SALAMANDER GIVES AND RECEIVES A SURPRISE, AND WAR IS AVERTED BY WISE
DIPLOMACY.
It has been already said that our interpreter, Salamander, possessed a
spirit of humour slightly tinged with mischief, which, while it
unquestionably added to the amusement of our sojourn in those lands,
helped not a little to rouse our anxieties.
On returning to our men, after parting from Lumley, for the purpose of
giving them their instructions, I found that Salamander was missing, and
that no one could tell where he had gone. I caused a search to be made
for him, which was unsuccessful, and would have persevered with it if
there had not pressed upon me the necessity of obeying my chief's orders
to keep the savages amused. This I set about doing without delay, and
having, like my friend, been a diligent student of the language on the
journey, found that I succeeded, more than I had ventured to hope for,
in communicating my ideas.
As the disappearance of Salamander, however, was the subject which
exercised my mind most severely at the time, and as he afterwards gave
me a full account of the cause in detail, I shall set it down here.
Being possessed that evening, as he confessed, with a spirit of
restlessness, and remembering that our two Highlanders had been left to
guard the camp at Lake Wichikagan, he resolved to pay them a visit. The
distance, as I have said elsewhere, was not much more than six miles--a
mere trifle to one who was as fleet as a young deer and strong as an old
bear. He soon traversed the ground and came up to the camp.
At first he meant merely to give the men a surprise, but the spirit to
which I have already referred induced him to determine on giving them a
fright. Approaching very cautiously, therefore, with this end in view,
he found that things were admirably arranged for his purpose.
Donald Bane and James Dougall, having finished their fortress in the
centre of the open lawn, as already described, returned to their fire,
which, it may be remembered, was kindled close to the edge of the
bushes. There they cooked some food and devoured it with the gusto of
men who had well earned their supper. Thereafter, as a matter of
course, they proceeded to enjoy a pipe.
The night, besides being fine and calm, was unusually warm, thereby
inducing a feeling of drowsiness, which gradually checked the flow of
conversation previously evoked by the pipes.
"It is not likely the redskins will come up here to give us a chance
when there's such a lot of our lads gone to meet them," said Bane, with
a yawn.
"I agree with you, Tonald," answered Dougall grumpily.
"It is quite new to hev you agreein' with me so much, Shames," returned
Bane with another yawn.
"You are right. An' it is more lively to disagree, whatever," rejoined
Dougall, with an irresistible, because sympathetic, yawn.
"Oo ay, that's true, Shames. Yie-a-ou!"
This yawn was so effusive that Dougall, refusing to be led even by
sympathy, yawned internally with his lips closed and swallowed it.
The conversation dropped at this point, though the puffs went on
languidly. As the men were extended at full-length, one on his side,
the other on his back, it was not unnatural that, being fatigued, they
should both pass from the meditative to the dreamy state, and from that
to the unconscious.
It was in this condition that Salamander discovered them.
"Asleep at their posts!" he said mentally. "That deserves punishment."
He had crept on hands and knees to the edge of the bushes, and paused to
contemplate the wide-open mouth of Bane, who lay on his back, and the
prominent right ear of Dougall, whose head rested on his left arm. The
debris of supper lay around them--scraps of pemmican, pannikins, spoons,
knives, and the broken shells of teal-duck eggs which, having been
picked up some time before, had gone bad.
Suddenly an inspiration--doubtless from the spirit of mischief--came
over Salamander. There was one small unbroken egg on the ground near to
Bane's elbow. Just over his head the branch of a bush extended. To
genius everything comes handy and nothing amiss. Salamander tied the
egg to a piece of small twine and suspended it to the twig in such
fashion that the egg hung directly over Bane's wide-open mouth. At a
glance he had seen that it was possible to lay a light hand on the inner
end of the branch, and at the same time bend his mouth over Dougall's
ear. He drew a long breath, for it was a somewhat delicate and
difficult, being a duplicate, manoeuvre!
Pressing down the branch very slowly and with exceeding care, he guided
the egg into Bane's mouth. He observed the precise moment when it
touched the sleeper's tongue, and then exploded a yell into Dougall's
ear that nearly burst the tympanum.
Bane's jaws shut with a snap instantly. Need we--no, we need not!
Dougall leaped up with a cry that almost equalled that of Salamander.
Both men rushed to the fortress and bounded into it, the one spurting
out Gaelic expletives, the other rotten egg and bits of shell. They
seized their guns and crouched, glaring through the various loopholes
all round with finger on trigger, ready to sacrifice at a moment's
notice anything with life that should appear. Indeed they found it
difficult, in their excited condition, to refrain from blazing at
nothing! Their friendly foe meanwhile had retired, highly delighted
with his success. He had not done with them however. By no means! The
spirit of mischief was still strong upon him, and he crept into the
bushes to meditate.
"It wass an evil speerut, Shames," gasped Donald Bane, when he had
nearly got rid of the egg. "Did you smell his preath?"
"No, Tonald, it wass not. Spirits are not corporeal, and cannot handle
eggs, much less cram them down a man's throat. It wass the egg you did
smell."
"That may be so, Shames, but it could not be a redskin, for he would be
more likely to cram a scalpin' knife into my heart than an egg into my
mouth."
"Iss it not dreamin' ye wass, an' tryin' to eat some more in your sleep?
You wass always fond of overeatin' yourself--whativer--Tonald."
Before this question could be answered, another yell of the most
appalling and complex nature rang out upon the night-air, struck them
dumb, and seemed to crumple up their very hearts.
Salamander had been born with a natural gift for shrieking, and being of
a sprightly disposition, had cultivated the gift in boyhood.
Afterwards, being also a good mimic, he had made the subject a special
study, with a view to attract geese and other game towards him. That he
sometimes prostituted the talent was due to the touch of genius, to
which I have already referred.
When the crumpled-up organs began to recover, Bane said to Dougall,
"Shames, this iss a bad business."
Dougall, having been caught twice that evening, was on his guard. He
would not absolutely agree with his friend, but admitted that he was not
far wrong.
Again the yell burst forth with intensified volume and complicated
variation. Salamander was young; he did not yet know that it is
possible to over-act.
"Shames!" whispered Bane, "I hev got a notion in my hid."
"I hope it's a coot w'an, Tonald, for the notions that usually git into
it might stop there with advantage. They are not much to boast of."
"You shall see. Just you keep talkin' out now an' then as if I wass
beside you, an' don't, whativer ye do, fire into the bushes."
"Ferry coot," answered Dougall.
Another moment, and Donald Bane glided over the parapet of their fort at
the side nearest the lake; and, creeping serpent-fashion for a
considerable distance round, gained the bushes, where he waited for a
repetition of the cry. He had not long to wait. With that boldness,
not to say presumption, which is the child of success, Salamander now
began to make too many drafts on genius, and invented a series of howls
so preposterously improbable that it was impossible for even the most
credulous to believe them the natural cries of man, beast, demon, or
monster.
Following up the sound, Donald Bane soon came to a little hollow where,
in the dim light, he perceived Salamander's visage peering over a ridge
in the direction of the fortress, his eyes glittering with glee and his
mouth wide-open in the act of giving vent to the hideous cries. The
Highlander had lived long in the wilderness, and was an adept in its
ways. With the noiseless motion of a redskin he wormed his way through
the underwood until close alongside of the nocturnal visitor, and then
suddenly stopped a howl of more than demoniac ferocity by clapping a
hand on Salamander's mouth.
With a convulsive wriggle the youth freed his mouth, and uttered a
shriek of genuine alarm, but Bane's strong arm pinned him to the earth.
"Ye dirty loon," growled the man in great wrath, "wass you thinkin' to
get the better of a Heelandman? Come along with ye. I'll give you a
lesson that you'll not forget--whatever."
Despite his struggles, Bane held Salamander fast until he ceased to
resist, when he grasped him by the collar, and led him towards the
little fort.
At first, Salamander had been on the point of confessing the practical
joke, but the darkness of the night induced him to hope for another
escape from his position. He had not yet uttered a word; and, as he
could not distinguish the features of the Highlander, it was possible,
he thought, that the latter might have failed to recognise him. If he
could give him the slip, he might afterwards deny having had anything to
do with the affair. But it was not easy to give the slip to a man whose
knuckly hand held him like a vice.
"Shames," said Bane as he came near the fortress, "I've cot the peast!
come oot, man, an' fetch a stick wi' you. I'll ha'd 'im while you lay
on."
Salamander, who understood well enough what he might expect, no sooner
heard Dougall clambering over the barricade than he gathered himself up
for a tremendous wriggle, but received such a fearful squeeze on the
neck from the vice-like hand of his captor that he was nearly choked.
At the moment a new idea flashed into his fertile brain. His head
dropped suddenly to one side; his whole frame became limp, and he fell,
as it were, in a heap on the ground, almost bringing the Highlander on
the top of him.
"Oh! the miserable cratur," exclaimed Bane, relaxing his grasp with a
feeling of self-reproach, for he had a strong suspicion that his captive
really was Salamander. "I do believe I've killed him. Wow! Shames,
man, lend a hand to carry him to the fire, and plow up a bit flame that
we may see what we've gotten."
"Iss he tead, Tonald?" asked Dougall, in a pitiful tone, as he came
forward.
"No, Shames, he's no tead yet. Take up his feet, man, an' I'll tak' his
shouthers."
Dougall went to Salamander's feet, turned his back to them, and stooped
to take them up as a man takes a wheelbarrow. He instantly received a
kick, or rather a drive, from Salamander's soles that sent him sprawling
on his hands and knees. Donald Bane, stooping to grasp the shoulder,
received a buffet on the cheek, which, being unexpected, sent him
staggering to the left, while the sly youth, springing to his feet
bounded into the bushes on the right with a deep-toned roar ending in a
laugh that threw all his previous efforts quite into the shade.
The Highlanders rose, but made no attempt to pursue.
"My friend," said Bane, softly, "if that wass not an evil speerut, I
will be fery much surprised."
"No, Tonald, it wass _not_ a speerut," replied the other, as they
returned to their fortress. "Speeruts will not be kickin' an' slappin'
like that; they are not corporeal."
While these scenes were enacting on the margin of Lake Wichikagan,
Lumley and Mozwa arrived at the enemy's camp. It was a war-camp. All
the women and children had been sent away, none but armed and painted
braves remained.
They were holding a palaver at the time. The spot was the top of an
open eminence which was so clear of underwood that the approach of a foe
without being seen was an impossibility. Although the night was rather
dark, Lumley and his guide had been observed the instant they came
within the range of vision. No stir, however, took place in the camp,
for it was instantly perceived that the strangers were alone. With the
grave solemnity of redskin warriors, they silently awaited their coming.
A small fire burned in their midst, for they made no attempt at
concealment. They were prepared to fight at a moment's notice. The red
flames gleamed on their dusky faces, and glittered in their glancing
eyes, as Lumley and Mozwa strode boldly into the circle, and stood
before the chief.
Intense surprise filled the hearts of the warriors at this unexpected
apparition of a white man, but not an eye or muscle betrayed the
smallest symptom of the feeling.
"The pale-face is welcome," said the chief, after a short pause.
"The pale-face is glad to meet with his dark-skinned brother, and thanks
him," returned Lumley.
If the surprise at the sudden appearance of the pale-face was great, the
astonishment to find that he spoke the Indian tongue was greater; but
still the feeling was not betrayed.
After a few short complimentary speeches, our hero came at once to the
point.
"My brothers," he said, looking round on the dusky warriors, who
remained sitting all the time, "the white chief of the fur-traders has
sent me into this country to trade with you."
This statement was received with a "waugh" of satisfaction from several
of the warriors.
"And," continued Lumley, "I have brought men--strong men, who can work
well--to help me to build a house, so that we may live among you and
hunt together."
He paused here to let the statement have its full effect. Then he
continued:--
"I have also brought plenty of guns, and powder, and lead."
Again he paused, and an emphatic "waugh" proved that the remark was
fully appreciated.
"The white man knows," continued Lumley, in a more flowing style, "that
his red brothers have need of many things which they do not possess,
while the white man is in need of furs, and does not possess them. It
is for the good of each that we should exchange. The Great Spirit, who
is all-wise, as well as all-good, has seen fit to scatter His children
over a wide world, and He has given some of them too much of one thing,
some of them too much of another. Why has He done so? May we not think
that it is for the purpose of causing His children to move about the
world, and mingle, and help each other, and so increase Love? Some of
the bad children prefer to move about and steal. But there is no need.
It is easier to do good than to do evil. If all men would help and none
would steal, there would be more than enough for all."
Again a pause. Some of the savages, who were thoughtful men, were
greatly tickled in their minds by the arguments set forth. Others, who
could not understand, were deeply impressed.
"Now," continued Lumley, coming to the marrow of his discourse, "the
red-men have more than enough of furs."
"Waugh!" in a tone of emphasis, that implied "that's true."
"And the pale-faces have few furs, but want some very much."
"Waugh?" interrogatively, in a tone that implied "what then?"
"Well, but the pale-faces are not poor. They are rich, and have far too
much of many things. They have far too much of those pleasant sweet
things called sugar and molasses (the Indians involuntarily licked their
lips). Too much cloth as bright as the sun at setting, and as blue as
the sky at noon (the Indian eyes glistened). Too many guns, and too
much powder and shot (the savage eyes glared). They have more beads,
and blankets, and hatchets, and tobacco, than they know what to do with,
so they have sent some of these things here to be given to you in
exchange for furs, and food, and leather."
The waughs! and hows! and hos! with which these remarks were followed up
were so hearty, that Lumley thought it best to make a considerable pause
at this point; then he resumed:--
"But, my brothers,"--he stopped for a considerable time, and looked so
grave, that the hearts of the red-men sank, lest the glorious vision
which had been suddenly revealed to them, should be as suddenly
withdrawn in some way.
"But," repeated Lumley, again, with a sort of awful emphasis, "the
pale-faces detest war. They can fight--yes, and when they _must_ fight,
they _will_ fight, but they do not love fighting, and if they are to
stay here and open up trade with their guns, and their powder, and their
blankets, and beads, and cloth (he wisely went all over it again for the
sake of effect), there must be peace in the land. If there is war the
pale-faces will take all their good things and go away--waugh!"
Finishing off in the true red-man style, Lumley sat down with decision,
as though to say, "Now, the ball is at your own feet, kick it which way
you please."
Then the chief of the savages rose with dignity, but with a tinge of
eagerness which he could not altogether conceal, and said:--
"Let not my white brother talk of going away. War shall cease at his
bidding. Let him and his pale-faced warriors fell trees, and build
wigwams, and hunt. We have plenty furs--the black fox, the red fox, the
beaver, the marten, the minks, the bear, and many other animals are
plentiful. We will exchange them for the goods of the white man. We
will bury the hatchet, and smoke the calumet of peace, and the sound of
the war-whoop shall no more be heard in the land--waugh!"
"Are my brothers ready to go to the camp of Big Otter, and make friends
at once?" asked Lumley.
This was a testing question, and for some time remained unanswered,
while the chiefs and braves looked preposterously solemn. At last,
however, they seemed to make up their minds, and the chief replied, "We
are ready."
That night the hostile savages met on the shores of Lake Wichikagan, and
encamped with the fur-traders. Fires were lighted, and kettles put on,
a royal feast was prepared; and the reunited tribes of red-men finally
buried the war-hatchet there, and smoked the pipe of peace.