A QUEER CUSTOMER.
It was the beginning of the month of October, and some sharp frosts
had rid the land of mosquitoes and gnats, which during the hot season
abound in myriads near watercourses and beneath the leafy arches of the
virgin forest, being one of its worst scourges.
A few minutes after the rising of the sun a traveller, mounted on a
magnificent horse, wearing the costume of a prairie hunter, and whose
general appearance indicated a white man, emerged at a walking pace
from a high thicket, and entered upon a vast prairie, at that day
almost unknown to the trappers themselves, those hardy explorers of
the desert--and which was not far from the Rocky Mountains, in the
centre of the Indian country, and nearly two thousand miles from any
settlement.
This traveller was Oliver. He had, we see, already travelled a long
distance.
Two months only had elapsed, during which, going always straight before
him, he had traversed all the provinces of the young American republic,
never stopping except to rest himself and horse; then he had passed the
frontier and entered the desert.
Then he was happy. For the first time in his life he was free and
unfettered, having cut himself off forever, as he thought, from the
heavy trammels of civilisation.
Oliver had at once begun his apprenticeship as a hunter, and a rude
apprenticeship it is, causing many of the boldest and bravest to
retreat. But Oliver was no ordinary man; he was young, of rare vigour
and address, and, above all, possessed that iron will which nothing
stops, and which is the secret of great deeds; that leonine courage
which laughs at danger, and that indomitable pride which made him,
he thought, the equal of any living being. He therefore considered
nothing impossible, that is to say, he felt he could not only do what
anyone else had ever done, but even more, if he were called upon by
extraordinary circumstances to try.
During two months he had met with numerous adventures. He had fought
many a battle, and braved dangers before which the bravest might have
retreated--perils of all kinds, from man, beast, and Nature herself.
A victor in every case, his audacity had increased, his energy had
redoubled. His apprentice days were over, and he now felt himself a
true runner of the woods, that is to say, a man whom no appalling
sight, whom no dreadful catastrophe, would terrify--in fact, one who
was only to be moved by the majestic aspect of nature.
He had paused as he left the thicket to examine the scene.
Before him was a valley through which flowed two rivers, which after
some time joined and fell into the Missouri, whose vast lake surface
appeared like a white vapoury line on the distant horizon. Upon a
promontory projecting into the first river was a superb bosquet of
palms and magnolias; the latter, shaped like a perfect cone, stood in
lustrous verdure against the dazzling whiteness of the flowers, which,
despite the season, were still blooming. These flowers were so large
that Oliver could see them a mile off.
The great majority of these magnolias were over a hundred feet high;
many were very much more.
To the right was a wood of poplars, overrun with vines of enormous
size, which wholly concealed the trunks. They then ran to the top of
the tree, then redescending along the branches, passed from one tree
to another, mixing up with piquot, a kind of creeper which hung in
garlands and festoons from every bough.
The young man could not take his eyes off the magnificent spectacle.
Suddenly he started, as he made out a thin column of smoke rising from
the centre of the magnolia thicket.
Now the presence of smoke denotes fire, and fire indicates human
beings. In nine cases out of ten, in the desert, such human beings are
enemies.
It is a harsh word, but it is certain that the most cruel enemy of man
in the desert, his most terrible adversary, is his fellow man.
The sight of this smoke roused no excited feelings in the bosom of our
adventurer; he simply saw that his weapons were in order, and rode
straight for the magnolia valley. As it happened, a narrow path led
exactly in that direction.
No matter whether he was to meet friends or foes, he was not sorry to
see a human face; for a week, not a white man, Métis, or Indian had
fallen across his path, and, despite himself, this complete silence and
absolute solitude began to tell upon him, though he would not own it
even to himself.
He had passed over about one-third of the distance which separated him
from the thicket, and was only a pistol shot away, when he suddenly
stopped, under the influence of strange emotion.
A rich and harmonious voice rose from amidst the trees, singing with
the most perfect accent a song with French words. These words came
clear and distinct to his ears; the surprise of the young man may be
conceived when he recognised the "Marseillaise." This magnificent
work, sung in the desert by an invisible being, amidst that grand
scenery, and repeated as it were by the echoes of the savannah, assumed
to him gigantic proportions.
Despite himself, Oliver felt the tears come to his eyes; he pressed
his hand upon his chest, as if to repress the wild beatings of his
heart; in a second all his past came rushing tumultuously before him.
Once more he saw in his mind's eye that France from which he believed
himself forever separated, and felt how vain must ever be the effort to
repudiate one's country.
Led on by the irresistible charm, he entered the thicket just as the
singer gave forth in his rich and stentorian voice the last couplets.
He pushed aside some branches that checked his progress, and found
himself face to face with a young man, who, seated on the grass by the
riverside, near a glowing fire, was dipping biscuit in the water with
one hand, while with the other, in which he held a knife, he dipped
into a tin containing sardines.
Lifting up his head as the other approached, the unknown nodded his
head.
"Welcome to my fireside, my friend," he said in French, with a gay
smile; "if you are hungry, eat; if you are cold, warm yourself."
"I accept your offer," replied Oliver, good-humouredly, as he leaped
from his horse, and removing the bridle, hoppled him near the unknown.
He then seated himself by the fire, and opening his saddlebags, shared
his provisions with his new friend, who frankly accepted this very
welcome addition to his own very modest repast.
The unknown was a tall young fellow about six feet high, well and
solidly built; his colour, which was very dark, arose from his being of
a mixed race, called from the colour of their skin Bois brulé, under
which general appellation we have half-castes of all kinds.
The features of this young man, rather younger if anything than our
hero, were intelligent and sympathetic with a very open look; his open
forehead, shaded by curly light chestnut hair, his prominent nose, his
large mouth, furnished with magnificent teeth, his fair rich beard,
completed a physiognomy by no means vulgar.
His costume was that of all the trappers and hunters of high northern
latitudes: mitasses of doeskin, waistcoat of the same, over which was
thrown a blouse of blue linen, ornamented with white and red threads;
a cap of beaver fur, and Indian moccasins and leggings reaching to
the knee; from his belt of rattlesnake skin hung a long knife, called
langue de boeuf, a hatchet, a bison powder horn, a ball bag, and a pipe
of red-stone clay with a cherrywood tube; such was the complete costume
of the person upon whom Oliver had so singularly fallen. Close to his
hand on the grass was a Kentucky rifle and game bag, which doubtless he
used to carry his provisions in.
"Faith," cried the adventurer, when his appetite was satisfied, "I have
to thank fortune for meeting you in this way, my friend."
"Such meetings are rare in the desert. And now allow me to ask you a
question."
"Ten if you like--nay, fifty."
"Well, then, how was it that the moment you saw me you addressed me in
French?" he asked.
"For a very simple reason. In the first place, all the runners of the
woods, trappers, and prairie hunters, are French, or at all events,
ninety-five out of every hundred," he answered.
"Then of course you are French?"
"And Norman as well. My grandfather was born at Domfront. You know the
proverb, Domfront, city of evil. You enter it at twelve, and are hung
before one."
"I am also French," said Oliver.
"So I perceive. But to continue. My grandfather was, as I have said,
from Domfront, but my father was born in Canada, as I was, so that I am
a Frenchman born in America. Still we have the old country on the other
side of the water, and all who come from it are received with open arms
by us poor exiles. There are brave and noble hearts in Canada; if they
only knew it in France they would not be so ungrateful and disdainful
towards us, who never did anything to justify their cruel desertion."
"True," said Oliver, "France was very much in the wrong after you had
shed so much blood for her."
"Which we would do again tomorrow," replied the Canadian. "Is not
France our mother, and do we not always forgive our mother? The
English were awfully taken in when the country was handed over to
them; three-fourths of the population emigrated, those who remained in
the towns persisted in speaking French, which no Englishman can speak
without dislocating his jaws, and all would insist upon being governed
by their old French laws.[1] You see, therefore, that the insulars are
merely nominally our masters, but that in reality we are still free,
and French."
"Our country must have been deeply rooted in your hearts to cause you
to speak thus," said Oliver.
"We are a brave people," cried the stranger.
"I am sure of it," responded Oliver.
"Thank you," replied the stranger, "you cause me great pleasure."
"Now that we know one another as countrymen, suppose we make more
intimate acquaintance?"
"I ask nothing better. If you like, I will tell you my history as
briefly as possible."
"I am attention," said Oliver.
"My father was a baby when Canada was definitively abandoned in 1758
by the French, an act which was perpetrated without consulting the
population of New France. Had the mother country have done so, it would
have been met by a flat refusal. But I will avoid politics, and speak
only of my family."
"Good. I hate politics."
"So do I. Well, one day my grandfather Berger, after being absent a
week, came to his home in Québec in company with an Indian in his full
war paint. The first thing he saw, standing by the side of the cradle
in which lay my father, was my grandmother, her arms raised in the
air, with a heavy iron-dog, with which she was menacing an English
soldier; my grandmother was a brave and courageous woman."
"So it seems."
"A true daughter of Caudebec, handsome, attractive, and good, adored
by her husband, and respected by all who knew her. It appears that
the English soldier had seen her through the open door. He at once
entered with a conquering air, and began to make love to the pretty
young person he had noticed performing her maternal office. It was
an unfortunate idea for him. My grandfather lifted him up and threw
him through the window on to the stones outside. He was dead. My
grandfather then turned round and spoke of something else."
"A tough old gentleman!"
"Pretty solid. He even had Indian blood--"
"You spoke of Domfront."
"Yes; but his father, having come to America with Comtesse de Villiers,
married in Canada. He shortly after returned to France with his wife.
There she died, unable to bear the climate!"
"Very natural," said Oliver.
"Before dying she made her husband promise to send his son to Canada."
"But," continued Oliver, "the finale of your history."
"As soon as that matter was settled, my grandfather embraced his
wife, offered the Indian a seat, and began smoking his pipe. He then
explained that he meant to leave Canada."
"'This,' he said, 'is Kouha-hande, my mother's brother, the first
sachem of his nation. He has offered me a shelter with his warriors,
and has come with some of his warriors to escort us. Will you remain
a Frenchwoman and follow me, or will you stay here and become an
Englishwoman?'"
"'I am your wife, and shall follow you wherever you go, with my little
one on my back,' she answered."
"'My sister will be loved and respected in our tribe as she deserves to
be,' remarked the Indian, who had hitherto smoked his pipe in silence."
"'I know it, my cousin,' she said."
"No further words passed. My grandmother began at once to pack up. Two
hours later the house was empty; my grandparents had left without even
shutting the door behind them. Before sunset they were making their way
up the Lawrence, in the canoes of Kouha-hande."
"The river was crowded with fugitives. After a journey of four days
my grandfather reached the tribe of the Hurons-Bisons, of which our
relative Kouha-hande was the first sachem. Many other Canadians sought
refuge in the same place, and were hospitably received by the Indians.
I need say nothing more save that we have lived there ever since."
"And your grandfather?"
"Still lives, as does my father, though I have recently lost my mother
and grandmother. I have a sister much younger than myself. She remains
in the village to nurse my grandfather. My father is at this moment
with the Hudson Bay Company."
At this moment there was a peculiar rustling in the bushes at no great
distance.
"Be quiet," whispered the Canadian in the ear of his new friend, and
before the other could in any way interfere with him, he seized his gun
and disappeared in the high grass, crawling on his hands and knees.
Then a shot was heard.
[1] This is history as told by a Frenchman. As a matter of fact, the
French Canadians remained where they were, until they became the most
loyal subjects the British Crown possesses.--Editor.