
in the grand heroic manner of the wilderness and its uncontaminated
sons, took down his cudgel from the wall, and belabouring them both
with soundness and impartiality, commanded them to desist. Was it not
shocking, dear lady? Yet, it was only one of those shocking things
which have been going on from the foundation of the world--which are
going on still, in Egypt, Russia, and elsewhere. The strong use a
stick to the weak, and order, of a sort, is maintained. We know
better, and have changed all that, and we go on improving, though it
may still be a question how it is going to answer in the end. It is
the weakest and the shrillest voiced, with us, who rule. The burly and
the peaceable stop their ears, and yield to escape the din. By-and-bye
we shall have all the ignorant to make our laws and instruct us. Shall
we be better off, I wonder? When every one is master, who will serve?
When all become commissioned officers, who will be left to fill the
ranks?
There was worse yet in store for Thérèse, however. Fidèle must needs
go to mass in that well-watched community. In Brant she could please
herself, but in Caughnawaga there were ladies of the convent to be
pleased, who were so bountiful. Fidèle's re-appearance came thus
officially before the Père Théophile. Scandal must be prevented, Paul
could not be permitted the luxury of two wives at once, however
capable he might be of keeping them both in order. More, it was the
newcomer, in this case, who was the lawful wife. Thérèse must go, and
he laid his injunction on Paul accordingly. Paul was submissive; one
squaw was enough to mind his comfort, and it mattered not which,
though, if anything, the boy's mother would suit the best. He obeyed
with promptitude, and after administering a parting beating, he turned
the three forlorn ones out of doors.
When a turkey comes to grief, through sickness or accident, the rest
of the flock are apt to set upon it and peck it to death. It is a
Spartan regimen, and encourages the others to keep well. The spirit
prevailing in Caughnawaga was in so much Spartan or turkey-ish--it is
a spirit not unknown at times in more cultured circles. Nobody dreamed
of coming forward out of natural kindness; and, as a matter of duty,
there was too much of the improper in the whole story, for any one
brazenly to claim praise from the ladies of the convent for sheltering
homeless ones such as these. It seemed irreverent, even, to suppose it
could be a Christian duty to succour them.
The outcasts walked down the village street, hiding their faces in
their blankets, bruised and ashamed. No one spoke to them or pitied
them. The squaws, their daily companions, sitting at their doors,
sewing, smoking, idling, looked steadily at them as they went by; some
with a wooden stolidity which showed no sign of recognition, some with
a spiteful and vindictive leer. Thérèse had been better off than many
of them, but who would change places with her now?
The dusk was falling, and the nights were growing chilly now; there
might be frost before morning. The gleam of firelight, the twinkle of
lamps, shone through cabin windows and from open doors, but no one
bade them enter. There was heavy dew in the air, the herbage was
soaked with moisture, and therefore they would not turn aside into the
bush, to drench themselves among the dripping leaves, and be chilled
to the bone with hoar frost, perchance, ere morning. They went forward
to the river-side, and out upon the pier, where the water swept
smoothly by, murmuring monotonously in a sombre passionless sough,
black as their own desolate misery, still and undemonstrative as
themselves.
They huddled themselves together under the lee of some bales and
boxes, their chins upon their knees within their blankets, and there
they crouched and shivered, all through the livelong night, sleeping
at times or drowsing, but always motionless, with the sound of the
mighty river in their ears, promising nothing, regretting nothing, yet
consoling in its changeless continuance--a life, and one in harmony
with their own, a seeming sympathy, when all the world beside had cast
them off.