THE BACKWOODS SETTLEMENT--CRUSOE'S PARENTAGE AND EARLY HISTORY--THE
AGONISING PAINS AND SORROWS OF HIS PUPPYHOOD, AND OTHER INTERESTING
MATTERS.
The dog Crusoe was once a pup. Now do not, courteous reader, toss your
head contemptuously, and exclaim, "Of course he was; I could have told
_you_ that." You know very well that you have often seen a man above
six feet high, broad and powerful as a lion, with a bronzed shaggy
visage and the stern glance of an eagle, of whom you have said, or
thought, or heard others say, "It is scarcely possible to believe that
such a man was once a squalling baby." If you had seen our hero in all
the strength and majesty of full-grown doghood, you would have
experienced a vague sort of surprise had we told you--as we now repeat--
that the dog Crusoe was once a pup--a soft, round, sprawling, squeaking
pup, as fat as a tallow candle, and as blind as a bat.
But we draw particular attention to the fact of Crusoe's having once
been a pup, because in connection with the days of his puppyhood there
hangs a tale. This peculiar dog may thus be said to have had two
tails--one in connection with his body, the other with his career. This
tale, though short, is very harrowing, and, as it is intimately
connected with Crusoe's subsequent history, we will relate it here. But
before doing so we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond the
civilised portions of the United States of America--beyond the frontier
settlements of the "far west," into those wild prairies which are
watered by the great Missouri river--the Father of Waters--and his
numerous tributaries.
Here dwell the Pawnees, the Sioux, the Delawares, the Crows, the
Blackfeet, and many other tribes of Red Indians, who are gradually
retreating step by step towards the Rocky Mountains as the advancing
white man cuts down their trees and ploughs up their prairies. Here,
too, dwell the wild horse and the wild ass, the deer, the buffalo, and
the badger; all, men and brutes alike, wild as the power of untamed and
ungovernable passion can make them, and free as the wind that sweeps
over their mighty plains.
There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot on the banks of one
of the tributaries above referred to--a long stretch of mingled woodland
and meadow, with a magnificent lake lying like a gem in its green
bosom--which goes by the name of the Mustang Valley. This remote vale,
even at the present day, is but thinly peopled by white men, and is
still a frontier settlement round which the wolf and the bear prowl
curiously, and from which the startled deer bounds terrified away. At
the period of which we write the valley had just been taken possession
of by several families of squatters, who, tired of the turmoil and the
squabbles of the then frontier settlements, had pushed boldly into the
far west to seek a new home for themselves, where they could have "elbow
room," regardless alike of the dangers they might encounter in unknown
lands and of the Red-skins who dwelt there.
The squatters were well armed with axes, rifles, and ammunition. Most
of the women were used to dangers and alarms, and placed implicit
reliance in the power of their fathers, husbands, and brothers to
protect them--and well they might, for a bolder set of stalwart men than
these backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness. Each had been trained to
the use of the rifle and the axe from infancy, and many of them had
spent so much of their lives in the woods, that they were more than a
match for the Indian in his own peculiar pursuits of hunting and war.
When the squatters first issued from the woods bordering the valley, an
immense herd of wild horses or mustangs were browsing on the plain.
These no sooner beheld the cavalcade of white men, than, uttering a wild
neigh, they tossed their flowing manes in the breeze and dashed away
like a whirlwind. This incident procured the valley its name.
The newcomers gave one satisfied glance at their future home, and then
set to work to erect log huts forthwith. Soon the axe was heard ringing
through the forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground, while the
occasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunters were catering
successfully for the camp. In course of time the Mustang Valley began
to assume the aspect of a thriving settlement, with cottages and waving
fields clustered together in the midst of it.
Of course the savages soon found it out, and paid it occasional visits.
These dark-skinned tenants of the woods brought furs of wild animals
with them, which they exchanged with the white men for knives, and
beads, and baubles and trinkets of brass and tin. But they hated the
"Pale-faces" with bitter hatred, because their encroachments had at this
time materially curtailed the extent of their hunting grounds, and
nothing but the numbers and known courage of the squatters prevented
these savages from butchering and scalping them all.
The leader of this band of pioneers was a Major Hope, a gentleman whose
love for nature in its wildest aspects determined him to exchange
barrack life for a life in the woods. The major was a first-rate shot,
a bold, fearless man, and an enthusiastic naturalist. He was past the
prime of life, and, being a bachelor, was unencumbered with a family.
His first act on reaching the site of the new settlement was to commence
the erection of a block-house, to which the people might retire in case
of a general attack by the Indians.
In this block-house Major Hope took up his abode as the guardian of the
settlement,--and here the dog Crusoe was born; here he sprawled in the
early morn of life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged his shaggy
tail in the excessive glee of puppyhood, and from the wooden portals of
this block-house he bounded forth to the chase in all the fire, and
strength, and majesty of full-grown doghood.
Crusoe's father and mother were magnificent Newfoundlanders. There was
no doubt as to their being of the genuine breed, for Major Hope had
received them as a parting gift from a brother officer, who had brought
them both from Newfoundland itself. The father's name was Crusoe; the
mother's name was Fan. Why the father had been so called no one could
tell. The man from whom Major Hope's friend had obtained the pair was a
poor, illiterate fisherman, who had never heard of the celebrated
"Robinson" in all his life. All he knew was that Fan had been named
after his own wife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from a friend, who
had got him from another friend, whose cousin had received him as a
marriage gift from a friend of _his_; and that each had said to the
other that the dog's name was "Crusoe," without reasons being asked or
given on either side. On arriving at New York the major's friend, as we
have said, made him a present of the dogs. Not being much of a dog
fancier, he soon tired of old Crusoe, and gave him away to a gentleman,
who took him down to Florida, and that was the end of him. He was never
heard of more.
When Crusoe, junior, was born, he was born, of course, without a name.
That was given to him afterwards in honour of his father. He was also
born in company with a brother and two sisters, all of whom drowned
themselves accidentally, in the first month of their existence, by
falling into the river which flowed past the block-house,--a calamity
which occurred, doubtless, in consequence of their having gone out
without their mother's leave. Little Crusoe was with his brother and
sisters at the time, and fell in along with them, but was saved from
sharing their fate by his mother, who, seeing what had happened, dashed
with an agonised howl into the water, and, seizing him in her mouth,
brought him ashore in a half-drowned condition. She afterwards brought
the others ashore one by one, but the poor little things were dead.
And now we come to the harrowing part of our tale, for the proper
understanding of which the foregoing dissertation was needful.
One beautiful afternoon, in that charming season of the American year
called the Indian summer, there came a family of Sioux Indians to the
Mustang Valley, and pitched their tent close to the block-house. A
young hunter stood leaning against the gate-post of the palisades,
watching the movements of the Indians, who, having just finished a long
"palaver" or "talk" with Major Hope, were now in the act of preparing
supper. A fire had been kindled on the green sward in front of the
tent, and above it stood a tripod, from which depended a large tin
camp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favoured Indian woman, or squaw,
who, besides attending to the contents of the pot, bestowed sundry cuffs
and kicks upon her little child, which sat near to her playing with
several Indian curs that gambolled round the fire. The master of the
family and his two sons reclined on buffalo robes, smoking their stone
pipes or calumets in silence. There was nothing peculiar in their
appearance. Their faces were neither dignified nor coarse in
expression, but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, which formed a striking
contrast to the countenance of the young hunter, who seemed an amused
spectator of their proceedings.
The youth referred to was very unlike, in many respects, to what we are
accustomed to suppose a backwoods hunter should be. He did not possess
that quiet gravity and staid demeanour which often characterise these
men. True, he was tall and strongly made, but no one would have called
him stalwart, and his frame indicated grace and agility rather than
strength. But the point about him which rendered him different from his
companions was his bounding, irrepressible flow of spirits, strangely
coupled with an intense love of solitary wandering in the woods. None
seemed so well fitted for social enjoyment as he; none laughed so
heartily, or expressed such glee in his mischief-loving eye; yet for
days together he went off alone into the forest, and wandered where his
fancy led him, as grave and silent as an Indian warrior.
After all, there was nothing mysterious in this. The boy followed
implicitly the dictates of nature within him. He was amiable,
straightforward, sanguine, and intensely _earnest_. When he laughed he
let it out, as sailors have it, "with a will." When there was good
cause to be grave, no power on earth could make him smile. We have
called him boy, but in truth he was about that uncertain period of life
when a youth is said to be neither a man nor a boy. His face was
good-looking (_every_ earnest, candid face is) and masculine; his hair
was reddish-brown, and his eye bright blue. He was costumed in the
deerskin cap, leggings, moccasins, and leathern shirt common to the
western hunter.
"You seem tickled wi' the Injuns, Dick Varley," said a man who at that
moment issued from the block-house.
"That's just what I am, Joe Blunt," replied the youth, turning with a
broad grin to his companion.
"Have a care, lad; do not laugh at 'em too much. They soon take
offence; an' them Red-skins never forgive."
"But I'm only laughing at the baby," returned the youth, pointing to the
child, which, with a mixture of boldness and timidity, was playing with
a pup, wrinkling up its fat visage into a smile when its playmate rushed
away in sport, and opening wide its jet-black eyes in grave anxiety as
the pup returned at full gallop.
"It 'ud make an owl laugh," continued young Varley, "to see such a queer
pictur' o' itself."
He paused suddenly, and a dark frown covered his face as he saw the
Indian woman stoop quickly down, catch the pup by its hind-leg with one
hand, seize a heavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it several
violent blows on the throat. Without taking the trouble to kill the
poor animal outright, the savage then held its still writhing body over
the fire in order to singe off the hair before putting it into the pot
to be cooked.
The cruel act drew young Varley's attention more closely to the pup, and
it flashed across his mind that this could be no other than young
Crusoe, which neither he nor his companion had before seen, although
they had often heard others speak of and describe it.
Had the little creature been one of the unfortunate Indian curs, the two
hunters would probably have turned from the sickening sight with
disgust, feeling that, however much they might dislike such cruelty, it
would be of no use attempting to interfere with Indian usages. But the
instant the idea that it was Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttered a yell
of anger, and sprang towards the woman with a bound that caused the
three Indians to leap to their feet and grasp their tomahawks.
Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forward his rifle with a
careless motion, but an expressive glance, that caused the Indians to
resume their seats and pipes with an emphatic "Wah!" of disgust at
having been startled out of their propriety by a trifle, while Dick
Varley snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous and painful position,
scowled angrily in the woman's face, and, turning on his heel, walked up
to the house, holding the pup tenderly in his arms.
Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemn expression of
countenance till he disappeared; then he looked at the ground and shook
his head.
Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoods hunters, both in
appearance and in fact--broad, tall, massive, lion-like,--gifted with
the hunting, stalking, running, and trail--following powers of the
savage, and with a superabundance of the shooting and fighting powers,
the daring and dash of the Anglo-Saxon. He was grave, too seldom
smiled, and rarely laughed. His expression almost at all times was a
compound of seriousness and good-humour. With the rifle he was a good,
steady shot; but by no means a "crack" one. _His_ ball never failed to
_hit_, but it often failed to kill.
After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt again shook his head, and
muttered to himself; "The boy's bold enough, but he's too reckless for a
hunter. There was no need for that yell, now--none at all."
Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the hollow
of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow step
towards his own cottage.
Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to an
attentive ear there was a faint echo of the _brogue_ in his tone, which
seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and almost
worn-out heirloom.
Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretched tail seemed little
better than a piece of wire filed off to a point, and he vented his
misery in piteous squeaks as the sympathetic Varley confided him
tenderly to the care of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him no one
can tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course of a few weeks,
Crusoe was as well, and sleek, and fat as ever.