One Father, one Friend, poor Catharine, thou hadst, even he, the Father of the fatherless.
That night, when the women and children were sleeping, Catharine stole out of the wigwam, and climbed the precipitous bank beneath the shelter of which the lodges had been erected. She found herself upon a gra.s.sy plain, studded with majestic oaks and pines, so beautifully grouped that they might have been planted by the hand of taste upon that velvet turf. It was a delightful contrast to those dense dark forests through which for so many many miles the waters of the Otonabee had flowed on monotonously; here it was all wild and free, dashing along like a restive steed rejoicing in its liberty, uncurbed and tameless.
Yes, here it was beautiful! Catharine gazed with joy upon the rushing river, and felt her own heart expand as she marked its rapid course as it bounded murmuring and fretting over its rocky bed. "Happy, glorious waters! you are not subject to the power of any living creature; no canoe can ascend those surging waves. I would that I too, like thee, were free to pursue my onward way; how soon would I flee away and be at rest!" Such thoughts pa.s.sed through the mind of the lonely captive girl, as she sat at the foot of a giant oak, and looked abroad over those moonlit waters, till oppressed by an overwhelming sense of the utter loneliness of the scene, the timid girl with faltering step hurried down once more to the wigwams, silently crept to the mat where her bed was spread, and soon forgot all her woes and wanderings in deep, tranquil sleep.
Catharine wondered that the Indians in erecting their lodges always seemed to prefer the low, level, and often swampy grounds by the lakes and rivers in preference to the higher and more healthy elevations. So disregardful are they of this circ.u.mstance, that they do not hesitate to sleep where the ground is saturated with moisture. They will then lay a temporary flooring of cedar or any other bark beneath their feet, rather than remove the tent a few feet higher up, where a drier soil may always be found. This arises either from stupidity or indolence, perhaps from both, but it is no doubt the cause of much of the sickness that prevails among them. With his feet stretched to the fire, the Indian cares for nothing else when reposing in his wigwam, and it is useless to urge the improvement that might be made in his comfort; he listens with a face of apathy, and utters his everlasting guttural, which saves him the trouble of a more rational reply.
"Snow-bird" informed Catharine that the lodges would not again be removed for some time, but that the men would hunt and fish, while the squaws pursued their domestic labours. Catharine perceived that the chief of the laborious part of the work fell to the share of the females, who were very much more industrious and active than their husbands; those, when not out hunting or fishing, were to be seen reposing in easy indolence under the shade of the trees, or before the tent fires, giving themselves little concern about anything that was going on. The squaws were gentle, humble, and submissive; they bore without a murmur pain, labour, hunger, and fatigue, and seemed to perform every task with patience and good-humour. They made the canoes, in which the men sometimes a.s.sisted them, pitched the tents, converted the skins of the animals which the men shot into clothes, cooked the victuals, manufactured baskets of every kind, wove mats, dyed the quills of the porcupine, sewed the moccasins, and, in short, performed a thousand tasks which it would be difficult to enumerate.
Of the ordinary household work, such as is familiar to European females, they of course knew nothing; they had no linen to wash or iron, no floors to clean, no milking of cows, nor churning of b.u.t.ter.
Their carpets were fresh cedar boughs spread on the ground, and only renewed when they became offensively dirty from the acc.u.mulation of fish-bones and other offal, which are carelessly flung down during meals. Of furniture they had none; their seat the ground, their table the same, their beds mats or skins of animals,--such were the domestic arrangements of the Indian camp. [Footnote: Much improvement has taken place of late years in the domestic economy of the Indians, and some of their dwellings are clean and neat even for Europeans.]
In the tent to which Catharine belonged, which was that of the widow and her sons, a greater degree of order and cleanliness prevailed than in any other; for Catharine"s natural love of neatness and comfort induced her to strew the floor with fresh cedar or hemlock every day or two, and to sweep round the front of the lodge, removing all unseemly objects from its vicinity. She never failed to wash herself in the river, and arrange her hair with the comb Louis had made for her; and she took great care of the little child, which she kept clean and well fed. She loved this little creature, for it was soft and gentle, meek and playful as a little squirrel; and the Indian mothers all looked with kinder eyes upon the white maiden, for the loving manner in which she tended their children. The heart of woman is seldom cold to those who cherish their offspring, and Catharine began to experience the truth that the exercise of human charities is equally beneficial to those who give and those who receive; these things fall upon the heart as dew upon a thirsty soil, giving and creating a blessing. But we will leave Catharine for a short season, among the lodges of the Indians, and return to Hector and Louis.
CHAPTER XIV.
"Cold and forsaken, dest.i.tute of friends, And all good comforts else, unless some tree Whose speechless chanty doth better ours, With which the bitter east winds made their sport, And sang through hourly, hath invited thee To shelter half a day. Shall she be thus, And I draw in soft slumbers?"
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
It was near sunset before Hector and his companions returned on the evening of the eventful day that had found Catharine a prisoner on Long Island. They had met with good success in hunting, and brought home a fine half-grown fawn, fat and in good order. They were surprised at finding the fire nearly extinguished, and no Catharine awaiting their return. There, it is true, was the food that she had prepared for them, but she was not to be seen. Supposing that she had been tired of waiting for them, and had gone out to gather strawberries, they did not at first feel anxious, but ate of the rice and honey, for they were hungry with long fasting. Then taking some Indian meal cake in their hands, they went out to call her in; but no trace of her was visible. Fearing she had set off by herself to seek them, and had missed her way home again, they hurried back to the happy valley,--she was not there; to Pine-tree Point,--no trace of her there; to the edge of the mount that overlooked the lake,--she was not to be seen: night found them unsuccessful in their search. Sometimes they fancied that she had seated herself beneath some tree and fallen asleep; but no one imagined the true cause, nothing having been seen of the Indians since they had proceeded up the river.
Again they retraced their steps back to the house; but they found her not there. They continued their unavailing search till the moon setting left them in darkness, and they lay down to rest, but not to sleep. The first streak of dawn saw them again hurrying to and fro, calling in vain upon the name of the loved and lost companion of their wanderings.
Indiana, whose vigilance was untiring--for she yielded not easily to grief and despair--now returned with the intelligence that she had discovered the Indian trail, through the big ravine to the lake-sh.o.r.e; she had found the remains of a wreath of oak leaves which had been worn by Catharine in her hair; and she had seen the mark of feet, Indian feet, on the soft clay at the edge of the lake, and the furrowing of the shingles by the pushing off of a canoe. Poor Louis gave way to transports of grief and despair; he knew the wreath, it was such as Catharine often made for herself, and Mathilde, and pet.i.te Louise, and Marie; his mother had taught her to make them; they were linked together by the stalks, and formed a sort of leaf chain. Louis placed the torn relic in his breast, and sadly turned away to hide his grief from Hector and the Indian girl.
Indiana now proposed searching the island for further traces, but advised wariness in so doing. They saw, however, neither smoke nor canoes. The Indians had departed while they were searching the ravines and flats round Mount Ararat, and the lake told no tales, The following day they ventured to land on Long Island, and on going to the north side saw evident traces of a temporary encampment having been made, but no trace of any violence having been committed. It was Indiana"s opinion that, though a prisoner, Catharine was unhurt, as the Indians rarely killed women and children, unless roused to do so by some signal act on the part of their enemies, when an exterminating spirit of revenge induced them to kill and spare not; but where no offence had been offered, they were not likely to take the life of a helpless, unoffending female. The Indian is not cruel for the wanton love of blood, but to gratify revenge for some injury done to himself or to his tribe. But it was difficult to still the terrible apprehensions that haunted the minds of Louis and Hector. They spent much time in searching the northern sh.o.r.es and the distant islands, in the vain hope of finding her, as they still thought the camp might have been moved to the opposite side of the lake.
Inconsolable for the loss of their beloved companion, Hector and Louis no longer took interest in what was going on; they hardly troubled themselves to weed the Indian corn, in which they had taken such great delight; all now seemed to them flat, stale, and unprofitable; they wandered listlessly to and fro, silent and sad; the sunshine had departed from their little dwelling; they ate little, and talked less, each seeming absorbed in his own painful reveries.
In vain the gentle Indian girl strove to revive their drooping spirits; they seemed insensible to her attentions, and often left her for hours alone. They returned one evening about the usual hour of sunset, and missed their meek, uncomplaining guest from the place she was wont to occupy. They called, but there was none to reply,--she too was gone. They hurried to the sh.o.r.e just time enough to see the canoe diminishing to a mere speck upon the waters, in the direction of the mouth of the river; they called to her, in accents of despair, to return, but the wind wafted back no sound to their ears and soon the bark was lost to sight, and they sat them down disconsolately on the sh.o.r.e.
"What is she doing?" said Hector. "It is cruel to abandon us thus."
"She has gone up the river, in the hope of bringing us some tidings of Catharine," said Louis.
"How came you to think that such is her intention?"
"I heard her say the other day that she would go and bring her back, or die."
"What! do you think she would risk the vengeance of the old chief whose life she attempted to take?"
"She is a brave girl; she does not fear pain or death to serve those she loves."
"How can she, unprotected and alone, dare such perils? Why did she not tell us? We would have shared her danger."
"She feared for our lives more than for her own; that poor Indian girl has a n.o.ble heart. I care not now what befalls us; we have lost all that made life dear to us," said Louis gloomily, sinking his head between his knees.
"Hush, Louis; you are older than I, and ought to bear these trials with more courage. It was our own fault Indiana"s leaving us; we left her so much alone to pine after her lost companion, she seemed to think that we did not care for her. Poor Indiana, she must have felt lonely and sad."
"I tell you what we will do, Hec,--make a log canoe. I found an old battered one lying on the sh.o.r.e, not far from Pine-tree Point. We have an axe and a tomahawk,--what should hinder us from making one like it?"
"True! we will set about it to-morrow."
"I wish it were morning, that we might set to work to cut down a good pine for the purpose."
"As soon as it is done, we will go up the river; anything is better than this dreadful suspense and inaction."
The early dawn saw the two cousins busily engaged chopping at a tree of suitable dimensions. They worked hard all that day, and the next, and the next, before the canoe was hollowed out; but, owing to their inexperience and the bluntness of their tools, their first attempt proved abortive--it was too heavy at one end, and did not balance well in the water.
Louis, who had been quite sure of success, was disheartened; not so Hector.
"Do not let us give it up: my maxim is perseverance; let us try again, and again--ay, and a fourth and a fifth time. I say, never give it up; that is the way to succeed at last."
"You have ten times my patience, Hec."
"Yes; but you are more ingenious than I, and are excellent at starting an idea."
"We are a good pair then for partnership."
"We will begin anew and this time I hope we shall profit by our past blunders."
"Who would imagine that it is now more than a month since we lost Catharine?"
"I know it--long, long, weary month," replied Louis; and he struck his axe sharply into the bark of the pine as he spoke, and remained silent for some minutes. The boys, wearied by chopping down the tree, rested from their work, and sat down on the side of the condemned canoe to resume their conversation. Suddenly Louis grasped Hector"s arm, and pointed to a bark canoe that appeared making for the westernmost point of the island. Hector started to his feet, exclaiming, "It is Indiana returned!"
"Nonsense! Indiana!--it is no such thing. Look you, it is a stout man in a blanket coat."
"The Indians?" asked Hector, inquiringly.
"I do not think he looks like an Indian; but let us watch. What is he doing?"
"Fishing. See now, he has just caught a fine ba.s.s--another--he has great luck--now he is pushing the canoe ash.o.r.e."
"That man does not move like an Indian--hark! he is whistling. I ought to know that tune. It sounds like the old _chanson_ my father used to sing;" and Louis, raising his voice, began to sing the words of an old French Canadian song, which we will give in the English, as we heard it sung by an old lumberer,--
"Down by those banks where the pleasant waters flow, Through the wild woods we"ll wander, and we"ll chase the buffalo.
And we"ll chase the buffalo."
"Hush, Louis! you will bring the man over to us," said Hector.
"The very thing I am trying to do, mon ami. This is our country, and that may be his; but we are lords here, and two to one, so I think he will not be likely to treat us ill. I am a man now, and so are you, and he is but one; so he must mind how he affronts us," replied Louis, laughing.
"Hark, if he is not singing now! ay, and the very chorus of the old song"--and Louis raised his voice to its highest pitch as he repeated,--