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RED CLOUD,
_THE SOLITARY SIOUX_.
A Story of the Great Prairie.
BY
LIEUT.-COLONEL BUTLER, C.B.
AUTHOR OF “THE GREAT LONE LAND,” “THE WILD NORTH LAND,”
ETC., ETC.
“Like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.”
_Tennyson._
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1882.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
Our home in Glencar――A glimpse at the outside world――My
parents――My schoolmasters――Donogh――Cooma-sa-harn――The
eagle’s nest――“The eagle is coming back to the
nest”――Alone in the world――I start for the Great
Prairie――Good-bye to Glencar 1
CHAPTER II.
Sunset in the wilds――Our first camp――Outlooks――The solitary
Sioux――Losses――The Sioux again――A new departure――The
_cache_ at the Souri――The story of Red Cloud――The red
man’s offer 28
CHAPTER III.
To the West――Wapiti in sight――A stalk――A grand run――The
sand-hills in sight――The finish――A noble beast――A gorgeous
sunset――A vast landscape――The Hills of Life and Death 52
CHAPTER IV.
We reach the hills of the Wolverine――Something moves far out
upon the plains――The wounded Cree――His story――Adventure
with a grizzly bear――Left alone――A long crawl for
life――Hunger, thirst, and travail――A grizzly again――“The
Great Spirit, like an eagle, looks down upon the
prairie”――Saved――Watched 67
CHAPTER V.
An Assineboine camp――The trader McDermott――The chief
“Wolverine”――Fire-water and finesse――The Assineboine
war-party――A chance of a Cree scalp――The trader hears a
well-known name――A big bid for murder, two hundred skins! 82
CHAPTER VI.
The Sioux forecasts our course――On the watch――Directions――We
separate――Red Cloud is seen far out on the plains――Rival
tactics――Scent _versus_ sight――A captured scout――The edge
of the hills again――The signal fire 97
CHAPTER VII.
The watched one halts――A light to the north-east――The
Stonies find their mistake――Distant thunder――A light in
the dark――The fire wind――_Sauve qui peut_――How the fire
was lighted――We ride across the fire field――Enemies in
sight――A dilemma――Between friend and foe――The scout throws
in his lot with us――We ride to the rescue 111
CHAPTER VIII.
The fight――The Sioux and the swamp――The trader’s triumph――Red
Cloud fights on foot――The trader finds he has other foes
to reckon with――The Assineboine draws a straight arrow――The
trader’s flight――Our losses and gains――Winter supplies――Our
party is completed――“All’s well that ends well.” 129
CHAPTER IX.
We again go West――Hiding the trail――Red and white for once
in harmony――Peace and plenty――An autumn holiday――We
select a winter’s camp――The Forks――Hut-building――Our food
supply――The autumn hunt――The Great Prairie――Home
thoughts――Indian instincts――The Lake of the
Winds――Buffalo――Good meat――A long stalk――The monarch of
the waste――A stampede――Wolves――The red man’s tobacco 144
CHAPTER X.
Winter――Wolves――A night’s trapping――A retreat――In the teeth
of the north wind――The carcajou――A miss and a hit――News
of Indians――Danger ahead――A friendly storm――The hut again 177
CHAPTER XI.
Winter comfort――Snowshoe-making――Snow and storm――The
moose woods――A night camp――Memories――A midnight
visitor――Maskeypeton the Iroquois――Danger――A moose
hunt――Indian stalking――The red man’s happy
hunting-grounds――Plans――Raft-building 191
CHAPTER XII.
The winter draws to an end――A keen look-out――Signs――The
break-up of the rivers――An ice block――The evening
approaches――A noiseless arrow――The ice still fast――The
ice-floes――The war-cry of assault――A parley――We embark
on the rafts――The hut in flames――On shore
again――Freedom――Winter gone 212
CHAPTER XIII.
Horses wanted――New plans――We start south――The Prairie
in Spring――No buffalo in sight――Starvation――A last
resort――Buffalo at last――We fall in with Blood
Indians――The camp――Tashota――A trade――Rumours of war――We
depart from the Blood camp 228
CHAPTER XIV.
On the trail――A pursuit――The mark is overshot――A night
march――Morning――The curtain rises――We are
prisoners――Blackfeet――Penoquam――The Far-Off Dawn――His
history――His medicine robe――Interrogations――New
arrivals――The trader again 247
CHAPTER XV.
The council of the nation――The wager of battle――Signs of
friendship――A private interview――A fair field and no
favour――The trader on the scene――I leave the camp――I
camp alone――The rock on the hill――The skulking
figure――Preparations for the start――The race for
life――The snake in the grass――A desperate strait――The
odds are made even――Hand to hand――A last chance――Out
of range 260
CHAPTER XVI.
Revulsion――Home again――New plans――We depart for the
mountains――The Hand hills――The great range――Home
memories――A murderous volley――Donogh sees “the land
beyond the grave”――Vain regrets――We enter the
mountains――The island――A lonely grave――The Indian’s
home 279
CHAPTER XVII.
Signs of trouble――Reconnoitring――Precautions――We retire
into the island――Daylight――The enemy shows himself――A
search――He prepares to attack the island――A midnight
storm――The raft――“Aim low, and fire fast”――In the whirl
of waters――On the lip of the fall――The end of crime 297
CHAPTER XVIII.
The beginning of the end――Deeper into the mountains――The
western slope――On the edge of the snow――The golden
valley――It is all mine――Night thoughts――Last words――I
see him no more 315
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
[Illustration: decoration]
PAGE
Sergeant MacMahon 7
The rope was again within my grasp 21
The solitary Sioux 33
At last the Sioux raised his head and spoke 44
The Sioux was now almost at the flank of the wapiti 63
His eyes all at once became fixed upon one object set within
the mid-distance 68
A brisk trade is being carried on 83
Watching an opportunity, the trader addressed the leader of
the band 94
Both dog and man were rolling together upon the ground 104
Firing the prairie grass 120
The white man was the trader McDermott 125
McDermott pulled up his horse 135
It was a curious group this, that now held its course into
the western wilds 148
We both sprang to our feet, and ran with all speed towards
the animals 168
Day after day the Sioux, with myself, or the scout, or
Donogh, set out on a hunt for venison 192
Making snowshoes 193
Strange footprints 214
Ten minutes later we rode slowly from the camp 246
The tall and majestic figure of the Far-Off Dawn rose in
the centre 261
I struck the iron butt heavily down upon the trader’s head 277
One brawny savage had reached the spot where Donogh was
lying 288
“Aim low, and fire fast” 309
“Forbear,” I cried, striking up the levelled barrel 313
“Look!” said Red Cloud, “there is the yellow dust for which
the white man fights, and robs, and kills” 320
RED CLOUD,
_THE SOLITARY SIOUX_.
[Illustration: decoration]
CHAPTER I.
Our home in Glencar――A glimpse at the outside world――My parents――My
schoolmasters――Donogh――Cooma-sa-harn――The eagle’s nest――“The eagle is
coming back to the nest”――Alone in the world――I start for the Great
Prairie――Good-bye to Glencar.
Far back as I can remember anything I can remember our cottage in
Glencar. It was a small thatched house, with plenty of June roses
and white jessamine trailing over two sides of it, through wooden
trellis-work. The ground rose steeply behind the house, until the trees
that covered it gave place to scattered clumps of holly bushes, which
finally merged into open mountain, heather-covered, and sprinkled here
and there with dwarf furze bushes. In front of the cottage the little
lawn sloped downwards to a stream, the bed of which was strewn with
great boulders of rock, which were bare and dry in summer, but in
winter scarcely showed over the surface. Between the big rocks there
were pools and shallows, in which trout rose briskly at the midges in
the early summer evenings. Whenever I think of that cottage home now,
it seems to me to be always sunshine there. There must have been dark
days, and wet ones, too, but I can’t call them to mind. There was a
large flat rock in the middle of the lawn half way down to the stream;
one end of this rock was imbedded in the earth, the other leant out
from the ground, giving shelter underneath. The only dark thing I can
remember about the whole place was that hollow under the big stone.
I used to sit in there on the very hot days, looking out across the
stream upon the one road that led from the outer world into Glencar.
When the weather was not too warm I lay on the top of the rock, looking
at the same view. The road came into the glen over a hill that was
four miles distant from our cottage; you could see the white streak
crossing the crest of ridge, flanked on each side by the dark heather
mountain. You caught sight of the road again as it came down the
hillside, and here and there at turns, as it wound along the valley to
the old five-arched bridge over the Carragh river, and then disappeared
around the hill on which our cottage stood. When in the summer days I
used to lie on the rock, or beneath its shadows, I was always thinking
of the country that lay beyond the boundary ridge, the land to which
the white road led when it dipped down behind the hill: that was the
outside world to me, the glen was the inside one. As I grew older I
came to know more of the outside world; I was able to climb higher
up the steep hill behind the house, to get beyond the holly bushes
out into the heather, and at last one day I reached the mountain-top
itself. That was a great event in my life. It took me a long while to
get up; the last bit was very steep; I had to sit down often amid the
rocks and heather for want of breath. At last I gained the summit, and
sank down quite exhausted on an old weather-beaten flat rock; I was
just ten years old that day. Thirty years have gone by since then.
I have climbed many a lofty mountain, lain down for weeks alone in
forests and on prairies, but never have I felt so proudly conscious of
success as I did that day. It was my first view of the outside world.
How vast it seemed to me. The glen, my world, lay below, winding away
amid the hills. All the streams, all the lakes, were unfolded to my
sight, and out beyond the boundary ridge was the great open country.
That was on one side――the glen side; but as I turned round to look
beyond the mountain I had come up, I saw a sight that filled me with
utter astonishment. Below me on that side there lay another glen,
smaller than ours; then the hill rose again, but not to the height of
the ridge on which I stood; and then, beyond the hill, there spread a
great, vast waste of blue water――out――out, until I could see no more,
where the sky came down upon it――the end of the world. It was the sea!
It was getting dark when I reached home that day. I went straight to my
mother. “Mother,” I said, “I have been to the top of Coolrue, and have
seen the end of the world.” I was fearfully tired; I had fallen over
rocks coming down, and was bruised and torn; but what did it matter?
From that day forth the glen seemed a small place to me, and my mind
was ever at work shaping plans for the future. About this time I began
to read well. There were many old books in our cottage――books of travel
and adventure, books of history, and one large old atlas that had maps
of every country in the world in it, and in the corner of each map
there was a picture of the people of the land, or of some wonderful
mountain, or waterfall in it.
I read all these books in the long winter evenings; and many a time I
sat poring over the maps, moving my finger up a long waving line of
river, and travelling in fancy from island to island in the ocean.
And now I must say something about the inmates of our home. They
were few. There was my mother, one old servant woman, and an old man
who kept the garden tilled, drove in the cow at nightfall, and took
care of everything. In truth there wasn’t much to be taken care of.
We were very poor, and we were all the poorer because we had once
been rich――at least my mother had been. My father had died before I
could remember him. His picture hung over the fireplace in our little
parlour; and I can almost say that I do remember him, because the
picture is confused in my mind with the reality, and I have a dim
recollection of a man, tall, pale, and dark haired; but I can’t add to
it voice or action; it is only a vague kind of shadow. I was four years
old when he died.
When I was seven years old my mother began to tell me about him. She
used to sit often in the winter evenings looking at his picture; and as
I sat at her feet, and she spoke of the old times, and how brave and
honourable he was, I remember her voice used to tremble, and sometimes
she would stop altogether.
As I grew older I learned more about him. I heard how we had first come
to Glencar. It had been a favourite spot with my father in his early
days, and whenever he could get leave of absence he used to come to
it, for the lakes held plenty of trout, and the mountains had snipe,
woodcock, and grouse upon them. After my father’s marriage he had built
the cottage. My mother was as fond of the glen as he was, and they
used to come here for two or three months every year. When they had
been three years married my father’s regiment was ordered to India. My
mother went too. I was only two years old at the time. When we reached
India the regiment was ordered up country, for war had broken out. At
the battle of Moodkee my father was severely wounded. After a while he
was able to be moved down to the coast, where my mother had remained
when the regiment went on service. From the coast he was invalided to
England. The voyage home was a long one. We arrived in England in the
end of summer.
The autumn and winter came. The cold told severely upon my father’s
weakened state, and when spring arrived it was evident he had but
a short time to live. He wished to see Glencar again. With much
difficulty he was brought to the cottage, to die.
In the upper end of the glen there was a wild secluded lake called
Lough Cluen. A solitary island stood under the shadow of a tall
mountain wall which overhangs the lake on one side. The island is
little more than a rock, with yew-trees and ivy growing over it. A
ruined church, half hidden in the trees, stood on this rock. It was my
father’s grave. He had wished to be buried in this lonely island, and
his wish was carried out.
The little cottage, a few acres of land, the rugged mountain and the
stream――now formed, with my mother’s scanty pension, all our worldly
possessions. Here, then, we took up our residence, and here I grew up,
as I have already described――the glen my world; the mountain, lake, and
stream my daily playground.
About a mile from our cottage there lived an old pensioner, who, forty
years earlier, had followed Wellington from the Tagus to Toulouse. He
had served his full term of twenty-one years, and being at the time of
his discharge a staff-sergeant, his pension was sufficient to secure
him a comfortable home for the rest of his days. He had a few acres of
land around his cottage. He was the best angler in the glen. He was my
earliest friend and guide with rod and gun on river, lake, and mountain
side.
Sergeant MacMahon, formerly of her Majesty’s 40th Regiment, was, when
I knew him, a man who had passed his sixtieth year. Yet time, despite
a score years of fighting and exposure, had dealt lightly with the old
soldier, who still stood as straight as the ramrod he had so often
driven home upon the bullet of his firelock. From him I got my first
lessons in other things besides fishing and shooting. He taught me the
“extension motions,” the “balance step without gaining ground,” the
manual and platoon exercises, and the sword exercise. He also showed me
the method of attack and defence with the bayonet.
[Illustration: Sergeant MacMahon.]
He had the battles of the Peninsula by heart, and day after day did
he pour forth his descriptions of how Busaco was won, and how Fuentes
d’Onore had been decided, and how Lord Wellington had outmarched
“Sowlt,” as he used to call him, at Pampeluna, or had out-manœuvred
Marmont at Torres Vedras. His personal adventures were told in another
style. He had stories of bivouac――“bivoocing” he used to call it――of
nights on outlying picquet, of escapes when patrolling, and of
incidents in action, that he loved to recount to me as we sat by the
river side waiting for a cloud to cross the sun before we tried a cast
of flies over some favourite stream.
Once every quarter he set off in his mule-cart for Killarney to draw
his pension. On these occasions I used to notice that his voice on
his return sounded a little thick, and his face generally appeared
flushed. But the next day all would be the same as usual. At the time
I fancied that the exertion of the journey had been too much for him,
or that the excitement of meeting some old comrades (there were three
other Peninsula heroes in the town) had overcome him. He had been a
great ally of my poor father’s in earlier days, and to my mother he
was equally attached. With all his stories of wars and fighting his
heart was true and gentle. He was fond of all animals, knew the notes
of every bird, and could tell the names of the trees in the wood, or
the wild flowers by the river side. He was my outdoor schoolmaster. I
learned from him many a pleasant lesson, and many a useful one too.
But I had another schoolmaster at this time. A mile down the glen from
our cottage stood the priest’s house, next to our own cabin-cottage
the most comfortable residence in Glencar. In summer the old man was
usually to be found in his garden, in winter in his little parlour,
always buried in some old volume from his well-stored shelves.
His had been a curious career. His early student days had been passed
in an old French city. In middle age he had been a missionary in the
East, and at last he had taken charge of the wild district of Glencar,
and settled down to the simple life of parish priest. Here he lived in
the memory of his past life. Nearly half a century had gone since last
his eyes had rested on the vine-clad slopes of the Loire, but it was
ever an easy task to him to fling back his thoughts across that gulf
of time, and to recall the great names that had risen in the sunrise
of the century, and flashed such a glory over Europe that the lustre
of succeeding time has shone faint and dim in contrast. He had seen
the great emperor review his guards in the courtyard of the Tuileries,
and had looked upon a group of horsemen that had in it Murat, Ney,
Soult, Lannes, and Massena. How he used to revel in such memories! and
what point such experience lent to the theme! He never tired talking
of the great campaigns of the Consulate and Empire. I followed him in
these reminiscences with rapt eagerness; the intensity of my interest
gave increased ardour to his narrative, and many a winter’s night sped
rapidly while the old man, seated before his turf fire, rambled on
from battle-field to battle-field, now describing to me the wonderful
strategy of some early campaign in Italy, now carrying my mind into
the snows of Russia, and again taking me back into the plains of
France, to that last and most brilliant effort of warlike genius, the
campaign of 1814.
At such times, the storm among the mountains would sometimes lend its
roar in fitting accompaniment to the old man’s story, and then the
scene would change to my mind’s eye as I listened. The little parlour
would fade away, the firelight became a bivouac, and I saw in the
grim outside darkness of the glen figures dimly moving; the squadrons
charged; the cannon rumbled by; and the pine-tops swaying in the storm,
were the bearskin caps of the old Guard, looming above smoke and fire!
Such were my schoolmasters; such the lessons they taught me.
The years passed quickly away. Notwithstanding my strong love of
outdoor life, I devoted a good many hours every day to reading and
study, and by the time I was fifteen years of age I had contrived to
master a curious amount of general knowledge, particularly of history
and geography, such as does not usually fall to the lot of boys of that
age. I had a slight knowledge of Latin, was tolerably well acquainted
with French, knew the habits, customs, and limits on every nation and
tribe under the sun, and could travel the globe in fancy with few
errors of time, distance, and position.
One companion I had in all these years who has not yet been
mentioned――poor Donogh Driscoll, a wild and ragged boy, two years my
junior.
In every adventure, in every expedition among the hills, Donogh was my
attendant. He it was who used to wade into the reeds of Meelagh river
to catch gudgeon for the baits for my night-lines in the Carragh; he
carried my bag, later on, when my shooting time came; he marked with
clear eye the long flight of the grouse pack down the steep slope of
Coolrue; he brought me tidings of wild duck feeding on the pools and
ponds amid the hills; he knew the coming of the wild geese to the
lonely waste that lay beyond Lough Acoose; he would watch the pools in
the Carragh river, and knew to a foot where the salmon lay. Faithful
companion through all my boyish sports and pastimes, he shared too with
me my dreams of enterprise, my hopes of adventure in the big outside
world. Often as we sat on some rock high up on the heather-covered side
of Seefin, looking out over the vast waste of ocean, he would wonder
what it was like over there “beyant the beyant.”
“You wont lave me here alone by myself, when you go away, sir?” he used
to say to me. “It’s lonely I’d be thin entirely.”
“You’d have the fishing and shooting, Donogh,” I would reply. “You’d
have the hares and the salmon all to yourself when I was gone.”
“What good would they be to me, ave you wasn’t here with them?” he’d
answer. “Sure the duck in November above in Cluen, and the salmon in
’Coose in April, and the grouse here on Seefin in August, would only
remimber me of the ould days when we hunted thim together.”
I used at such times to promise him that whenever I did set out on my
travels I would take him with me; and indeed, in all my plans for the
future his companionship was always reckoned upon.
At the upper end of the glen, a narrow pass, or gap between two
mountains, led out upon a wild and lonely lake, around the sides
of which the mountains rose in a gloomy precipice of rock for many
hundreds of feet.
Cooma-sa-harn, the name of the tarn that lay thus encompassed by
cliffs, was a place that in my earliest wanderings filled me with
feelings of awe and wonder. Strange echoes haunted it. Stones loosened
from the impending cliffs rolled down into the lake with reverberating
thunder, and their sullen splash into the dark water was heard repeated
for many seconds around the encircling walls. On one side only was the
margin of the lake approachable on level ground. Here loose stones and
shingle, strewn together, formed a little beach, upon which the sullen
waters broke in mimic waves; and here, too, the outflow of the lake
escaped to descend the mountain side, and finally add its tribute to
the many feeders of the Carragh river.
I was about twelve years of age when I first extended my wanderings
to this lonely spot. Later on, Donogh and I made frequent expeditions
to it. Its waters held no fish, and its shores rose too steep and
high for game. But for all these deficiencies, Cooma-sa-harn held one
wonder that sufficed to atone for every other shortcoming, and to
make it a place of unceasing interest to us. It had an eagle’s nest.
There, 600 feet over the lake, in a smooth piece of solid rock, was
a shelf or crevice, and in that hollow a golden eagle had built his
nest year after year. From the little beach already mentioned we could
see the birds at their work. From the top of the encircling cliffs we
could look down and across at them too; but the distance in either
case was great, and do what we would to obtain a closer view, we were
always baffled by the precipitous nature of the mountain. We tried the
mountain immediately above the nest, but could see nothing whatever
of the smooth rock. We worked our way along the edge of the water,
by the foot of the precipice, but were again baffled in the attempt.
Projecting rocks hid the whole side of the cliff. We were fairly
puzzled.
Many an hour we spent looking up from the shore at the coveted shelf,
which it seemed we were never likely to learn more about. The eagles
seemed to know our thoughts, for they frequently soared and screamed
high above our heads, as though they rejoiced in our discomfiture. It
was not alone in the spring and summer that we were reminded of our
enemies thus perched on their inaccessible fortress. In the last hour
of daylight of winter evenings a solitary speck over the valley would
often be seen sailing downwards through space. It was the golden eagle
going home to his ledge at Cooma-sa-harn.
It would be idle to deny that we both felt keenly our inability to get
to this eagle’s nest. During four years we had looked across the dark
waters, had watched the old birds flying in and out, had seen the young
ones sitting on the ledge, and had listened to their screams as their
mother came down to them with a prey from the surrounding hills. There
was in our cottage an old telescope that had belonged to my father in
his early days. This I brought out one day, and looking through it,
with elbows resting upon knees, and glass directed upon the shelf of
rock, I could discern plainly enough the inmates of the rough nest;
but all this only made more tantalizing our helplessness to scale
the rock, or to descend from above to the projecting ledge. The day
on which I brought out the telescope to make a closer survey of the
spot, was bright with sunshine. As the hours grew later the sun moving
towards the west, cast its light full upon the face of the nest, which
had before been in shadow. The inequalities of the surface, and the
formation of the cliffs around the large flat rock, became much more
apparent than they had ever been before to me. Among other things, I
observed that the ledge in which the nest was made was continued in a
shallowed state along the face of the cliff until it touched the end
at one side. I noticed also that on the top of the smooth-faced rock
there was a ridge, or kind of natural parapet, and that this ridge was
connected with a deep perpendicular cleft, or chimney, which opened at
top upon the accessible part of the mountain. Scanning with the utmost
attentiveness all these places, I began to see what I thought might
prove a practicable line of approach to the much-desired nest. That it
was possible to reach the top of the smooth-faced rock by means of the
chimney shaft appeared tolerably clear, but this top ridge or parapet
already mentioned, was fully forty feet above the ledge on which the
nest stood.
By the time I had fully investigated all these details, so far as they
could be examined by means of the telescope, the face of the cliff had
become again involved in shadow, and it was time to turn our faces
homewards for the evening; but enough had been discovered to give us
food for conversation that night, and to raise high hopes that our
efforts to reach the nest might yet prove successful.
We started early next morning for the top of the mountain ridge which
looked down upon Cooma-sa-harn. On the previous evening I had taken the
precaution of fixing the position of the top of the chimney, by getting
it in line with two large boulders――one on the beach by the lake, the
other some distance back from the shore. Arrived at the upper edge of
the encircling basin I had no difficulty in bringing the two boulders,
now at the further side from us, in line with each other, and then at
the edge of the rocky rim we found a break in the rock, as though water
in time of heavy rain had flowed down through it to the lake.
We entered this break, and descending cautiously soon found ourselves
on the top of the flat rock. Below us lay the black pool of
Cooma-sa-harn; on each side the flat parapet ended in steep mountain
side; above us was the mountain top, accessible only by the hollow
shaft through which we had descended. So far all had gone as the survey
through the telescope had led us to hope――we had reached the top of
the smoothed-faced rock; but the nest lay thirty or forty feet below
us, still, apparently beyond our reach. We sat down on the top of the
rock, reluctant to quit a spot so near to the long-coveted prize. The
rock on which we rested was flanked on one side by a broken slant of
mountain, down which a descent seemed possible if there was anything at
hand to hold fast by; it was, however, bare of vegetation. It occurred
to me now that a descent could be made down this slant by means of a
rope, held by a second person standing on the ridge where we stood. The
ledge which held the nest was situated so perpendicularly underneath
as to be hidden altogether from our standpoint; but if my survey
through the telescope had been correct, a person descending the slant
should be able to reach that end of the ledge which I had seen in the
sunlight extending on one side to the extremity of the rock. All that
was required to put this theory to the test of practice was a strong
rope some fifty feet long, which, held by one at the top, would act as
a support to one of us while going down the slanting rock, and would
afterwards afford help for a side movement along the narrow ledge to
the nest itself. As I sat thinking out this plan one of the birds came
soaring on moveless pinion from the mountain downwards towards the
nest. He saw us long before he reached the ledge, and his loud and
angry screams rang around the steep rock-walls, making strange echoes
over the gloomy water.
We went home that evening full of the thought that we had at last
discovered a means of getting to the eagle’s nest. It would take a
few days to obtain a rope of the length and strength necessary for
the undertaking, and then a final effort would be made to solve the
long-considered problem. It took me some days to procure the rope. I
had consulted Sergeant MacMahon vaguely on the subject, but finding
that he was opposed to it as being too dangerous, I had fallen back
upon my own resources and those of Donogh. At length all preparations
were completed; we had tested the rope by fastening one end of it to
the fork of a tree and swinging out on the other end; we had also
got an iron stake to fix in a crevice of the rock by which to attach
the rope; with these and a few other necessary articles we set out
early one morning for Cooma-sa-harn. We struck across the shoulders of
Meelagh mountain, dipped into Glentahassig, and breasting up the steep
side of Seefin came out on the edge of the cliff which looked down upon
the dark lake. Descending the chimney, we were soon in our old position
on the parapet rim of the large flat rock. We now set to work to fix
the iron stake firmly between two detached rocks; we fastened the rope
securely to the stake, letting the loose end fall down the mountain
by the edge of the perpendicular cliff. Now came the anxious moment;
holding on by the rope, I began to descend the steep slanting face of
the mountain. During the first twelve feet of the descent the work was
easy enough. I was in sight of Donogh, whom I had directed to remain at
the stake to see that all was right there. After a bit the hill side
became steeper, a piece of smooth rock occurred, and then there was a
drop of about six feet, that hid Donogh from my view. When I had passed
this drop the slant became again easier, and without much difficulty
I gained the end of the ledge or groove upon which, but still distant
from me, stood the nest. The real difficulty of the undertaking was now
before me. I had to move along the ledge, a narrow shelf on the face
of a perpendicular rock many hundred feet above the lake. It was now
Donogh’s work to unfasten the rope from the iron stake, and to move
along the top, keeping pace with my progress on the ledge beneath.
Everything depended upon his steadiness; but I had full faith in his
strength and skill. Up to this time all had been perfectly quiet at the
nest; there was no sign of the old bird, nor could we hear the young
ones screaming. I began very cautiously to move along the narrow ledge;
step by step I went along. As I proceeded forward the ledge became
wider, and I found sufficient room for both my feet to stand together
upon it. I could not yet see the nest, as the rock curved out towards
its centre cutting off the view beyond. Arrived at the bend of the
rock, I leant round the projection and peered anxiously forward. There,
on the bare shelf of the ledge, lay the eagle’s nest; two young eaglets
sat dozing on the rock; around lay fragments of bones, tufts of fur
torn from rabbits, feathers, and the dry stems of heather.
Another step and I was round the bend and at the nest. At this spot the
shelf deepened considerably into the rock, leaving space sufficient
to give standing-room without need of assistance. Intent only upon
securing the young birds, I let go my hold of the rope, and seized the
nearest eaglet before he was fully awake; the second one, hearing his
companion scream, retreated further into the hole. Then it was that,
looking outward, I saw the rope hanging, dangling loosely in mid-air.
It was beyond my reach. For a moment the fearful position in which I
so suddenly found myself caused me to sink upon the shelf. All the
reality of my situation rushed full upon my mind. The rope hung fully
five or six feet out over the abyss, for the rock above the ledge was
formed like the roof of a cavern, projecting outward between me and
Donogh’s standpoint, and when I had let go my hold of the line it had
swung out to its level fall. That I could get back over the space I had
come, and ascend again to the parapet where Donogh stood, I knew to be
impossible. To reach the line from the nest seemed quite hopeless. In
Donogh lay my sole chance of relief. If by any means he could convey
the rope to me, all would be well. If not, there seemed nothing save
the awful alternative of death by starvation or the precipice before
me. I shouted to Donogh what had happened. I told him that I could
not reach the rope by fully three feet――that my sole chance of escape
lay in his being able to follow my line of descent and bring the rope
to me, leaving it fixed at the other end, in some part of the parapet
above which would allow the line to pass from the nest to the end of
the ledge.
The minutes now passed in terrible suspense. Donogh shouted to me that
he was looking for a secure place to fasten the upper end of the rope
to. I remained seated in the hollow, scarcely daring to think what
the next few minutes might bring forth. Suddenly Donogh shouted to
me, “The eagle is coming back to the nest.” The news roused me from
my stupor――the eagle was coming back! I crouched into the inmost
recesses of the hollow. I still held one of the young birds in the bag
round my waist, the other bird kept on the ledge at the further side
from that by which I had approached. I had not much fear as to what the
bird could do; I had a knife in my belt, and while an arm was free I
knew I was more than a match for any bird. From the spot where I sat I
could see out over the lake into the blue and golden sunshine.
All at once a large dark object crossed the line of light――soon
recrossing it again as another wheel brought the huge bird nearer to
its nest. Loud screams were now audible as the eagle became aware of
something being wrong in the nest. Then there was the fierce beating
of wings close outside the aperture, and the bird was perched on the
edge of the rock, fiercely defiant, and making the echoes wild with her
tumult. But amid all these surroundings I was only conscious of one
fact. The eagle had struck the rope as it hung down in front of the
opening; it had caught in the large outstretched pinion, and it was
again within my reach, passing under the flapping wing of the bird as
she stood clasping the rock ledge in her talons. There was not a moment
to be lost; I thrust the young eagle at full arm’s length towards the
mother; she fluttered forward as I did so――the rope was again within my
grasp. In an instant the eagle had relaxed her hold upon the rock, and
clutching her young in her talons she went soaring downward to a lower
ledge amid the cliffs. I thought I could never get away fast enough
now. A complete change had come over my mind. I had learnt a lesson
never to be forgotten; and my life, forfeited in a vain and foolhardy
attempt to gain the eagle’s nest at Cooma-sa-harn, was given back to me
by the wild bird whose young I had come to rob from her. I now called
out to Donogh that all was again right, and that he was to reverse his
former practice to enable me to rejoin him. I passed safely back along
the ledge, reascended the slant, and gained once more the parapet.
[Illustration: The rope was again within my grasp.]
“Come, Donogh,” I said when I was again with my companion, “let us
leave this spot. Whatever happens, we will never again rob the nest or
kill the young of birds or beasts. There is sport enough in the world
for us without that.”
On the edge of the mountain side we paused for a moment to look down
upon Cooma-sa-harn, and the scene that lay beyond it. One eagle
was screaming loudly from the nest, the other was sweeping down on
outspread pinion from the purple wastes of Seefin.
I have dwelt long upon this episode in my early career, not so much
from its importance, but because it did more to bring home to my mind
certain truths that are often realized later on in life than anything
that had happened to me up to my sixteenth year. I had soon to learn
another, and a more bitter lesson.
The summer passed away; autumn came; the smell of dying leaves was in
the woods of Carragh, the wind sighed amid the sedgy grass of Lough
Cluen, the pine-trees by the priest’s house moaned in the breeze.
Things looked sad in the glen, but they wore even a sadder aspect in
our little cottage. My mother was leaving me for ever.
One evening in October I was sitting with her in our little parlour;
the flush was bright upon her cheek, her wasted hand was resting upon
mine; she spoke to me in a low voice.
“You will soon be alone in the world,” she said. “My life has only a
little while to run. It is better that I should go. I could have been
of little use to you in life, and I might have held you back in the
world. In any case we must have parted soon, for your days could not
have been spent here in this distant glen. The mountains and the lakes
have been good friends to you, but it is time for you to leave them,
and go forth to take your place in the work of the world. I should
have wished you in your father’s profession, but that could not be;
we are too poor for that. Of one thing I am satisfied, no matter what
the future may have in store for you, I feel you will be true to your
father’s name and to my memory. When I am gone you will have the world
all before you to choose from. Bear well your part in life whatever it
may be. Never be ashamed of your God, or of your country. And when the
day is over and you kneel down in prayer, do not forget the two graves
that lie far away in the little island of Lough Cluen.”
About a week after this she passed quietly away, her hand clasped in
mine, pressure still speaking her affection long after the power of
utterance had ceased.
When all was over I left the chamber of death, and moved out
mechanically into the open air. Night had fallen; the moon was high
over the glen. I walked onward, scarcely knowing whither I was going. I
saw all things around as though in a dream. I passed through the wood
behind the cottage; the moonlight shone bright upon the silver stems of
the birch-trees; streaks of vapour lay in the hollows where the trees
ended. I saw all these things, and yet my brain seemed unable to move.
I turned back from the end of the wood, passed the garden gate, and
entered the little plot of ground in which my mother had been wont to
tend flowers. It was now wild and desolate; grass grew on the walks;
weeds and dead leaves lay around; only a few chrysanthemums were still
in blossom――she had planted them in the past summer, and now their
short life had lasted longer than her own――their pale flowers in the
moonlight gave forth a sweet fragrance on the night air.
Death had chilled my heart; my eyes had been dry; my brain seemed to
have stopped its working; but here the scent of the flowers she had
planted seemed all at once to touch some secret sympathy, and bursting
into a flood of grief I bowed my head to the cold damp earth, and
prayed long and earnestly to God.
A footstep on the walk roused me. The old priest had sought me out.
“Weep not, my poor boy,” he said, as he took my arm in his own and led
me to the cottage. “You pray for your mother on earth. She is praying
for you in heaven.”
* * * * *
My boyhood was over. I was alone in the world. The winter deepened
and passed, the spring dawned, and with its returning freshness and
sense of life my old dreams of distant travel came again upon me. I
determined to seek my fortune abroad, to go forth into the waste wilds
of the earth. Glencar had but trained my mind and body to further
flights. I must go forth to the struggle. It did not take long to
arrange matters for this great change. My worldly possessions were
easily realized; the cottage and little farm soon found a purchaser;
the few mementoes of my father’s life, the keepsakes which my mother
had left me, were put carefully away in charge of the old priest; and
I found myself the possessor of a few hundred pounds in money, a gun,
my father’s sword, a small case containing miniature portraits of my
parents――with which to face the new life that lay before me. What was
that life?
It was to be a life of wandering in the great wilderness of Western
America. I had formed from books a pretty accurate idea of the great
divisions of the Northern Continent of America which yet remained in
the domain of untamed nature. I knew that far beyond the last settler’s
hut there lay a vast region of meadow, which finally gave place to a
still vaster realm of forest, which in time yielded dominion to a wild
waste of rock and water, until the verge of the Polar Sea. I knew too
that these great divisions held roving and scattered tribes of Indians,
sometimes at war with each other, always engaged in the pursuit of the
wild beasts and birds whose homes were in those untamed wastes. More I
did not need to know. I had trust, firm trust, in this great Nature,
her lonely hill-tops, her wild lakes. The sigh of winds across November
moors had had for me no sense of dreariness, no kinship with sorrow.
Why should I dread to meet this world, whose aspects I loved so well,
in the still wilder and grander scenes of an empire where civilized man
was a total stranger?
Nor was I to be altogether alone in my travels. Donogh was to continue
in his old sphere of companion and attendant. Together we had roamed
the hill sides of Glencar; together we would tread the vast prairies,
pine forests, and mountains of the American wilderness.
The day of our departure came.
It was a bright morning in early summer. We put our small baggage on
Sergeant MacMahon’s mule-cart, said good-bye to all our friends, and
set out upon our road. The old sergeant insisted upon accompanying me
as far as Killarney, from which place the train would take us to Cork,
where the steamer for New York called. As we approached the priest’s
house, the old man stood at his gate waiting for us. His voice trembled
as he said good-bye, and gave us his blessing. “God is everywhere, my
boy,” he said, as he wrung my hand. “Remember Him, and He will not
forget you.”
At the crest of the hill where the road left the valley, we stopped a
moment to take a last look at the old glen. It lay deep in sunshine,
every peak clear and cloudless in the summer heaven.