THE HUNTING-CAMP.
Kateri came to Canada when the woods were rich in color, but now the
winter had set in. The Christmas ceremonies are over at the Mission of
St. Francois Xavier du Sault, and the village is almost deserted. The
Fathers are indeed there,--Fremin, Cholenec, and Chauchetiere; but they
lead a quiet, studious life in the absence of their spiritual children.
The snow lies heavy on the ground, and only a few stray Indians occupy
the desolate cabins. What has become of the zealous band of Christian
Iroquois that so lately dwelt there, answering every call of the chapel
bell, and chanting back and forth at the daily Mass? Have the Fathers
lost their dusky flock? Will they ever come back? They have gone far
into the heart of the forest, but the blackgowns have no fear. They will
all return at Easter time, and the chapel will ring again with the sound
of their voices; the men in motley attire will gather on one side of the
aisle, and the women shrouded in their blankets on the other.
The Indians of the Sault have no thought as yet of giving up their
forest life, nor do the missionaries ask it of them. Food becomes scarce
as the snow deepens, so they depart with their women and children to
some good hunting-ground and locate a camp for the winter months. They
like this sojourn in the forest. The freedom from restraint accords well
with their wild tastes and old habits of life. But Kateri would
willingly have stayed in the village if her sister had favored such an
arrangement. She knows the life of the hunting-camp right well. She has
been on these expeditions before with her aunts in the Mohawk country.
Among these Christians it must of course be different from the life she
led in the camp at Saratoga; and so it is. The dogiques go with the
mission Indians to the forest, and during the time of the hunt they
retain, as far as possible, the religious exercises of the Sault. They
call the Indians together for morning and evening prayers, and a spirit
of sobriety and good order prevails. This is in marked contrast to the
excesses indulged in by the pagan Mohawks at their hunting-camps, where
they generally take a keg or more of Fort Orange liquor to keep them
warm.
The Canadian winter seems bitter cold to Kateri. This band of Indians
from the mission are camping northward of the Adirondacks; but most of
them are used to the frosty atmosphere, and have made themselves quite
cosey and comfortable in their hunting-lodges of bark and close-woven
boughs. They have a full supply of furs and skins to wrap about them or
to hang over the openings and cracks in their temporary houses. Kateri
is poorer than the rest in this respect, for she has no hunter to
provide these things for her. Her brother-in-law is willing to do what
he can; but he has a large family of his own, and is not as active in
the chase as formerly, being past middle age. There are enough young
hunters among the relatives and friends of the venerable Anastasia to
provide her with all she needs. The elder woman would gladly have made a
match between Kateri and one of these young braves, but the least
allusion to such a thing annoys Kateri. The girl never complains of the
cold, but Anastasia can see that though closely enveloped in her
blanket, she is not so warmly clothed as the rest. She has spoken to her
several times of the advantages of the married state. On one occasion
she pressed the matter so far that Kateri, from a spirit of mischievous
fun rather than ill-humor, retorted by telling Anastasia that she had
better marry again herself, if she thought so much of marriage. As for
her, if they could convince her that marriage was necessary to
salvation, she would embrace it, but she doubted much if there were not
something more perfect. She did not see the necessity of it in her case,
as she could provide for her own wants by the labor of her hands. If
this Mohawk maiden had known anything about convent life, she would soon
have discovered that she had a vocation for it, and would have become a
nun. But thus far no Indian had ever taken the vows, and Anastasia could
not understand why Kateri should not marry, as she was now more than
twenty years old. There was no denying, however, that she did add very
much to the resources of the family, and to the general comfort of the
lodge by her industry and dexterity at every kind of Indian handicraft
practised by the women. Had she been less generous in giving, and
preferred to bargain away what she made, she would soon have grown rich
in wampum money on account of her skill, and then she could have bought
all the furs she needed. But having no fear of poverty, she worked
freely for all, and so was always poor. She kept only what was necessary
for her own support. She was never a burden to those with whom she
dwelt. On the contrary, she helped to enrich them while denying herself
everything but a bare subsistence. She often fasted till evening even
when hard at work, and then, if unobserved, would mingle ashes with her
food, that it might be devoid of everything that could afford pleasure
to the taste.
It may be well to describe the way in which she spends her day at the
hunting-camp. The women are supposed to have a very easy time in the
forest, whereas the men have hard work. They are gone all day long,
tracking animals over the snow and into their burrows. It is when the
hunters come in bringing their game, and drop off to sleep from sheer
exhaustion, that the task of the women begins, for they have to prepare
the flesh of the animals for food, and take care of the skins. But this
done, they have plenty of time left for gossip and fancy-work. When they
are in the village, they have more of household cares to fill up each
day, besides working in the fields and attending daily services at the
chapel. If these women all followed the example of Kateri while in the
forest, they would have fewer sins to confess when they go back to the
village at Easter time.
The quiet retreat which Kateri has chosen for herself is near the
pathway leading to the stream, and made by the women of the hunting-camp
in tramping back and forth for water. There, in her rustic oratory, she
is accustomed to kneel amid the snow. She does not raise her head except
to look at the cross she has cut on the trunk of a tree. Her hands are
crossed on her breast, and her blanket hangs loosely down from her head
and shoulders in many a careless fold. The rivulet close beside her is
crusted with ice, and the bushes are heavy with snow. The water runs
freely and swiftly a little beyond her where there is a break in the
line of bushes along the brink of the stream. They have been thrust
aside, and the snow has fallen from them. Here it is that the women come
to dip water for the camp. Kateri was there in the morning, and among
the very first. She helped to prepare the breakfast for the hunters. She
was present also at the morning prayers which were said in common. It
was not until the men were busily engaged in eating a meal that would
last them the greater part of the day, and the women, with nothing
special to do, were hovering about seeking a chance to join in the good
cheer and see the hunters off, that Kateri slipped away, and now is
hiding among the trees, as though she were nothing else than a little
white rabbit that makes his home in a snow-bank. One would scarcely
notice the print of her moccasins where she passed along by the bushes.
The snow is tufty and light. The long, low branches of Kateri's
tree--the one on which she has marked the cross--are bowed with its
weight. They almost touch the ground, and shelter her motionless figure
on the side towards the moccasin-trail that leads to the water's edge.
Little wavy lines on either side of the interlacing footprints of the
women show where their blankets and skirts with shaggy fringe disturbed
the even surface of the new-fallen snow as they passed along. Kateri
brushed away the freshest of the snowy mass in front of her cross,
before she began her prayers. She kneels on the hard-packed snow that
is fast frozen to the ground. Her figure is sharply outlined against a
little white mound of feathery flakes. Her thoughts are many miles away,
though her eyes are fixed on the cross, which is suddenly lit up by a
flash from the rising sun. She knows that the moment has come for Mass
to begin in the village chapel at the great rapid of the St. Lawrence.
In spirit she kneels with the few who are gathered there, and follows
the Mass from beginning to end with appropriate prayers. She begs her
guardian angel to fly away to the chapel and bring her back the fruits
of the sacrifice there being offered.
She will need the good spirit at her side more when the morning meal is
over and plenty of fuel has been gathered in to keep the fires burning
all day long. Then she will sit among the women, whose tongues are ever
on the go, and whose hands are busy embroidering elk-skin belts and
making little ornaments of various kinds. Kateri is able to give them
many suggestions about their work. They often interrupt her with
questions concerning the stitches and colors. The task she has set for
herself while at the camp is of a more unusual kind than theirs. She is
making wooden pack-pins and two ingenious boxes or chests from the wood
of a tree. Her sister greatly admires these boxes, and would like to be
able to make them as well herself. Kateri's good angel whispers to her,
when the gossip reaches its highest point, and prompts her to ask a
maiden beside her who has the sweetest of voices to sing an Iroquois
hymn. Soon the tide of the women's talk is turned, and they are telling
one another stories from the lives of the saints. These they have
learned from the Fathers, or heard at the conferences in the village.
Kateri has been gleaning them all along in her talks with Anastasia. As
told by the women at the hunting-camp, these edifying stories brought
over from old Europe gain rather than lose in picturesqueness of detail.
It would puzzle many of these Indians to know just how it comes about,
but in some way whenever Kateri sits among them they seem to forget
their neighbors' faults, and begin to talk of people who delighted in
doing unselfish or heroic deeds. Little by little their thoughts drift
off to a better world, and their fingers move all the faster for it.
There is more of work going on and less noise of chattering tongues.
When the shadows gather about them, they scatter well pleased with
themselves and the work of the day. They assemble again when the hunters
are all in and the last meal of the day is over. The evening prayers are
recited together. Then they find their mats for the night, and drop off
one by one to sleep. But Kateri is again on her knees, and prays for
herself and for all in the silent darkness; and thus while the others
are dreaming of beaver and marten, of venison and captured game, she is
thinking only of how to please God. But one thing is certain: were she
to eat more, sleep sounder, and pray less, there would have been a
better promise of long life, and less occasion to excite the suspicions
of that worthy squaw whose jealous eye is always open. Her well-meaning
tongue could give a deeper stab than any Kateri has yet had to endure.
Thus far she holds her peace well, has not breathed a word of what is in
her mind, but yet would like to know just where the young Mohawk keeps
herself at the times when she does not see her among the women. This
squaw found her husband sound asleep one morning not far from Kateri's
place in the lodge. The hunter came in late, worn out by a long chase
after a Canadian elk, and dropped to sleep in the first place he could
find, as he crept in among the prostrate, sleeping Indians. He was a
good man, and had never had any misunderstanding with his wife till a
strange, sudden notion overcame her. She was possessed with the idea
that Kateri was making mischief between herself and her husband. A
second unfortunate incident which ordinarily would have passed unnoticed
served to confirm this woman in her suspicion. As the time approached to
return to the village, her husband said one day to the assembled women
that he was working on a canoe which would have to be stitched. Then
turning naturally enough to Kateri, whose skill with the needle was well
known, he asked her if she would not do it for him. She had an obliging
disposition, and did not hesitate to say that she would; but "Voila qui
donna encore a penser!" says Chauchetiere. He continues thus:--
"The one who had these thoughts was wise enough not to speak of
them till she got to the village. She went to find the Father,
and told him her suspicion and the foundation for her judgment.
The Father, who feared much in so delicate an affair, which
seemed perhaps possible enough, spoke to Catherine as much to
question as to exhort her. Whatever Catherine could say,
however, she was not entirely believed; her instructress spoke
to her also, either to remedy the evil in case there might be
any or to prevent it. Never before did the blessed Catherine
suffer so much as on this occasion. What grieved her was that
the Father seemed not to believe her, and accused her as if she
had been guilty; but God permitted it thus to purify her
virtue, for nothing remained to so virtuous a girl, after
leaving her country, her relations, and all the comforts she
might have found in a good marriage, which she could not have
failed to make if she wished,--nothing more remained for her to
do than to practise abnegation in her honor, and to retain not
a particle of rancor.... She said only what was necessary to
make known the truth, and said not the least thing that could
make it appear that she was displeased with any one of those
who were with her at the chase."
In the end her remarkable patience and her silence helped to vindicate
her in this severest trial of her life. Compared to it, the lying tale
of her malicious aunt was as nothing, for no one had believed what she
said. In this case it was very different; and Kateri, unable to defend
herself against the plausible suspicion of this woman, could only live
down the calumny as bravely as possible, leaving God to clear her memory
of every shadow of a doubt, as he would not fail to do in time. The good
man who was accused with her never before or after gave his wife any
occasion to complain of him. She became convinced that her own jealousy
had led her into error; when Kateri was dead, she who had done the
mischief could never speak of her without weeping to think how
needlessly she had wronged and grieved her. But who can ever heal the
wound of a reckless tongue? Alas that the Lily of the Mohawks, "the
fairest flower that ever bloomed among the redmen," should have been
thus accused! One result of this affair was Kateri's resolve never again
to exchange the life of the village for that of the hunting-camp, even
at the cost of starvation.
Not long after the Indians returned to the mission, the ceremonies of
Holy Week began in the chapel at the Sault. Kateri had never witnessed
them before. She was deeply impressed and almost overpowered with
emotion as the divine tragedy of Calvary unrolled itself before her. It
was brought to her mind by degrees with every detail in the daily
services, culminating on Good Friday, with mournful chants, the broken,
mutilated Mass of the prophecies, and the slow unveiling of the
crucifix.
These ceremonies of Holy Week, together with the fervent words of the
missionaries who, like the first preachers of Christianity, spoke to the
people in their "own tongues the wonderful works of God," made a
profound impression on all the Indians of the Praying Castle. As the
bells of Holy Saturday rang in the news of the resurrection, their joy
broke forth into song. A thrill of emotion stirred the throng. Happy
tears were in Kateri's eyes. On Easter Sunday the swell of glad Iroquois
voices, singing from their inmost souls, wafted her responsive spirit to
the opened gates of Paradise.