The storm.
Two days after the events of the last chapter, the brigade was making
one of the traverses which have already been noticed as of frequent
occurrence in the great lakes. The morning was calm and sultry. A deep
stillness pervaded Nature, which tended to produce a corresponding
quiescence in the mind, and to fill it with those indescribably solemn
feelings that frequently arise before a thunderstorm. Dark, lurid
clouds hung overhead in gigantic masses, piled above each other like
the battlements of a dark fortress, from whose ragged embrasures the
artillery of heaven was about to play.
“Shall we get over in time, Louis?” asked Mr. Park, as he turned to the
guide, who sat holding the tiller with a firm grasp; while the men,
aware of the necessity of reaching shelter ere the storm burst upon
them, were bending to the oars with steady and sustained energy.
“Perhaps,” replied Louis, laconically.—“Pull, lads, pull! else you’ll
have to sleep in wet skins to-night.”
A low growl of distant thunder followed the guide’s words, and the men
pulled with additional energy; while the slow measured hiss of the
water, and clank of oars, as they cut swiftly through the lake’s clear
surface, alone interrupted the dead silence that ensued.
Charley and his friend conversed in low whispers; for there is a
strange power in a thunder-storm, whether raging or about to break,
that overawes the heart of man,—as if Nature’s God were nearer then
than at other times; as if He—whose voice, indeed, if listened to,
speaks even in the slightest evolution of natural phenomena—were about
to tread the visible earth with more than usual majesty, in the vivid
glare of the lightning flash, and in the awful crash of thunder.
“I don’t know how it is, but I feel more like a coward,” said Charley,
“just before a thunderstorm than I think I should do in the arms of a
polar bear. Do you feel queer, Harry?”
“A little,” replied Harry, in a low whisper, “and yet I’m not
frightened. I can scarcely tell what I feel, but I’m certain it’s not
fear.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Charley. “When father’s black bull chased
Kate and me in the prairies, and almost overtook us as we ran for the
fence of the big field, I felt my heart leap to my mouth, and the blood
rush to my cheeks, as I turned about and faced him, while Kate climbed
the fence; but after she was over, I felt a wild sort of wickedness in
me, as if I should like to tantalise and torment him,—and I felt
altogether different from what I feel now while I look up at these
black clouds. Isn’t there something quite awful in them, Harry?”
Ere Harry replied, a bright flash of lightning shot athwart the sky,
followed by a loud roll of thunder, and in a moment the wind rushed,
like a fiend set suddenly free, down upon the boats, tearing up the
smooth surface of the water as it flew, and cutting it into gleaming
white streaks. Fortunately the storm came down behind the boats, so
that, after the first wild burst was over, they hoisted a small portion
of their lug sails, and scudded rapidly before it.
There was still a considerable portion of the traverse to cross, and
the guide cast an anxious glance over his shoulder occasionally, as the
dark waves began to rise, and their crests were cut into white foam by
the increasing gale. Thunder roared in continued, successive peals, as
if the heavens were breaking up, while rain descended in sheets. For a
time the crews continued to ply their oars; but as the wind increased,
these were rendered superfluous. They were taken in, therefore, and the
men sought partial shelter under the tarpaulin; while Mr. Park and the
two boys were covered, excepting their heads, by an oilcloth, which was
always kept at hand in rainy weather.
“What think you now, Louis?” said Mr. Park, resuming the pipe which the
sudden outburst of the storm had caused him to forget. “Have we seen
the worst of it?”
Louis replied abruptly in the negative, and in a few seconds shouted
loudly, “Look out, lads! here comes a squall. Stand by to let go the
sheet there!”
Mike Brady, happening to be near the sheet, seized hold of the rope,
and prepared to let go, while the men rose, as if by instinct, and
gazed anxiously at the approaching squall, which could be seen in the
distance, extending along the horizon, like a bar of blackest ink,
spotted with flakes of white. The guide sat with compressed lips, and
motionless as a statue, guiding the boat as it bounded madly towards
the land, which was now not more than half-a-mile distant.
“Let go!” shouted the guide, in a voice that was heard loud and clear
above the roar of the elements.
“Ay, ay,” replied the Irishman, untwisting the rope instantly, as with
a sharp hiss the squall descended on the boat.
At that moment the rope became entangled round one of the oars, and the
gale burst with all its fury on the distended sail, burying the prow in
the waves, which rushed inboard in a black volume, and in an instant
half filled the boat.
“Let go!” roared the guide again, in a voice of thunder; while Mike
struggled with awkward energy to disentangle the rope.
As he spoke, an Indian, who during the storm had been sitting beside
the mast, gazing at the boiling water with a grave, contemplative
aspect, sprang quickly forward, drew his knife, and with two blows (so
rapidly delivered that they seemed but one) cut asunder first the sheet
and then the halyards, which let the sail blow out and fall flat upon
the boat. He was just in time. Another moment and the gushing water,
which curled over the bow, would have filled them to the gunwale. As it
was, the little vessel was so full of water that she lay like a log,
while every toss of the waves sent an additional torrent into her.
“Bail for your lives, lads!” cried Mr. Park, as he sprang forward, and,
seizing a tin dish, began energetically to bail out the water.
Following his example, the whole crew seized whatever came first to
hand in the shape of dish or kettle, and began to bail. Charley and
Harry Somerville acted a vigorous part on this occasion—the one with a
bark dish (which had been originally made by the natives for the
purpose of holding maple sugar), the other with his cap.
For a time it seemed doubtful whether the curling waves should send
most water _into_ the boat, or the crew should bail most _out_ of it.
But the latter soon prevailed, and in a few minutes it was so far got
under that three of the men were enabled to leave off bailing and reset
the sail, while Louis Pettier returned to his post at the helm. At
first the boat moved but slowly, owing to the weight of water in her;
but as this gradually grew less, she increased her speed and neared the
land.
“Well done, Redfeather,” said Mr. Park, addressing the Indian as he
resumed his seat; “your knife did us good service that time, my fine
fellow.”
Redfeather, who was the only pure native in the brigade, acknowledged
the compliment with a smile.
“_Ah, oui_,” replied the guide, whose features had now lost their stern
expression. “These Injins are always ready enough with their knives.
It’s not the first time my life has been saved by the knife of a
red-skin.”
“Humph! bad luck to them,” muttered Mike Brady; “it’s not the first
time that my windpipe has been pretty near spiflicated by the knives o’
the redskins, the murtherin’ varmints.”
As Mike gave vent to this malediction, the boat ran swiftly past a low
rocky point, over which the surf was breaking wildly.
“Down with the sail, Mike,” cried the guide, at the same time putting
the helm hard up. The boat flew round, obedient to the ruling power,
made one last plunge as it left the rolling surf behind, and slid
gently and smoothly into still water under the lee of the point.
Here, in the snug shelter of a little bay, two of the other boats were
found, with their prows already on the beach, and their crews actively
employed in landing their goods, opening bales that had received damage
from the water, and preparing the encampment; while ever and anon they
paused a moment to watch the various boats as they flew before the
gale, and one by one doubled the friendly promontory.
If there is one thing that provokes a voyageur more than another, it is
being wind-bound on the shores of a large lake. Rain or sleet, heat or
cold, icicles forming on the oars, or a broiling sun glaring in a
cloudless sky, the stings of sand-flies, or the sharp probes of a
million musquitoes, he will bear with comparative indifference; but
being detained by high wind for two, three, or four days together—lying
inactively on shore, when everything else, it may be, is favourable:
the sun bright, the sky blue, the air invigorating, and all but the
wind propitious—is more than his philosophy can carry him through with
equanimity. He grumbles at it; sometimes makes believe to laugh at it;
very often, we are sorry to say, swears at it; does his best to sleep
through it; but whatever he does, he does with a bad grace, because
he’s in a bad humour, and can’t stand it.
For the next three days this was the fate of our friends. Part of the
time it rained, when the whole party slept as much as was possible, and
then _endeavoured_ to sleep _more_ than was possible, under the shelter
afforded by the spreading branches of the trees. Part of the time was
fair, with occasional gleams of sunshine, when the men turned out to
eat and smoke and gamble round the fires; and the two friends sauntered
down to a sheltered place on the shore, sunned themselves in a warm
nook among the rocks, while they gazed ruefully at the foaming billows,
told endless stories of what they had done in time past, and equally
endless _prospective_ adventures that they earnestly hoped should
befall them in time to come.
While they were thus engaged, Redfeather, the Indian who had cut the
ropes so opportunely during the storm, walked down to the shore, and
sitting down on a rock not far distant, fell apparently into a reverie.
“I like that fellow,” said Harry, pointing to the Indian.
“So do I. He’s a sharp, active man. Had it not been for him we should
have had to swim for it.”
“Indeed, had it not been for him I should have had to sink for it,”
said Harry, with a smile, “for I can’t swim.”
“Ah, true, I forgot that. I wonder what the red-skin, as the guide
calls him, is thinking about,” added Charley in a musing tone.
“Of home, perhaps, ‘sweet home,’” said Harry, with a sigh. “Do you
think much of home, Charley, now that you have left it?”
Charley did not reply for a few seconds. He seemed to muse over the
question.
At last he said slowly—
“Think of home? I think of little else when I am not talking with you,
Harry. My dear mother is always in my thoughts, and my poor old father.
Home? ay; and darling Kate, too, is at my elbow night and day, with the
tears streaming from her eyes, and her ringlets scattered over my
shoulder, as I saw her the day we parted, beckoning me back again, or
reproaching me for having gone away—God bless her! Yes, I often, very
often, think of home, Harry.”
Harry made no reply. His friend’s words had directed his thoughts to a
very different and far-distant scene—to another Kate, and another
father and mother, who lived in a glen far away over the waters of the
broad Atlantic. He thought of them as they used to be when he was one
of the number, a unit in the beloved circle, whose absence would have
caused a blank there. He thought of the kind voice that used to read
the Word of God, and the tender kiss of his mother as they parted for
the night. He thought of the dreary day when he left them all behind,
and sailed away, in the midst of strangers, across the wide ocean to a
strange land. He thought of them now—_without_ him—accustomed to his
absence, and forgetful, perhaps, at times that he had once been there.
As he thought of all this a tear rolled down his cheek, and when
Charley looked up in his face, that tear-drop told plainly that he too
thought sometimes of home.
“Let us ask Redfeather to tell us something about the Indians,” he said
at length, rousing himself. “I have no doubt he has had many adventures
in his life. Shall we, Charley?”
“By all means—Ho, Redfeather; are you trying to stop the wind by
looking it out of countenance?”
The Indian rose and walked towards the spot where the boys lay.
“What was Redfeather thinking about?” said Charley, adopting the
somewhat pompous style of speech occasionally used by Indians. “Was he
thinking of the white swan and his little ones in the prairie; or did
he dream of giving his enemies a good licking the next time he meets
them?”
“Redfeather has no enemies,” replied the Indian. “He was thinking of
the great Manito,[3] who made the wild winds, and the great lakes, and
the forest.”
[3] God.
“And pray, good Redfeather, what did your thoughts tell you?”
“They told me that men are very weak, and very foolish, and wicked; and
that Manito is very good and patient to let them live.”
“That is to say,” cried Harry, who was surprised and a little nettled
to hear what he called the heads of a sermon from a red-skin, “that
_you_, being a man, are very weak, and very foolish, and wicked, and
that Manito is very good and patient to let _you_ live?”
“Good,” said the Indian calmly; “that is what I mean.”
“Come, Redfeather,” said Charley, laying his hand on the Indian’s arm,
“sit down beside us, and tell us some of your adventures. I know that
you must have had plenty, and it’s quite clear that we’re not to get
away from this place all day, so you’ve nothing better to do.”
The Indian readily assented, and began his story in English.
Redfeather was one of the very few Indians who had acquired the power
of speaking the English language. Having been, while a youth, brought
much into contact with the fur-traders, and having been induced by them
to enter their service for a time, he had picked up enough of English
to make himself easily understood. Being engaged at a later period of
life as a guide to one of the exploring parties sent out by the British
Government to discover the famous North West Passage, he had learned to
read and write, and had become so much accustomed to the habits and
occupations of the “pale faces,” that he spent more of his time, in one
way or another, with them than in the society of his tribe, which dwelt
in the thick woods bordering on one of the great prairies of the
interior. He was about thirty years of age; had a tall, thin, but wiry
and powerful frame; and was of a mild, retiring disposition. His face
wore a habitually grave expression, verging towards melancholy;
induced, probably, by the vicissitudes of a wild life (in which he had
seen much of the rugged side of nature in men and things) acting upon a
sensitive heart, and a naturally warm temperament. Redfeather, however,
was by no means morose; and when seated along with his Canadian
comrades round the camp fire, he listened with evidently genuine
interest to their stories, and entered into the spirit of their jests.
But he was always an auditor, and rarely took part in their
conversations. He, was frequently consulted by the guide in matters of
difficulty, and it was observed that the “red-skin’s” opinion always
carried much weight with it, although it was seldom given unless asked
for. The men respected him much because he was a hard worker, obliging,
and modest—-three qualities that insure respect, whether found under a
red skin or a white one.
“I shall tell you,” he began, in a soft, musing tone, as if he were
wandering in memories of the past—“I shall tell you how it was that I
came by the name of Redfeather.”
“Ah!” interrupted Charley, “I intended to ask you about that; you don’t
wear one.”
“I did once. My father was a great warrior in his tribe,” continued the
Indian; “and I was but a youth when I got the name.
“My tribe was at war at the time with the Chipewyans, and one of our
scouts having come in with the intelligence that a party of our enemies
was in the neighbourhood, our warriors armed themselves to go in
pursuit of them. I had been out once before with a war-party, but had
not been successful, as the enemy’s scouts gave notice of our approach
in time to enable them to escape. At the time the information was
brought to us, the young men of our village were amusing themselves
with athletic games, and loud challenges were being given and accepted
to wrestle, or race, or swim in the deep water of the river, which
flowed calmly past the green bank on which our wigwams stood. On a bank
near to us sat about a dozen of our women—some employed in ornamenting
moccasins with coloured porcupine quills; others making rogans of bark
for maple sugar, or nursing their young infants; while a few, chiefly
the old women, grouped themselves together and kept up an incessant
chattering, chiefly with reference to the doings of the young men.
“Apart from these stood three or four of the principal men of our
tribe, smoking their pipes, and although apparently engrossed in
conversation, still evidently interested in what was going forward on
the bank of the river.
“Among the young men assembled there was one of about my own age, who
had taken a violent dislike to me because the most beautiful girl in
all the village preferred me before him. His name was Misconna. He was
a hot-tempered, cruel youth; and although I endeavoured as much as
possible to keep out of his way, he sought every opportunity of picking
a quarrel with me. I had just been running a race along with several
other youths, and although not the winner, I had kept ahead of Misconna
all the distance. He now stood leaning against a tree, burning with
rage and disappointment. I was sorry for this, because I bore him no
ill-will, and if it had occurred to me at the time, I would have
allowed him to pass me, since I was unable to gain the race at any
rate.
“‘Dog!’ he said at length, stepping forward and confronting me, ‘will
you wrestle?’
“Just as he approached I had turned round to leave the place. Not
wishing to have more to do with him, I pretended not to hear, and made
a step or two towards the lodges. ‘Dog,’ he cried again, while his eyes
flashed fiercely, as he grasped me by the arm, ‘will you wrestle, or
are you afraid? Has the brave boy’s heart changed into that of a girl?’
“‘No, Misconna,’ said I. ‘You _know_ that I am not afraid; but I have
no desire to quarrel with you.’
“‘You lie!’ cried he, with a cold sneer,—‘you are afraid; and see,’ he
added, pointing towards the women with a triumphant smile, ‘the
dark-eyed girl sees it and believes it too!’
“I turned to look, and there I saw Wabisca gazing on me with a look of
blank amazement. I could see, also, that several of the other women,
and some of my companions, shared in her surprise.
“With a burst of anger I turned round. ‘No,’ Misconna,’ said I, ‘I am
_not_ afraid, as you shall find;’ and springing upon him, I grasped him
round the body. He was nearly, if not quite, as strong a youth as
myself; but I was burning with indignation at the insolence of his
conduct before so many of the women, which gave me more than usual
energy. For several minutes we swayed to and fro, each endeavouring in
vain to bend the other’s back; but we were too well matched for this,
and sought to accomplish our purpose by taking advantage of an
unguarded movement. At last such a movement occurred. My adversary made
a sudden and violent attempt to throw me to the left, hoping that an
inequality in the ground would favour his effort. But he was mistaken.
I had seen the danger and was prepared for it, so that the instant he
attempted it I threw forward my right leg, and thrust him backwards
with all my might. Misconna was quick in his motions. He saw my
intention—too late, indeed, to prevent it altogether, but in time to
throw back his left foot and stiffen his body till it felt like a block
of stone. The effort was now entirely one of endurance. We stood each
with his muscles strained to the utmost, without the slightest motion.
At length I felt my adversary give way a little. Slight though the
motion was, it instantly removed all doubt as to who should go down. My
heart gave a bound of exaltation, and with the energy which such a
feeling always inspires, I put forth all my strength, threw him heavily
over on his back, and fell upon him.
“A shout of applause from my comrades greeted me as I rose and left the
ground; but at the same moment the attention of all was taken from
myself and the baffled Misconna by the arrival of the scout, bringing
us information that a party of Chipewyans were in the neighbourhood. In
a moment all was bustle and preparation. An Indian war-party is soon
got ready. Forty of our braves threw off the principal parts of their
clothing; painted their faces with stripes of vermilion and charcoal;
armed themselves with guns, bows, tomahawks and scalping knives, and in
a few minutes left the camp in silence, and at a quick pace.
“One or two of the youths who had been playing on the river’s bank were
permitted to accompany the party, and among these were Misconna and
myself. As we passed a group of women, assembled to see us depart, I
observed the girl who had caused so much jealousy between us. She cast
down her eyes as we came up, and as we advanced close to the group she
dropped a white feather, as if by accident. Stooping hastily down, I
picked it up in passing, and stuck it in an ornamented band that bound
my hair. As we hurried on I heard two or three old hags laugh, and say,
with a sneer, ‘His hand is as white as a feather: it has never seen
blood.’ The next moment we were hid in the forest, and pursued our
rapid course in dead silence.
“The country through which we passed was varied, extending in broken
bits of open prairie, and partly covered with thick wood, yet not so
thick as to offer any hindrance to our march. We walked in single file,
each treading in his comrade’s footsteps, while the band was headed by
the scout who had brought the information. The principal chief of our
tribe came next, and he was followed by the braves according to their
age or influence. Misconna and I brought up the rear. The sun was just
sinking as we left the belt of woodland in which our village stood,
crossed over a short plain, descended a dark hollow, at the bottom of
which the river flowed, and following its course for a considerable
distance, turned off to the right and emerged upon a sweep of
prairieland. Here the scout halted, and taking the chief and two or
three braves aside, entered into earnest consultation with them.
“What they said we could not hear; but as we stood leaning on our guns
in the deep shade of the forest, we could observe by their animated
gestures that they differed in opinion. We saw that the scout pointed
several times to the moon, which was just rising above the treetops,
and then to the distant horizon: but the chief shook his head, pointed
to the woods, and seemed to be much in doubt, while the whole band
watched his motions in deep silence but evident interest. At length
they appeared to agree. The scout took his place at the head of the
line, and we resumed our march, keeping close to the margin of the
wood. It was perhaps three hours after this ere we again halted to hold
another consultation. This time their deliberations were shorter. In a
few seconds our chief himself took the lead, and turned into the woods,
through which he guided us to a small fountain which bubbled up at the
root of a birch tree, where there was a smooth green spot of level
ground. Here we halted, and prepared to rest for an hour, at the end of
which time the moon, which now shone bright and full in the clear sky,
would be nearly down, and we could resume our march. We now sat down in
a circle, and taking a hasty mouthful of dried meat, stretched
ourselves on the ground with our arms beside us, while our chief kept
watch, leaning against the birch tree. It seemed as if I had scarcely
been asleep five minutes when I felt a light touch on my shoulder.
Springing up, I found the whole party already astir, and in a few
minutes more we were again hurrying onwards.
“We travelled thus until a faint light in the east told us that the day
was at hand, when the scout’s steps became more cautious, and he paused
to examine the ground frequently. At last we came to a place where the
ground sank slightly, and at a distance of a hundred yards rose again,
forming a low ridge which was crowned with small bushes. Here we came
to a halt, and were told that our enemies were on the other side of
that ridge; that they were about twenty in number, all Chipewyan
warriors, with the exception of one paleface—a trapper, and his Indian
wife. The scout had learned, while lying like a snake in the grass
around their camp, that this man was merely travelling with them on his
way to the Rocky Mountains, and that, as they were a war-party, he
intended to leave them soon. On hearing this the warriors gave a grim
smile, and our chief, directing the scout to fall behind, cautiously
led the way to the top of the ridge. On reaching it we saw a valley of
great extent, dotted with trees and shrubs, and watered by one of the
many rivers that flow into the great Saskatchewan. It was nearly dark,
however, and we could only get an indistinct view of the land. Far
ahead of us, on the right bank of the stream, and close to its margin,
we saw the faint red light of watch fires; which caused us some
surprise, for watch-fires are never lighted by a war-party so near to
an enemy’s country. So we could only conjecture that they were quite
ignorant of our being in that part of the country; which was, indeed,
not unlikely, seeing that we had shifted our camp during the summer.
“Our chief now made arrangements for the attack. We were directed to
separate and approach individually as near to the camp as was possible
without risk of discovery, and then, taking up an advantageous
position, to await our chief’s signal, which was to be the hooting of
an owl. We immediately separated. My course lay along the banks of the
stream, and as I strode rapidly along, listening to its low solemn
murmur, which sounded clear and distinct in the stillness of a calm
summer night, I could not help feeling as if it were reproaching me for
the bloody work I was hastening to perform. Then the recollection of
what the old woman said of me raised a desperate spirit in my heart.
Remembering the white feather in my head, I grasped my gun and
quickened my pace. As I neared the camp I went into the woods and
climbed a low hillock to look out. I found that it still lay about five
hundred yards distant, and that the greater part of the ground between
it and the place where I stood was quite flat, and without cover of any
kind. I therefore prepared to creep towards it, although the attempt
was likely to be attended with great danger, for Chipewyans have quick
ears and sharp eyes. Observing, however, that the river ran close past
the camp, I determined to follow its course as before. In a few seconds
more I came to a dark narrow gap where the river flowed between broken
rocks, overhung by branches, and from which I could obtain a clear view
of the camp within fifty yards of me. Examining the priming of my gun,
I sat down on a rock to await the chief’s signal.
“It was evident from the careless manner in which the fires were
placed, that no enemy was supposed to be near. From my concealment I
could plainly distinguish ten or fifteen of the sleeping forms of our
enemies, among which the trapper was conspicuous, from his superior
bulk, and the reckless way in which his brawny arms were flung on the
turf, while his right hand clutched his rifle. I could not but smile as
I thought of the proud boldness of the pale-face—lying all exposed to
view in the gray light of dawn while an Indian’s rifle was so close at
hand. One Indian kept watch, but he seemed more than half asleep. I had
not sat more than a minute when my observations were interrupted by the
cracking of a branch in the bushes near me. Starting up, I was about to
bound into the underwood, when a figure sprang down the bank and
rapidly approached me. My first impulse was to throw forward my gun,
but a glance sufficed to show me that it was a woman.
“‘Wah!’ I exclaimed, in surprise, as she hurried forward and laid her
hand on my shoulder. She was dressed partly in the costume of the
Indians, but wore a shawl on her shoulders and a handkerchief on her
head that showed she had been in the settlements; and from the
lightness of her skin and hair, I judged at once that she was the
trapper’s wife, of whom I had heard the scout speak.
“‘Has the light-hair got a medicine-bag, or does she speak with
spirits, that she has found me so easily?’
“The girl looked anxiously up in my face as if to read my thoughts, and
then said, in a low voice,—
“‘No, I neither carry the medicine-bag nor hold palaver with spirits;
but I do think the good Manito must have led me here. I wandered into
the woods because I could not sleep, and I saw you pass. But tell me,’
she added with still deeper anxiety, ‘does the white-feather come
alone? Does he approach _friends_ during the dark hours with a soft
step like a fox?’
“Feeling the necessity of detaining her until my comrades should have
time to surround the camp, I said: ‘The white-feather hunts far from
his lands. He sees Indians whom he does not know, and must approach
with a light step. Perhaps they are enemies.’
“‘Do Knisteneux hunt at night, prowling in the bed of a stream?’ said
the girl, still regarding me with a keen glance. ‘Speak truth,
stranger’ (and she started suddenly back); ‘in a moment I can alarm the
camp with a cry, and if your tongue is forked—But I do not wish to
bring enemies upon you, if they are indeed such. I am not one of them.
My husband and I travel with them for a time. We do not desire to see
blood. God knows,’ she added in French, which seemed her native tongue,
‘I have seen enough of that already.’
“As her earnest eyes looked into my face a sudden thought occurred to
me. ‘Go,’ said I, hastily, ‘tell your husband to leave the camp
instantly and meet me here; and see that the Chipewyans do not observe
your departure. Quick! his life and yours may depend on your speed.’
“The girl instantly comprehended my meaning. In a moment she sprang up
the bank; but as she did so the loud report of a gun was heard,
followed by a yell, and the war-whoop of the Knisteneux rent the air as
they rushed upon the devoted camp, sending arrows and bullets before
them.
“On the instant I sprang after the girl and grasped her by the arm.
‘Stay, white-cheek; it is too late now. You cannot save your husband,
but I think he’ll save himself. I saw him dive into the bushes like a
cariboo. Hide yourself here; perhaps you may escape.’
“The half-breed girl sank on a fallen tree with a deep groan, and
clasped her hands convulsively before her eyes, while I bounded over
the tree, intending to join my comrades in pursuing the enemy.
“As I did so a shrill cry arose behind me, and looking back, I beheld
the trapper’s wife prostrate on the ground, and Misconna standing over
her, his spear uplifted, and a fierce frown on his dark face.
“‘Hold!’ I cried, rushing back and seizing his arm. ‘Misconna did not
come to kill _women_. She is not our enemy.’
“‘Does the young wrestler want _another_ wife?’ he said, with a wild
laugh, at the same time wrenching his arm from my gripe, and driving
his spear through the fleshy part of the woman’s breast and deep into
the ground. A shriek rent the air as he drew it out again to repeat the
thrust; but before he could do so, I struck him with the butt of my gun
on the head. Staggering backwards, he fell heavily among the bushes. At
this moment a second whoop rang out, and another of our band sprang
from the thicket that surrounded us. Seeing no one but myself and the
bleeding girl, he gave me a short glance of surprise, as if he wondered
why I did not finish the work which he evidently supposed I had begun.
“‘Wah!’ he exclaimed; and uttering another yell plunged his spear into
the woman’s breast, despite my efforts to prevent him—this time with
more deadly effect, as the blood spouted from the wound, while she
uttered a piercing scream, and twined her arms round my legs as I stood
beside her, as if imploring for mercy. Poor girl! I saw that she was
past my help. The wound was evidently mortal. Already the signs of
death overspread her features, and I felt that a second blow would be
one of mercy; so that when the Indian stooped and passed his long knife
through her heart, I made but a feeble effort to prevent it. Just as
the man rose, with the warm blood dripping from his keen blade, the
sharp crack of a rifle was heard, and the Indian fell dead at my feet,
shot through the forehead, while the trapper bounded into the open
space, his massive frame quivering, and his sunburned face distorted
with rage and horror. From the other side of the brake six of our band
rushed forward and levelled their guns at him. For one moment the
trapper paused to cast a glance at the mangled corpse of his wife, as
if to make quite sure that she was dead; and then uttering a howl of
despair, he hurled his axe with a giant’s force at the Knisteneux, and
disappeared over the precipitous bank of the stream.
“So rapid was the action that the volley which immediately succeeded
passed harmlessly over his head, while the Indians dashed forward in
pursuit. At the same instant I myself was felled to the earth. The axe
which the trapper had flung struck a tree in its flight, and as it
glanced off the handle gave me a violent blow in passing. I fell
stunned. As I did so my head alighted on the shoulder of the woman, and
the last thing I felt, as my wandering senses forsook me, was her still
warm blood flowing over my face and neck.
“While this scene was going on, the yells and screams of the warriors
in the camp became fainter and fainter as they pursued and fled through
the woods. The whole band of Chipewyans was entirely routed, with the
exception of four who escaped, and the trapper whose flight I have
described; all the rest were slain, and their scalps hung at the belts
of the victorious Knisteneux warriors, while only one of our party was
killed.
“Not more than a few minutes after receiving the blow that stunned me,
I recovered, and rising as hastily as my scattered faculties would
permit me, I staggered towards the camp, where I heard the shouts of
our men as they collected the arms of their enemies. As I rose, the
feather which Wabisca had dropped fell from my brow, and as I picked it
up to replace it, I perceived that it was _red_, being entirely covered
with the blood of the half-breed girl.
“The place where Misconna had fallen was vacant as I passed, and I
found him standing among his comrades round the camp fires, examining
the guns and other articles which they had collected. He gave me a
short glance of deep hatred as I passed, and turned his head hastily
away. A few minutes sufficed to collect the spoils, and so rapidly had
everything been done that the light of day was still faint as we
silently returned on our track. We marched in the same order as before,
Misconna and I bringing up the rear. As we passed near the place where
the poor woman had been murdered, I felt a strong desire to return to
the spot. I could not very well understand the feeling, but it lay so
strong upon me that, when we reached the ridge where we first came in
sight of the Chipewyan camp, I fell behind until my companions
disappeared in the woods, and then ran swiftly back. Just as I was
about to step beyond the circle of bushes that surrounded the spot, I
saw that some one was there before me. It was a man, and as he advanced
into the open space and the light fell on his face, I saw that it was
the trapper. No doubt he had watched us off the ground, and then, when
all was safe, returned to bury his wife. I crouched to watch him.
Stepping slowly up to the body of his murdered wife, he stood beside it
with his arms folded on his breast and quite motionless. His head hung
down, for the heart of the white man was heavy, and I could see, as the
light increased, that his brows were dark as the thunder-cloud, and the
corners of his mouth twitched from a feeling that the Indian scorns to
show. My heart is full of sorrow for him now” (Redfeather’s voice sank
as he spoke); “it was full of sorrow for him even _then_, when I was
taught to think that pity for an enemy was unworthy of a brave. The
trapper stood gazing very long. His wife was young; he could not leave
her yet. At length a deep groan burst from his heart, as the waters of
a great river, long held down, swell up in spring and burst the ice at
last. Groan followed groan as the trapper still stood and pressed his
arms on his broad breast, as if to crush the heart within. At last he
slowly knelt beside her, bending more and more over the lifeless form,
until he lay extended on the ground beside it, and twining his arms
round the neck, he drew the cold cheek close to his, and pressed the
blood-covered bosom tighter and tighter, while his form quivered with
agony as he gave her a last, long embrace. Oh!” continued Redfeather,
while his brow darkened, and his black eye flashed with an expression
of fierceness that his young listeners had never seen before, “may the
curse—” He paused. “God forgive them! How could they know better?
“At length the trapper rose hastily. The expression of his brow was
still the same, but his mouth was altered. The lips were pressed
tightly like those of a brave when led to torture, and there was a
fierce activity in his motions as he sprang down the bank and proceeded
to dig a hole in the soft earth. For half an hour he laboured,
shovelling away the earth with a large, flat stone; and carrying down
the body, he buried it there, under the shadow of a willow. The trapper
then shouldered his rifle and hurried away. On reaching the turn of the
stream which shuts the little hollow out from view, he halted suddenly,
gave one look into the prairie he was henceforth to tread alone, one
short glance back, and then, raising both arms in the air, looked up
into the sky, while he stretched himself to his full height. Even at
that distance I could see the wild glare of his eye and the heaving of
his breast. A moment after, and he was gone.”
“And did you never see him again?” inquired Harry Somerville, eagerly.
“No, I never saw him more. Immediately afterwards I turned to rejoin my
companions, whom I soon overtook, and entered our village along with
them. I was regarded as a poor warrior, because I brought home no
scalps, and ever afterwards I went by the name of _Redfeather_ in our
tribe.”
“But are you still thought a poor warrior?” asked Charley, in some
concern, as if he were jealous of the reputation of his new friend.
The Indian smiled. “No,” he said: “our village was twice attacked
afterwards, and in defending it, Redfeather took many scalps. He was
made a chief!”
“Ah!” cried Charley, “I’m glad of that. And Wabisca, what came of her?
Did Misconna get her?”
“She is my wife,” replied Redfeather.
“Your wife! Why, I thought I heard the voyageurs call your wife the
white swan.”
“Wabisca is _white_ in the language of the Knisteneux. She is beautiful
in form, and my comrades call her the white swan.”
Redfeather said this with an air of gratified pride. He did not,
perhaps, love his wife with more fervour than he would have done had he
remained with his tribe; but Redfeather had associated a great deal
with the traders, and he had imbibed much of that spirit which prompts
“_white_ men” to treat their females with deference and respect—a
feeling which is very foreign to an Indian’s bosom. To do so was,
besides, more congenial to his naturally unselfish and affectionate
disposition, so that any flattering allusion to his partner was always
received by him with immense gratification.
“I’ll pay you a visit some day, Redfeather, if I’m sent to any place
within fifty miles of your tribe,” said Charley with the air of one who
had fully made up his mind.
“And Misconna?” asked Harry.
“Misconna is with his tribe,” replied the Indian, and a frown
overspread his features as he spoke; “but Redfeather has been following
in the track of his white friends; he has not seen his nation for many
moons.”