THE LODGES IN THE SNOW.
The fat lay six inches deep on the bear's ribs; and, being boiled
down, filled six porcupine skins.
"Said I not that Netawis would bring us good luck?" demanded
Menehwehna.
But Meshu-kwa claimed the head of her ancestress, and set it up on a
scaffold within the lodge, spreading a new blanket beneath it and
strewing tobacco-leaf in front of its nose. As though poor Azoka had
not enough misery, her mother took away her trinkets to decorate the
bear, and forced her to smear her pretty, ochred face with cinders.
Then for a whole day the whole family sat and fasted; and Azoka hated
fasting. But next morning she and Seeu-kwa swept out the lodge,
making all tidy. Pipes were lit, and Menehwehna, after blowing
tobacco-smoke into the bear's nostrils, began a long harangue on the
sad necessity which lay upon men to destroy their best friends.
His wife's eye being upon him, he made an excellent speech, though he
did not believe a word of it; but as a chief who had married the
daughter of a chief, he laid great stress upon her pedigree,
belittling his own descent from the _canicu_, or war eagle, with the
easier politeness because he knew it to be above reproach. When he
had ended, the family, Meshu-kwa included, seated themselves and ate
of the bear's flesh very heartily.
A few days later, they struck their camp and moved inland, for the
beaver were growing scarcer, and the heavy fall of snow hid their
houses and made it difficult to search the banks for washes.
But raccoon were plentiful at their new station, and easy to hunt.
Before the coming of the Cold Moon--which is January--John was set to
number the peltries, which amounted to three hundred odd; and the
scaffold, on which the dried venison hung out of reach of the wolves,
was a sight to gladden the heart. Only the women grumbled when
Menehwehna gave order to strike camp, for theirs were the heaviest
loads.
Azoka did not grumble. She could count now on Ononwe to help her
with her burden, since, like a sensible girl, she had long since made
up her quarrel with him and they were to be married in the spring on
their return to the village. She had quite forgiven Netawis.
Hers was that delicious stage of love when the heart, itself so
happy, wants all the world to be happy too. Once or twice John
caught her looking at him with eyes a little wistful in their
gladness; he never guessed that she had overheard his secret and
pitied him, but dared not betray herself. Ononwe, possessed with his
new felicity, delighted to talk of it whenever he and John hunted
together.
Did it hurt? Not often; and at the moment not much. But at night,
when sleep would not come, when John lay staring at the chink in the
doorway beyond which the northern lights flickered, then the wound
would revive and ache with the aching silence. Once, only once, he
had started out of sleep to feel his whole body flooded with
happiness; in his dream the curtains of the lodge had parted and
through them Diane had come to him. Standing over his head she had
shaken the snow from her cloak and from her hair, and the scattered
flakes had changed into raindrops, and the raindrops into singing
birds, and the lodge into a roof of sunlit boughs, breaking into
leaf with a scent of English hawthorn, as she stretched out her hands
and knelt and he drew her to his heart. Her cheek was cold from her
long journey; but a warm breeze played beneath the boughs, and under
her falling hair against his shoulder her small hand stole up and
touched his silver armlets. Nay, surely that touch was too real for
any dream. . . .
He had sprung up and pulled aside the curtain; but she was gone.
His eyes searched across a waste where only the snow-wraiths danced,
and far to the north the Aurora flickered with ribbons of ghostly
violet.
Would she come again? Yes, surely, under the stars and across the
folds and hollows of the snow, that vision would return, disturbing
no huddled wild creature, waking no sleeper in the lodge; would lift
the curtain and stretch out both hands and be gathered to him.
Though it came but once in a year he could watch for it by night,
live for it by day.
But by day he knew his folly. He was lost, and in forgetting lay his
only peace. He never once accused his fortune nor railed against a
God he could not believe in. He had come to disaster through his own
doubts; himself had been the only real enemy, and that sorry self
must be hidden and buried out of sight.
On the whole he was burying it successfully. He liked these
Ojibways, and had unlearnt his first disgust of their uncleanly
habits, though as yet he could not imitate them. He had quite
unlearnt his old loathing of Menehwehna for the sergeant's murder.
Menehwehna was a fine fellow, a chief too, respected among all the
nations west of Fort Niagara. John's surprise had begun at Fort
Rouille, where, on Menehwehna's word of credit only, the Tobacco
Indians had fetched out paint and clothes to disguise him, and had
smuggled him, asking no questions, past the fort and up through the
Lake aux Claies to Lake Huron. At Michilimackinac a single speech
from Menehwehna had won his welcome from the tribe; and they were
hunting now on the borders of the Ottawas through the favour of
Menehwehna's friendship with the Ottawa chief at l'Arbre Croche.
John saw that the other Indians considered him fortunate in
Menehwehna's favour, and if he never understood the full extent of
the condescension, at least his respect grew for one who was at once
so kingly and so simple, who shared his people's hardships, and was
their master less by rank than by wisdom in council, skill of hand,
and native power to impress and rule.
Of the deer especially Menehwehna was a mighty hunter; and in
February the wealth of the camp increased at a surprising rate.
For at this season the snow becomes hard enough to bear the hunter
and his dogs, but the sharp feet of the deer break through its crust
and his legs are cut to the bone. Often a hunting party would kill a
dozen stags in two or three hours, and soon the camp reckoned up five
thousand pounds of dried venison, all of which had to be carried back
seventy miles to the shore of the lake near l'Arbre Croche, where the
canoes had been left.
Early in March the women began to prepare the bundles, and in the
second week the return began, all starting at daybreak with as much
as they could carry, and marching until noon, when they built a
scaffold, piled their loads upon it, and returned to the camp for
more. When all had been carried forward one stage, the lodge itself
was removed, and so, stage by stage, they brought their wealth down
to the coast. As they neared it they fell in with other lodges of
Ojibways, mostly from Michilimackinac, gathering for the return
voyage up the lake.
Having recovered and launched their canoes, which had lain hidden
among the sandhills, they loaded up and coasted cheerfully homewards
by way of La Grande Traverse and l'Arbre Croche, and on the last day
of April landed under the French fort of Mackinac, which looked
across the strait to Cap Saint-Ignace. A dozen traders were here
awaiting them; and with these Menehwehna first settled out of the
common fund for guns, powder, and stores supplied on credit for the
winter's hunting. He then shared the residue among the camp, each
hunter receiving the portion fixed by custom; and John found himself
the owner of one hundred and twenty beaver skins, fifty raccoon, and
twelve otter, besides fifty dubious francs in cash. The bear skin,
which also fell to his share, he kept for his wedding gift to Ononwe.
Twenty pounds of beaver bought a couple of new shirts; another twenty
a blanket; and a handsome pair of scarlet _mitases_, fashionably
laced with ribbon, cost him fifteen. Out of what remained he offered
to pay Menehwehna for his first outfit, but received answer that he
had amply discharged this debt by bringing good luck to the camp.
Under Menehwehna's advice, therefore, he spent his gains in powder
and ball, fishing-lines, tobacco, and a new lock for his gun.
"And I am glad," said Menehwehna, "that you consulted me to-day, for
to-night I shall drink too much rum."
So indeed he did. That night his people--women and men--lay around
the fort in shameless intoxication. It pleased John to observe that
Azoka drank nothing; but on the other hand she made no attempt to
restrain her lover, who, having stupefied himself with rum, dropped
asleep with his head on her lap.
John, seated and smoking his pipe by the camp fire, watched her
across its blaze. She leaned back against a pole of the lodge, her
hands resting on Ononwe's head, her eyes gazing out into the purple
night beyond the doorway. They were solemn, with the awe of a deep
happiness. "And why not?" John asked himself. Her father, mother,
and kinsfolk lay drunk around her; even the children had taken their
share of the liquor. A disgusting sight, no doubt! yet somehow it
did not move him to reprobation. He had lived for six months with
this people, and they had taught him some lessons outside the craft
of hunting: for example, that it takes all sorts to make a world, and
that only a fool condemns his fellows for being unlike himself.
At home in Devonshire he had never understood why the best
farm-labourers and workmen broke out at times into reckless drinking,
and lay sodden for days together; or how their wives could accept
these outbursts as a matter of course. He understood now, having
served apprentice to hardship, how the natural man must revolt now
and again from the penalty of Adam, the grinding toil, day in and day
out, to wrest food from the earth for himself, his womenkind, and
children. He understood, too, how noble is the discipline, though
pardonable the revolt. He had discovered how little a man truly
needs. He had seen in this strange life much cruelty, much crazy
superstition, much dirt and senseless discomfort; but he had made
acquaintance with love and self-denial. He had learnt, above all,
the great lesson--to think twice before judging, and thrice before
condemning.
The camp fire was dying down untended. He arose and cast an armful
of logs upon it; and at the sound Azoka withdrew her eyes from the
doorway and fastened them upon him.
"Netawis," said she, "when will you be leaving us?"
"I have no thought of leaving."
"You are not telling me the truth, now."
"Indeed, I believe I am," John assured her.
"But what, then, of the girl yonder, whom you wanted to marry?
Has she married another man, or is she dead? Yes, I know something
about it," Azoka went on, as he stood staring amazedly. "For a long
time I have wanted to tell you. That night, after you had killed the
bear and Ononwe took you aside--I was afraid that you two would be
quarrelling, and so I crept after you--" She waited for him to
understand.
"I see," said John gravely.
"Tell me what has become of her."
"I suppose that she is living still with her own people; and there is
nothing more to tell, Azoka, except that she cannot be mine, and
would not if she could."
"Whose fault was it, Netawis? Yours or hers?"
"There was much fault indeed, and all of it mine; but against my
marrying her it did not count, for that was impossible from the
beginning. Suppose, now, your nation were at war with the Ottawas,
and a young Ottawa brave fell in love with you. What would you do?"
"That is idle talk, for of course I should do nothing," said Azoka
composedly. "But if I were a man and fell in love with an Ottawa
maiden, it would be simple. I should carry her off."
John, being unable to find an answer to this, lit his pipe and sat
staring into the fire.
"Was she an Englishwoman then?" Azoka asked after a while.
"An Englishwoman?" He looked up in surprise; then, with a glance
around at the sleepers, he leaned forward until his eyes met the
girl's at close range across the flame. "Since you have learnt one
secret, Azoka, I will tell you another. She was a Frenchwoman, and
it is I who am English."
But Azoka kept her composure. "My father is always wise," she said
quietly. "If he had told the truth, you would have been in great
danger; for many had lost sons and brothers in the fighting, and
those who came back were full of revenge. You heard their talk."
"Then you have only to tell them, Azoka, and they may take their
revenge. I shall not greatly care."
"I am no babbler, Netawis; and, moreover, the men have put their
revenge away. When the summer comes very few will want to go
fighting. For my part I pay little heed to their talk of killing and
scalping; to me it is all boys' play, and I do not want to understand
it. But from what I hear they think that the Englishmen will be
victorious, and it is foolishness to fight on the losing side.
If so--" Azoka broke off and pressed her palms together in sudden
delight.
"If so?" echoed John.
"If the English win, why then you may carry off your Frenchwoman,
Netawis! I do very much want you to be happy."
"And I thank you a thousand times, Azoka, for your good wishes; but I
fear it will not happen in that way."
She smoothed the head of Ononwe in her lap. "Oh yes, it will," she
assured him. "My father told me that you would be leaving us, some
day; and now I know what he meant. He has seen her, has he not?"
"He has seen her."
"My father is never mistaken. You will go back when the time comes,
and take her captive. But bring her back that I may see her,
Netawis."
"But if she should resist?"
Azoka shook her pretty head. "You men never understand us. She will
not resist when once you have married her; and I do very much want
you to be happy."
For three days the Ojibways sprawled in drunkenness around Fort
Mackinac, but on the fourth arose and departed for their island; very
sullenly at first, as they launched their canoes, but with rising
spirits as they neared home. And two days after their arrival Ononwe
and Azoka were married.
In the midst of the marriage feast, which lasted a week, the great
thaw began; and thereafter for a month Menehwehna watched John
closely. But the springtime could not thaw the resolve which had
been hardening John's heart all the winter--to live out his life in
the wilderness and, when his time came, to die there a forgotten man.
He wondered now that he had ever besought Menehwehna for help to
return. Although it could never be proved against him, he must
acknowledge to himself that he, a British officer, was now in truth a
willing deserter. But to be a deserter he found more tolerable than
to return at the price of private shame.
Menehwehna, cheated of his fears, watched him with a new and growing
hope. The snows melted; May came with its flowers, June with its
heat, July with the roaring of bucks in the forest; and still the men
hung about the village, fishing and shooting, or making short
excursions to Sault Sainte-Marie or the bay of Boutchitouay, or the
mouth of the Mississaki river on the north side of the lake (where
the wildfowl were plentiful), but showing no disposition to go out
again upon the war-path as they had gone the year before. The frenzy
which then had carried them hundreds of miles from their homes seemed
now to be entirely spent, and the war itself to have faded far away.
Once or twice a French officer from Fort Mackinac was paddled across
and landed and harangued the Indians; and the Indians listened
attentively, but never stirred. Of the French soldiers drilling at
the fort they spoke now with contempt.
John saw no reason for this change, and set it down to that
flightiness of purpose which--as he had read in books--is common to
all savages. He had yet to learn that in solitary lands the very sky
becomes as it were a vast sounding-board, and rumour travels, no man
knows how.
It was on his return from the isles aux Castors, where with two score
young men of his tribe he had spent three weeks in fishing for
sturgeon, that he heard of the capture of Fort Niagara by the
English. Azoka announced it to him.
"Said I not how it would happen?" she reminded him. "But if you
leave us now, you must come back with her and see my boy. When he
comes to be born he shall be called Netawis. Ononwe and I are agreed
on it."
"I have no thought of leaving," John answered. "Fort Niagara is far
from here."
"They say also," Menehwehna announced later, "that Stadacona has
fallen."
"Stadacona?"
"The great fortress--Quebec."
John mused for a while. "I had a dear friend once," he said, "and he
laid me a wager that he would enter Quebec before me. It appears
that he has won."
"A friend, did my brother say?"
"And a kinsman," John answered, recognising the old note of jealousy
in Menehwehna's voice. "But there's no likeness between us; for he
is one that always goes straight to his mark."
"There was a name brought me with the news. Your chief was the Wolf,
they said; but whether it be his own name or that of his _manitou_,
I know not."