The Indian camp—The new outpost—Charley sent on a mission to the
Indians.
In the councils of the fur-traders, on the spring previous to that
about which we are now writing, it had been decided to extend their
operations a little in the lands that lie in central America, to the
north of the Saskatchewan River; and in furtherance of that object, it
had been intimated to the chief trader in charge of the district that
an expedition should be set on foot, having for its object the
examination of a territory into which they had not yet penetrated, and
the establishment of an outpost therein. It was, furthermore, ordered
that operations should be commenced at once, and that the choice of men
to carry out the end in view was graciously left to the chief trader’s
well-known sagacity.
Upon receiving this communication, the chief trader selected a
gentleman named Mr. Whyte to lead the party; gave him a clerk and five
men, provided him with a boat and a large supply of goods necessary for
trade, implements requisite for building an establishment, and sent him
off with a hearty shake of the hand and a recommendation to “go and
prosper.”
Charles Kennedy spent part of the previous year at Rocky Mountain
House, where he had shown so much energy in conducting the trade,
especially what he called the “rough and tumble” part of it, that he
was selected as the clerk to accompany Mr. Whyte to his new ground.
After proceeding up many rivers, whose waters had seldom borne the
craft of white men, and across innumerable lakes, the party reached a
spot that presented so inviting an aspect that it was resolved to pitch
their tent there for a time, and, if things in the way of trade and
provision looked favourable, establish themselves altogether. The place
was situated on the margin of a large lake, whose shores were covered
with the most luxuriant verdure, and whose waters teemed with the
finest fish, while the air was alive with wild-fowl, and the woods
swarming with game. Here Mr. Whyte rested awhile; and having found
everything to his satisfaction, he took his axe, selected a green lawn
that commanded an extensive view of the lake, and going up to a tall
larch, struck the steel into it, and thus put the first touch to an
establishment which afterwards went by the name of Stoney Creek.
A solitary Indian, whom they had met with on the way to their new home,
had informed them that a large band of Knisteneux had lately migrated
to a river about four days’ journey beyond the lake at which they
halted; and when the new fort was just beginning to spring up, our
friend Charley and the interpreter, Jacques Caradoc, were ordered by
Mr. Whyte to make a canoe, and then, embarking in it, to proceed to the
Indian camp, to inform the natives of their rare good luck in having a
band of white men come to settle near their lands to trade with them.
The interpreter and Charley soon found birch bark, pine roots for
sewing it, and gum for plastering the seams, wherewith they constructed
the light machine whose progress we have partly traced in the last
chapter, and which, on the following day at sunset, carried them to
their journey’s end.
From some remarks made by the Indian who gave them information of the
camp, Charley gathered that it was the tribe to which Redfeather
belonged, and furthermore that Redfeather himself was there at the
time; so that it was with feelings of no little interest that he saw
the tops of the yellow tents embedded among the green trees, and soon
afterwards beheld them and their picturesque owners reflected in the
clear river, on whose banks the natives crowded to witness the arrival
of the white men.
Upon the greensward, and under the umbrageous shade of the forest
trees, the tents were pitched to the number of perhaps eighteen or
twenty, and the whole population, of whom very few were absent on the
present occasion, might number a hundred—men, women, and children. They
were dressed in habiliments formed chiefly of materials procured by
themselves in the chase, but ornamented with cloth, beads, and silk
thread, which showed that they had had intercourse with the fur-traders
before now. The men wore leggings of deerskin, which reached more than
half-way up the thigh, and were fastened to a leathern girdle strapped
round the waist. A loose tunic or hunting-shirt of the same material
covered the figure from the shoulders almost to the knees, and was
confined round the middle by a belt—in some cases of worsted, in others
of leather gaily ornamented with quills. Caps of various indescribable
shapes, and made chiefly of skin, with the animal’s tail left on by way
of ornament, covered their heads, and moccasins for the feet completed
their costume. These last may be simply described as leather mittens
for the feet, without fingers, or rather toes. They were gaudily
ornamented, as was almost every portion of costume, with porcupines’
quills dyed with brilliant colours, and worked into fanciful, and in
many cases extremely elegant, figures and designs; for North American
Indians oftentimes display an amount of taste in the harmonious
arrangement of colour that would astonish those who fancy that
_education_ is absolutely necessary to the just appreciation of the
beautiful.
The women attired themselves in leggings and coats differing little
from those of the men, except that the latter were longer, the sleeves
detached from the body, and fastened on separately; while on their
heads they wore caps, which hung down and covered their backs to the
waist. These caps were of the simplest construction, being pieces of
cloth cut into an oblong shape, and sewed together at one end. They
were, however, richly ornamented with silk-work and beads.
On landing, Charley and Jacques walked up to a tall, good-looking
Indian, whom they judged from his demeanour, and the somewhat
deferential regard paid to him by the others, to be one of the chief
men of the little community.
“Ho! what cheer?” said Jacques, taking him by the hand after the manner
of Europeans, and accosting him with the phrase used by the fur-traders
to the natives. The Indian returned the compliment in kind, and led the
visitors to his tent, where he spread a buffalo robe for them on the
ground, and begged them to be seated. A repast of dried meat and
reindeer-tongues was then served, to which our friends did ample
justice; while the women and children satisfied their curiosity by
peering at them through chinks and holes in the tent. When they had
finished, several of the principal men assembled, and the chief who had
entertained them made a speech, to the effect that he was much
gratified by the honour done to his people by the visit of his white
brothers; that he hoped they would continue long at the camp to enjoy
their hospitality; and that he would be glad to know what had brought
them so far into the country of the red men.
During the course of this speech the chief made eloquent allusion to
all the good qualities supposed to belong to white men in general, and
(he had no doubt) to the two white men before him in particular. He
also boasted considerably of the prowess and bravery of himself and his
tribe, launched a few sarcastic hits at his enemies, and wound up with
a poetical hope that his guests might live for ever in these beautiful
plains of bliss, where the sun never sets, and nothing goes wrong
anywhere, and everything goes right at all times, and where,
especially, the deer are outrageously fat, and always come out on
purpose to be shot! During the course of these remarks his comrades
signified their hearty concurrence to his sentiments, by giving vent to
sundry low-toned “hums!” and “has!” and “wahs!” and “hos!” according to
circumstances. After it was over Jacques rose, and addressing them in
their own language, said,—
“My Indian brethren are great. They are brave, and their fame has
travelled far. Their deeds are known even so far as where the Great
Salt Lake beats on the shore where the sun rises. They are not women,
and when their enemies hear the sound of their name they grow pale;
their hearts become like those of the reindeer. My brethren are famous,
too, in the use of the snow-shoe, the snare, and the gun. The
fur-traders know that they must build large stores when they come into
their lands. They bring up much goods, because the young men are
active, and require much. The silver fox and the marten are no longer
safe when their traps and snares are set. Yes, they are good hunters:
and we have now come to live among you” (Jacques changed his style as
he came nearer to the point), “to trade with you, and to save you the
trouble of making long journeys with your skins. A few days’ distance
from your wigwams we have pitched our tents. Our young men are even now
felling the trees to build a house. Our nets are set, our hunters are
prowling in the woods, our goods are ready, and my young master and I
have come to smoke the pipe of friendship with you, and to invite you
to come to trade with us.”
Having delivered this oration, Jacques sat down amid deep silence.
Other speeches, of a highly satisfactory character, were then made,
after which “the house adjourned,” and the visitors, opening one of
their packages, distributed a variety of presents to the delighted
natives.
Several times during the course of these proceedings, Charley’s eyes
wandered among the faces of his entertainers, in the hope of seeing
Redfeather among them, but without success; and he began to fear that
his friend was not with the tribe.
“I say, Jacques,” he said, as they left the tent, “ask whether a chief
called Redfeather is here. I knew him of old, and half expected to find
him at this place.”
The Indian to whom Jacques put the question replied that Redfeather was
with them, but that he had gone out on a hunting expedition that
morning, and might be absent a day or two.
“Ah!” exclaimed Charley, “I’m glad he’s here. Come, now, let us take a
walk in the wood; these good people stare at us as if we were ghosts.”
And taking Jacques’s arm, he led him beyond the circuit of the camp,
turned into a path which, winding among the thick underwood, speedily
screened them from view, and led them into a sequestered glade, through
which a rivulet trickled along its course, almost hid from view by the
dense foliage and long grasses that overhung it.
“What a delightful place to live in!” said Charley. “Do you ever think
of building a hut in such a spot as this, Jacques, and settling down
altogether?” Charley’s thoughts reverted to his sister Kate when he
said this.
“Why, no,” replied Jacques, in a pensive tone, as if the question had
aroused some sorrowful recollections; “I can’t say that I’d like to
settle here _now_. There was a time when I thought nothin’ could be
better than to squat in the woods with one or two jolly comrades, and—”
(Jacques sighed); “but times is changed now, master, and so is my mind.
My chums are most of them dead or gone one way or other. No; I
shouldn’t care to squat alone.”
Charley thought of the hut _without_ Kate, and it seemed so desolate
and dreary a dwelling, notwithstanding its beautiful situation, that he
agreed with his companion that to “squat” _alone_ would never do at
all.
“No, man was not made to live alone,” continued Jacques, pursuing the
subject; “even the Injins draw together. I never knew but one as didn’t
like his fellows, and he’s gone now, poor fellow. He cut his foot with
an axe one day, while fellin’ a tree. It was a bad cut; and havin’
nobody to look after him, he half bled and half starved to death.”
“By the way, Jacques,” said Charley, stepping over the clear brook, and
following the track which led up the opposite bank, “what did you say
to those red-skins? You made them a most eloquent speech apparently.”
“Why, as to that, I can’t boast much of its eloquence, but I think it
was clear enough. I told them that they were a great nation; for you
see, Mr. Charles, the red men are just like the white in their fondness
for butter; so I gave them some to begin with, though, for the matter
o’ that, I’m not overly fond o’ givin’ butter to any man, red or white.
But I holds that it’s as well always to fall in with the ways and
customs o’ the people a man happens to be among, so long as them ways
and customs a’n’t contrary to what’s right. It makes them feel more
kindly to you, and don’t raise any onnecessary ill-will. However, the
Knisteneux _are_ a brave race; and when I told them that the hearts of
their enemies trembled when they heard of them, I told nothing but the
truth; for the Chipewyans are a miserable set, and not much given to
fighting.”
“Your principles on that point won’t stand much sifting, I fear,”
replied Charley: “according to your own showing, you would fall into
the Chipewyan’s way of glorifying themselves on account of their
bravery, if you chanced to be dwelling among them, and yet you say they
are not brave. That would not be sticking to truth, Jacques, would it?”
“Well,” replied Jacques with a smile, “perhaps not exactly, but I’m
sure there could be small harm in helping the miserable objects to
boast sometimes, for they’ve little else than boasting to comfort
them.”
“And yet, Jacques, I cannot help feeling that truth is a grand, a
glorious thing, that should not be trifled with even in small matters.”
Jacques opened his eyes a little. “Then do you think, master, that a
man should _never_ tell a lie, no matter what fix he may be in?”
“I think not, Jacques.”
The hunter paused a few minutes, and looked as if an unusual train of
ideas had been raised in his mind by the turn their conversation had
taken. Jacques was a man of no religion, and little morality, beyond
what flowed from a naturally kind, candid disposition, and entertained
the belief that the _end_, if a good one, always justifies the
_means_—a doctrine which, had it been clearly exposed to him in all its
bearings and results, would have been spurned by his straightforward
nature with the indignant contempt that it merits.
“Mr. Charles,” he said at length, “I once travelled across the plains
to the head waters of the Missouri with a party of six trappers. One
night we came to a part of the plains which was very much broken up
with wood here and there, and bein’ a good place for water we camped.
While the other lads were gettin’ ready the supper, I started off to
look for a deer, as we had been unlucky that day—we had shot nothin’.
Well, about three miles from the camp I came upon a band o’ somewhere
about thirty Sieux (ill-looking, sneaking dogs they are, too!), and
before I could whistle they rushed upon me, took away my rifle and
hunting-knife, and were dancing round me like so many devils. At last a
big black-lookin’ thief stepped forward, and said in the Cree language,
‘White men seldom travel through this country alone; where are your
comrades?’ Now, thought I, here’s a nice fix! If I pretend not to
understand, they’ll send out parties in all directions, and as sure as
fate they’ll find my companions in half-an-hour, and butcher them in
cold blood (for, you see, we did not expect to find Sieux, or indeed
any Injins, in them parts); so I made believe to be very narvous, and
tried to tremble all over and look pale. Did you ever try to look pale
and frighttened, Mr. Charles?”
“I can’t say that I ever did,” said Charley, laughing.
“You can’t think how troublesome it is,” continued Jacques, with a look
of earnest simplicity. “I shook and trembled pretty well, but the more
I tried to grow pale, the more I grew red in the face, and when I
thought of the six broad-shouldered, raw-boned lads in the camp, and
how easy they would have made these jumping villains fly like chaff if
they only knew the fix I was in, I gave a frown that had well-nigh
showed I was shamming. Hows’ever, what with shakin’ a little more and
givin’ one or two most awful groans, I managed to deceive them. Then I
said I was hunter to a party of white men that were travellin’ from Red
River to St. Louis, with all their goods, and wives, and children, and
that they were away in the plains about a league off.
“The big chap looked very hard into my face when I said this, to see if
I was telling the truth; and I tried to make my teeth chatter, but it
wouldn’t do, so I took to groanin’ very bad instead. But them Sieux are
such awful liars nat’rally that they couldn’t understand the signs of
truth, even if they saw them. ‘Whitefaced coward,’ said he to me, ‘tell
me in what direction your people are.’ At this I made believe not to
understand; but the big chap flourished his knife before my face,
called me a dog, and told me to point out the direction. I looked as
simple as I could and said I would rather not. At this they laughed
loudly and then gave a yell, and said if I didn’t show them the
direction they would roast me alive. So I pointed towards apart of the
plains pretty wide o’ the spot where our camp was. ‘Now lead us to
them,’ said the big chap, givin’ me a shove with the butt of his gun;
‘an’ if you have told lies—‘he gave the handle of his scalpin’-knife a
slap, as much as to say he’d tickle up my liver with it. Well, away we
went in silence, me thinkin’ all the time how I was to get out o’ the
scrape. I led them pretty close past our camp, hopin’ that the lads
would hear us. I didn’t dare to yell out, as that would have showed
them there was somebody within hearin’, and they would have made short
work of me. Just as we came near the place where my companions lay, a
prairie wolf sprang out from under a bush where it had been sleepin’,
so I gave a loud hurrah, and shied my cap at it. Giving a loud growl,
the big Injin hit me over the head with his fist, and told me to keep
silence. In a few minutes I heard the low, distant howl of a wolf. I
recognised the voice of one of my comrades, and knew that they had seen
us, and would be on our track soon. Watchin’ my opportunity, and
walkin’ for a good bit as if I was awful tired—all but done up—to throw
them off their guard, I suddenly tripped up the big chap as he was
stepping over a small brook, and dived in among the bushes. In a moment
a dozen bullets tore up the bark on the trees about me, and an arrow
passed through my hair. The clump of wood into which I had dived was
about half-a-mile long; and as I could run well (I’ve found in my
experience that white men are more than a match for red-skins at their
own work), I was almost out of range by the time I was forced to quit
the cover and take to the plain. When the blackguards got out of the
cover, too, and saw me cuttin’ ahead like a deer, they gave a yell of
disappointment, and sent another shower of arrows and bullets after me,
some of which came nearer than was pleasant. I then headed for our camp
with the whole pack screechin’ at my heels. ‘Yell away, you stupid
sinners,’ thought I; ‘some of you shall pay for your music.’ At that
moment an arrow grazed my shoulder, and looking over it, I saw that the
black fellow I had pitched into the water was far ahead of the rest,
strainin’ after me like mad, and every now and then stopping to try an
arrow on me; so I kept a look-out, and when I saw him stop to draw, I
stopped too, and dodged, so the arrows passed me, and then we took to
our heels again. In this way I ran for dear life till I came up to the
cover. As I came close up I saw our six fellows crouchin’ in the
bushes, and one o’ them takin’ aim almost straight for my face. ‘Your
day’s come at last,’ thought I, looking over my shoulder at the big
Injin, who was drawing his bow again. Just then there was a sharp crack
heard; a bullet whistled past my ear, and the big fellow fell like a
stone, while my comrade stood coolly up to reload his rifle. The
Injins, on seein’ this, pulled up in a moment; and our lads stepping
forward, delivered a volley that made three more o’ them bite the dust.
There would have been six in that fix, but, somehow or other, three of
us pitched upon the same man, who was afterwards found with a bullet in
each eye, and one through his heart. They didn’t wait for more, but
turned about and bolted like the wind. Now, Mr. Charles, if I had told
the truth that time, we would have been all killed; and if I had simply
said nothin’ to their questions, they would have sent out to scour the
country, and have found out the camp for sartin, so that the only way
to escape was by tellin’ them a heap o’ downright lies.”
Charley looked very much perplexed at this.
“You have indeed placed me in a difficulty. I know not what I would
have done. I don’t know even what I _ought to do_ under these
circumstances. Difficulties may perplex me, and the force of
circumstances might tempt me to do what I believed to be wrong. I am a
sinner, Jacques, like other mortals, I know; but one thing I am quite
sure of—namely, that when men speak it should _always_ be truth and
_never_ falsehood.”
Jacques looked perplexed too. He was strongly impressed with the
necessity of telling falsehoods in the circumstances in which he had
been placed, as just related, while at the same time he felt deeply the
grandeur and the power of Charley’s last remark.
“I should have been under the sod _now_,” said he, “if I had not told a
lie _then_. Is it better to die than to speak falsehood?”
“Some men have thought so,” replied Charley. “I acknowledge the
difficulty of _your_ case and of all similar cases. I don’t know what
should be done, but I have read of a minister of the gospel whose
people were very wicked and would not attend to his instructions,
although they could not but respect himself, he was so consistent and
Christianlike in his conduct. Persecution arose in the country where he
lived, and men and women were cruelly murdered because of their
religious belief. For a long time he was left unmolested, but one day a
band of soldiers came to his house, and asked him whether he was a
Papist or a Protestant (Papist, Jacques, being a man who has sold his
liberty in religious matters to the Pope, and a Protestant being one
who protests against such an ineffably silly and unmanly state of
slavery). Well, his people urged the good old man to say he was a
Papist, telling him that he would then be spared to live among them,
and preach the true faith for many years perhaps. Now, if there was one
thing that this old man would have toiled for and died for, it was that
his people should become true Christians—and he told them so; ‘but,’ he
added, ‘I will not tell a lie to accomplish that end, my children—no,
not even to save my life.’ So he told the soldiers that he was a
Protestant, and immediately they carried him away, and he was soon
afterwards burned to death.”
“Well,” said Jacques, “_he_ didn’t gain much by sticking to the truth,
I think.”
“I’m not so sure of _that_. The story goes on to say that he _rejoiced_
that he had done so, and wouldn’t draw back even when he was in the
flames. But the point lies here, Jacques: so deep an impression did the
old man’s conduct make on his people, that from that day forward they
were noted for their Christian life and conduct. They brought up their
children with a deeper reverence for the truth than they would
otherwise have done, always bearing in affectionate remembrance, and
holding up to them as an example, the unflinching truthfulness of the
good old man who was burned in the year of the terrible persecutions;
and at last their influence and example had such an effect that the
Protestant religion spread like wild-fire, far and wide around them, so
that the very thing was accomplished for which the old pastor said he
would have died—accomplished, too, very much in consequence of his
death, and in a way and to an extent that very likely would not have
been the case had he lived and preached among them for a hundred
years.”
“I don’t understand it, nohow,” said Jacques; “it seems to me right
both ways and wrong both ways, and all upside down every how.”
Charley smiled. “Your remark is about as clear as my head on the
subject, Jacques; but I still remain convinced that truth is _right_
and that falsehood is _wrong_, and that we should stick to the first
through thick and thin.”
“I s’pose,” remarked the hunter, who had walked along in deep
cogitation, for the last five minutes, and had apparently come to some
conclusion of profound depth and sagacity—“I s’pose that it’s all human
natur’; that some men takes to preachin’ as Injins take to huntin’, and
that to understand sich things requires them to begin young,’ and risk
their lives in it, as I would in followin’ up a grizzly she-bear with
cubs.”
“Yonder is an illustration of one part of your remark. They begin
_young_ enough, anyhow,” said Charley, pointing as he spoke to an
opening in the bushes, where a particularly small Indian boy stood in
the act of discharging an arrow.
The two men halted to watch his movements. According to a common custom
among juvenile Indians during the warm months of the year, he was
dressed in _nothing_ save a mere rag tied round his waist. His body was
very brown, extremely round, fat, and wonderfully diminutive, while his
little legs and arms were disproportionately small. He was so young as
to be barely able to walk, and yet there he stood, his black eyes
glittering with excitement, his tiny bow bent to its utmost, and a
blunt-headed arrow about to be discharged at a squirrel, whose flight
had been suddenly arrested by the unexpected apparition of Charley and
Jacques. As he stood there for a single instant, perfectly motionless,
he might have been mistaken for a grotesque statue of an Indian cupid.
Taking advantage of the squirrel’s pause the child let fly the arrow,
hit it exactly on the point of the nose, and turned it over, dead—a
consummation which he greeted with a rapid succession of frightful
yells.
“Cleverly done, my lad; you’re a chip of the old block, I see,” said
Jacques, patting the child’s head as he passed, and retraced his steps,
with Charley, to the Indian camp.