The Camp by Canseau Strait
It was perhaps to their encounter with the _Osprey_ we owed it that we
saw no more of our pursuers. At any rate we were no further
persecuted. After two days of marching we felt safe to light fires.
We shot partridges, and a deer; and the fresh meat put new vigour into
our veins. We came to the beginning of the narrow strait which severs
Ile Royale from the main peninsula of Acadie; and with longing eyes
Mizpah gazed across, as if hoping to discern the child amid the trees
of the opposite shore. At last, I could but say to her:--
"We are a long, long way from Philip yet, my comrade; were we across
this narrow strait, we would be no nearer to him, for the island is so
cut up with inland waters, many, deep, and winding, that it would take
us months to traverse its length afoot. We must push on to Canseau,
for a boat is needful to us."
And all these days, in the quiet of the great woods, in the stillness
of the wilderness nights when often I watched her sleeping, in the
hours while she walked patiently by my side, her brave, sweet face wan
with grief suppressed, her eyes heavy with longing, my love grew. It
took possession of my whole being till this doubtful, perilous journey
seemed all that I could desire, and the world we had left behind us
became but a blur with only Marc's white face in the midst to give it
consequence. Nevertheless, though my eyes and my spirit waited upon
all her movements, I suffered no least suggestion of my worship to
appear, but ever with rough kindliness played the part of
companion-at-arms.
One morning,--it was our fifth day from the _Osprey_, but since
reaching the Strait we had become involved in swamps, and made a very
pitifully small advance,--one morning, I say, when it wanted perhaps an
hour of noon, we were both startled by a sound of groaning. Mizpah
came closer to me, and put her hand upon my arm. We stood listening
intently.
"It is some one hurt," said I, in a moment, "and he is in that gully
yonder."
Cautiously, lest there should be some trap, we followed the sound; and
we discovered, at the bottom of a narrow cleft, an Indian lad lying
wedged between sharp rocks, with the carcass of a fat buck fallen
across his body. It was plain to me at once that the young savage had
slipped while staggering under his load of venison. I hesitated; for
what more likely than that there should be other Indians in the
neighbourhood; but Mizpah cried at once:--
"Oh, we must help him! Quick! Come, Monsieur!"
And in truth the lad's face appealed to me, for he was but a stripling,
little younger than Marc. Very gently we released him from his
agonizing position; and when we had laid him on a patch of smooth moss,
his groaning ceased. His lips were parched, and when I brought him
water he swallowed it desperately. Then Mizpah bathed his face.
Presently his eyes opened, rested upon her with a look of unutterable
gratitude, and closed again. Mizpah's own eyes were brimming with
tears, and she turned to me in a sort of appeal, as if she would say:--
"How can we leave him?"
"Let him be for a half hour now," said I, answering her look. "Then
perhaps he will be able to talk to us."
We ate our meal without daring to light a fire. Then we sat in silence
by the sleeping lad, till at last he opened his eyes, and murmured in
the Micmac tongue, "water." When he had taken a drink, I offered him
biscuit, of which he ate a morsel. Then, speaking in French, I asked
him whence he came; and how he came to be in such a plight.
He answered faintly in the same tongue. "I go from Malpic," said he,
"to the Shubenacadie, with messages. I shot a buck, on the rock there,
and he fell into the gully. As I was getting him out I fell in myself,
and the carcass on top of me. I know no more till I open my eyes, and
my mouth is hard, and kind friends are giving me water. Then I sleep
again, for I feel all safe," and with a grateful smile his eyes closed
wearily. He was fast asleep again, before I could ask any more
questions.
"Come away," I whispered to Mizpah, "till we talk about this." She
came, but first, with a tender thoughtfulness, she leaned her musket
against a tree, with his own beside it, so that if he should wake while
we were gone he should at once see the two weapons, and know that he
was not deserted.
When we were out of earshot, I turned and looked into her eyes.
"What is to be done with him?" I asked.
"We must stay and take care of him," said she, steadily, "till he can
take care of himself."
"And Philip?" I questioned.
She burst into tears, flung herself down, and buried her face in her
hands. After sobbing violently for some minutes she grew calm, dashed
her tears away, and looked at me in a kind of despair.
"The poor boy cannot be left to die here alone," she said, in a shaken
voice. "It is perfectly plain what we must do. Oh, God, take care of
my poor lonely little one." And again she covered her eyes. I took
one of her hands in mine, and pressed it firmly.
"If there is justice in Heaven, he will," I cried passionately. "And
he will; I know he will. I think there never was a nobler woman than
you, my comrade."
"You do not know me," she answered, in a low voice; and rising, she
returned to the sick boy's side.
Seeing that we were here for some days, or perchance a week, I raised
two hasty shelters of brush and poles. That night the patient wandered
in his mind, but in the morning the fever had left him, and
thenceforward he mended swiftly. His gratitude and his docility were
touching, and his eyes followed Mizpah as would the eyes of a faithful
dog. I think his insight penetrated her disguise, so that from the
first he knew her for a woman; but his native delicacy kept him from
betraying his knowledge. As far as I could see, there were no bones
broken, and I guessed that in a week at furthest he would be able to
resume his journey without risk.
For three days I troubled him not with further questions, Mizpah having
so decreed. She said that questioning would hinder his recovery; but I
think she feared what questioning might disclose. At last, as we
finished supper, of which he had well partaken, he rose feebly but with
determination, took a few tottering paces, and then came back to his
couch, where he lay with gleaming eyes of satisfaction.
"I walk now pretty soon," said he. "Not keep kind friends here much
longer. Which way you going when you stopped to take care of Indian
boy?"
I looked across at Mizpah, then made up my mind to speak plainly. If I
knew anything at all of human nature, this boy was to be trusted.
"We are going to Ile Royale," said I, "to look for a little boy whom
some of your tribe have cruelly carried off."
His face became the very picture of shame and grief. He looked first
at one of us, then the other; and presently dropped his head upon his
breast.
"Why, what is the matter, Xavier?" I asked. He had said his name was
Xavier.
"I know," he answered, in a low voice. "It was some of my own people
did it."
"_What_ do you know? Tell us, oh, tell us everything! Oh, we helped
you! You will surely help us find him!" pleaded Mizpah, breathlessly.
"By all the blessed saints," he cried, with an earnestness that I felt
to be sincere, "I will try to help you. I will risk anything. I will
disobey the Abbe. I will--"
"Where _is_ the child? Do you know that?" I interrupted.
"Yes, truly," he replied. "They have taken him north to Gaspe, and to
the St. Lawrence. My uncle, Etienne le Batard, was in canoe that
brought him to mouth of the Pictook. Then other canoe took him north,
where a French family will keep him. The Abbe says he shall grow up a
monk. But he is not starved or beaten, I swear truly."
"How do you know all this?" I asked, looking at him piercingly. But
his eye was clear and met mine right honestly.
"My uncle came to Malpic straight," said he, "where the warriors had a
council. Then I was sent with word to my father, Big Etienne, who is
on the Shubenacadie."
"What word?" I asked.
But the boy shook his head. "It does not touch the little boy. It
does not touch my kind friends. I may not tell it," he said, with a
brave dignity. I loved him for this, and trusted him the more.
"This lad's tongue and heart are true," said I, looking at Mizpah. "We
may trust him."
"I know it!" said she. Whereupon he reached out, grasped a hand of
each, and kissed them with a freedom of emotion which I have seldom
seen in the full blood Indian.
"You may trust me," he said, in a low voice, being by this something
wearied. "You give me my life. And I will help you find your child."
And the manner of his speech, as if he considered the child _our_
child, though it was but accident, stirred me sweetly at the
heart,--and I durst not trust myself to meet Mizpah's eyes.
Thus it came about that, after all, we crossed not the narrow strait,
nor set foot in Ile Royale. But when, three days later, I judged our
patient sufficiently recovered, we set our faces again toward the
Shubenacadie.
The journey was exceeding slow, but to me very far from tedious, for in
rain or shine, or dark or bright, the light shone on me of my
mistress's face.
And at last, after many days of toilsome wandering, we struck the head
waters of the Shubenacadie.
From this point forward we went with more caution. When we were come
within an hour of the Indian village, Xavier parted company with us.
The river here making a long loop, so to speak, we were to cross behind
the village at a safe distance, strike the tide again, and hide at a
certain point covered with willows till Xavier should bring us a canoe.
We reached the point, hid ourselves among the willows, and waited close
upon two hours. The shadows were falling long across the river, and
our anxieties rising with more than proportioned speed, when, at last,
a canoe shot around a bend of the river, and made swiftly for the
point. We saw Xavier in the bow, but there was a tall, powerful
warrior in the stern. As the canoe drew near, Mizpah caught me
anxiously by the arm.
"That man was one of the band that captured us at Annapolis," she
whispered. "What does it mean? _Could_ Xavier mean to--?"
"No," I interrupted; "of course not, comrade. These Indians are never
treacherous to those who have earned their gratitude. Savages though
they be, they set civilization a shining example in that. There is
nothing to fear here."
Landing just below us, the two Indians came straight toward our
hiding-place. At the edge of the wood the tall warrior, whom I now
knew for a certainty to be Big Etienne himself, stopped, and held out
both his hands, palm upwards. I at once stepped forth to meet him,
leaving my musket behind me. But Mizpah who followed me closely, clung
to hers,--which might have convinced me, had I needed conviction, that
hero though she was she was yet all woman.
"You my brother and my sister!" said the tall warrior at once, speaking
with dignity, but with little of Xavier's fluency. He knew Mizpah.
"I am glad my brother's heart is turned towards us at last," said I.
"My brother knows what injury has been done to us, and what we suffer
at the hands of his people."
"Listen," said he, solemnly. "You give me back my son, my only son, my
young brave," and he looked at Xavier with loving pride; "for that I
can never pay you; but I give you back your son, too, see? And, now,
always, I am your brother. But now, you go home. I find the child
away north, by the Great River. I put him in your arms, safe,
laughing,--so;" and he made as if to place a little one in Mizpah's
arms. "Then you believe I love you, and Xavier love you. But now,
come; not good to stay here more." And, turning abruptly, he led the
way to the canoe, and himself taking the stern paddle, while Xavier
took the bow, motioned us to get in. I hesitated; whereupon he cried:--
"Many of our people out this way. River not safe for you now. We take
you to Grand Pre, Canard, Pereau,--where you want. Then go north.
Better so."
Seeing the strong reason in his words, I accepted his offer thankfully,
but insisted upon taking the bow myself, because Xavier was not yet
well enough to paddle strongly.
Thus we set out, going swiftly with the tide. As we journeyed, Big
Etienne was at great pains to make us understand that it would take him
many weeks to find Philip and bring him back to us, because the way was
long and difficult. He said we must not look to see the lad before the
snow lay deep; but he bound himself to bring him back in safety,
barring visitation of God. I saw that Mizpah now trusted the tall
warrior even as I did. I felt that he would make good his pledge at
any hazard. I urged, however, that he should take me with him; but on
this point he was obstinate, saying that my presence would only make
his task the more difficult, for reasons which occurred to me very
readily. It cost me a struggle to give up my purpose of being myself
the child's rescuer, and so winning the more credit in Mizpah's eyes.
But this selfish prompting of my heart I speedily crushed (for which I
thank Heaven) when I saw that Big Etienne's plan was the best that
could be devised for Philip.
Some miles below the point where the river was already widening, we
passed a group of Indians with their canoes drawn up on the shore,
waiting to ascend with the returning tide. Recognizing Big Etienne in
the stern, they paid us no attention beyond a friendly hail. Late in
the evening we camped, well beyond the river mouth. Once on the
following morning, when far out upon the bosom of the bay, we passed a
canoe that was bound for the Shubenacadie, and again the presence and
parting hail of our protector saved us from question. Our halts for
meals were brief and far apart, but light headwinds baffled us much on
the journey, so that it was not till toward evening of the second day
out from the Shubenacadie mouth that we paddled into the Canard, and
drew up at Giraud's little landing under the bank.