Fortunately for Captain Trench, and indeed for the whole party, the
execution of his plan was rendered unnecessary by an incident the full
significance of which requires that we should transport the reader to
another, but not far distant, part of the beautiful wilderness of
Newfoundland.
Under the boughs of a spreading larch, on the summit of a mound which
commanded a wide prospect of plain and morass, sat an Indian woman. She
might have been taken for an old woman, so worn and thin was she, and so
hollow were her cheeks; but the glossy blackness of her hair, the
smoothness of her brow, and the glitter of her dark eyes told that she
was yet in her youthful years.
She sat perfectly listless, with a vacant yet steadfast expression on
her thin features, as if she were dreaming with her eyes open. The view
before her was such as might indeed arouse the admiration of the most
stolid; but it was evident that she took no notice of it, for her eyes
were fixed on the clouds above the horizon.
Long she sat, almost motionless, thus gazing into space. Then she began
to sing in a low sweet voice a plaintive air, which rose and fell for
some time more like a tuneful wail than a song. Suddenly, and in the
very midst of her song, she burst into a wild laugh, which increased in
vehemence until it rang through the forest in a scream so terrible that
it could be accounted for by nothing but insanity. That the poor
creature's reason was indeed dethroned became evident from her
subsequent movements, for after falling backwards from the exhaustion
produced by her effort, or, it might be, from the sheer weakness
resulting from partial starvation, she got up and began quietly to cut
up and devour raw a small bird which she had killed with a stone.
Strengthened a little by this food, she rose and made a futile effort to
draw more closely around her a little shawl, or rather kerchief of
deerskin, which covered her shoulders, shuddering with cold as she did
so.
Her short leathern gown and leggings were so soiled and torn that the
ornamental work with which they had been originally decorated was almost
invisible, and the moccasins she had worn hung in mere shreds upon her
little feet.
Rising slowly, and with a weary sigh, the poor creature descended the
side of the hill and entered the forest at the foot of it.
Lying concealed in a neighbouring thicket an Indian youth had watched
the motions of the girl. It was evident, from his gaze of surprise,
that he had just discovered her. It was equally evident, from his
expression of perplexity, that he hesitated to intrude upon one who, he
could not help seeing, was mad; but when she moved forward he followed
her with the soft wary tread of a panther.
At first the girl's step was slow and listless. Then it became rapid.
A fit of excitement seemed to come on, and she began to run. Presently
the excitement seemed to have passed, for she fell again into the
listless walk. After a time she sat down, and recommenced her low
wailing song.
At this point, taking advantage of a neighbouring thicket, the young
Indian drew as near to the girl as possible, and, in a low voice,
uttered the Indian word for--"Rising Sun!"
Starting violently, the girl turned round, stretched out both arms, and,
with intense hope expressed in every feature, took a step forward. In
an instant the expression vanished. Another terrible scream resounded
in the air, and, turning quickly away, she fled like a hunted deer.
The young man pursued, but he evidently did not try to overtake her--
only to keep her in sight. The maniac did not choose her course, but
ran straight before her, leaping over fallen trees and obstructions with
a degree of agility and power that seemed marvellous. Sometimes she
shrieked as she ran, sometimes she laughed fiercely, but she never
looked back. At last she came to a small lake--about a quarter of a
mile wide. She did not attempt to skirt it, but went straight in with a
wild rush, and, being well able to swim, struck out for the opposite
shore. The young man followed without hesitation, but could not
overtake her, and when he landed she had disappeared in the woods
beyond.
Skilled to follow a trail, however, the youth soon recovered sight of
her, but still did not try to overtake her--only to keep her in view.
At length the fire which had sustained the poor creature seemed to have
burned itself out. In attempting to leap over a low bush Rising Sun
stumbled, fell, and lay as if dead.
The Indian youth came up and, raising her in his arms, looked very sadly
into her face. She still breathed, but gave no other sign of life. The
youth, therefore, lifted her from the ground. He was tall and strong.
She was small in person, and reduced almost to skin and bone. He
carried her in his arms as though she had been but a little child, and,
an hour later, bore her into the Indian camp, for which for many days
past she had been making--straight as the arrow flies from the bow.
He carried her at once to the chief's tent and laid his burden softly
down, at the same time explaining how and where he had found her.
Bearpaw sprang up with an air of excitement which an Indian seldom
displays. Evidently his feelings were deeply touched, as he knelt and
raised the girl's head. Then he ordered his chief squaw to supply
Rising Sun with some warm food.
It was evening when this occurred. Most of the people were supping in
their tents. No one was with the chief save his own family and two of
his braves.
When the poor maniac revived under the influence of the warm food, she
started up with wild looks and sought again to fly, but was forcibly
detained by one of the braves.
"Oh, let me go--let me go!--to his mother!" she wailed piteously, for
she felt herself to be helpless in the youth's strong grasp.
"Has Rising Sun forgotten Bearpaw?" said the chief tenderly, as he stood
before her.
"Yes--yes--no. I have not forgotten," she said, passing her hand over
her brow; "but, oh! let me go to her before I die!"
"Rising Sun shall not die. She is among friends now. The pale-faced
enemies who killed Little Beaver can do her no harm."
"Killed him--enemies!" murmured the poor girl, as if perplexed; then,
quickly, "Yes--yes--he is dead. Does not Rising Sun know it? Did she
not see it with her own eyes? He was killed--killed!"
The poor girl's voice rose as she spoke until it was almost a shriek.
"Rising Sun," said the chief, in a tone which the girl could not choose
but obey, "tell us who killed him?"
"Killed him? No one killed him!" she answered, with a return of the
perplexed look. "He missed his footing and fell over the cliff, and the
Great Spirit took him."
"Then the palefaces had nothing to do with it?" asked the chief eagerly.
"Oh! yes; the palefaces had to do with it. They were there, and Rising
Sun saw all that they did; but they did not see her, for when she saw
them coming she hid herself, being in great fear. And she knew that
Little Beaver was dead. No man could fall from such a cliff and live.
Dead--dead! Yes, he is dead. Oh! let me go."
"Not yet, Rising Sun. What did the palefaces do? Did they take his
scalp?"
"No; oh! no. The palefaces were kind. They lifted him tenderly. They
dug his grave. They seemed as if they loved him like myself. Then they
went away, and then--Rising Sun forgets! She remembers running and
bounding like the deer. She cannot--she forgets!"
The poor girl stopped speaking, and put her hand to her brow as if to
restrain the tumult of her thoughts. Then, suddenly, she looked up with
a wild yet intelligent smile.
"Yes, she remembers now. Her heart was broken, and she longed to lay it
on the breast of Little Beaver's mother--who loved him so well. She
knew where the wigwams of Bearpaw stood, and she ran for them as the bee
flies when laden with honey to its home. She forgets much. Her mind is
confused. She slept, she fell, she swam, she was cold--cold and
hungry--but--but now she has come home. Oh, let me go!"
"Let her go," said the chief, in a low voice.
The young brave loosed his hold, and Rising Sun bounded from the tent.
It was dark by that time, but several camp-fires threw a lurid glare
over the village, so that she had no difficulty in finding the hut of
her dead husband's mother, for, during the interchange of several visits
between members of the two tribes, she had become very familiar with the
camp. All ignorant of the poor maniac's arrival, for the news had not
yet spread, the mother of Little Beaver sat embroidering a moccasin with
dyed quill-work. The traces of profound grief were on her worn face,
and her meek eyes were dim as she raised them to see who lifted the
curtain of the tent so violently.
Only one word was uttered by Rising Sun as she sprang in and fell on her
knees before the old woman:--"Mother!"
No cry was uttered, not even an expression of surprise moved the old
woman's face; but her ready arms were extended, and the girl laid her
head, with a long-drawn sigh, upon the old bosom.
Long did she lie there that night, while a tender hand smoothed her
coal-black hair, and pressed the thin cheek to a warm throbbing heart,
which feared to move lest the girl's rest should be disturbed; but there
was no need to fear that. Even the loving old heart could no longer
warm the cheek that was slowly but surely growing cold. When the face
was at last turned anxiously towards the firelight it was seen that a
rest which could not be disturbed had been found at last--for Rising Sun
was dead.
While this solemn scene was enacting in the old mother's tent, a very
different one was taking place in the cave prison, where the captives
still sat, bound hand and foot leaning against the wall.
Captain Trench and his son sat in front of them. A small fire burned in
the cave, the smoke of which found an exit among the crevices of the
high roof. It cast a lurid light on the faces of the men and on
projections of the wall, but left the roof in profound darkness.
The captain was still much excited, for the moment for his desperate
venture was rapidly approaching.
"Now, Grummidge," he said, in a low but earnest voice, "it's of no use
your objectin' any more, for I've made up my mind to do it."
"Which means," returned the seaman, "that for the sake of savin' my
life, you're a-goin' to risk your own and the lives of all consarned.
Now it's my opinion that as the sayin' goes, of two evils a man should
choose the least. It's better that I should die quietly than that the
whole of us should die fightin', and, maybe, killin' savages as well,
which would be of no manner of use, d'ye see. I can only die once, you
know, so I advise ye to give it up, an' leave the whole matter in the
hands of Providence."
"Not at all," said Squill stoutly. "It's my opinion that when they've
kilt you, Grummidge, they'll be like tigers when they've tasted blood:
they'll want to kill the rest of us. No; I've made up me mind to bolt,
and, if need be, fight, an' so has all the rest on us--so heave ahead,
cappen, an' tell us what we've got to do."
"Well, boys, here it is," said the captain. "You see this weapon." He
took up the heavy bludgeon that Oliver had made for himself on
commencing his travels in Newfoundland. "Well, I've brought this here
every time I've come just to get the two sentries accustomed to see me
with it. This is your last night on earth, Grummidge, so I'm goin' to
pay you an extra visit about midnight, by way of sayin' farewell. As I
pass the sentries--who are quite used to me now--I'll fetch the first
one I come to such a crack with this here that he will give no alarm.
Before the other has time to wink I'll treat him to the same. It's a
mean sort o' thing to do, but necessity has no law, so I've made up my
mind to go through with it."
"It'll be a bad look-out if you do," said Grummidge.
"It'll be a worse look-out if I don't," replied the captain. "Then,
when that's done," he continued, "I'll cut your lashin's, an' we'll
crowd all sail for the woods, where I have already concealed some arms
an' dried deer's-meat, an' if we can't get fair off and make for the
east coast, we'll get on the top o' some mound or rock an' show these
Redskins what English seamen can do when they're hard pressed."
"Not to mintion Irish wans!" said Squill.
"An' have Master Paul an' Hendrick agreed to fall in wi' this mad plan?"
asked Grummidge.
"No, I can't say they have. To say truth, considerin' that Hendrick's a
relation o' the Redskins an' that Master Paul is his friend, I thought
it best to say nothing to them about it. So I'll--"
He was interrupted here by the sudden entrance of Hendrick and Paul
themselves, accompanied by Bearpaw and the sentries. To one of the
latter the chief gave an order, and the man, drawing his knife, advanced
to Grummidge. The seaman instinctively shrank from him, but was
agreeably surprised on having his bonds cut. The others having also
been liberated, the chief said:--
"My pale-faced brothers are free."
"Yes, lads," said Paul, heartily grasping Grummidge by the hand. "God
has sent deliverance at the eleventh hour--you are all free."