The Crew of the Water Wagtail
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“But it seems to me, Master Hendrick, that you are inclined to be too severe on the high-born. There are those among them whose lives conform to the teachings of the Gospel of Jesus.”
“Do I not know it?” replied the hunter abruptly. “Have I not told you that my murdered wife was high-born and endowed with every grace?”
“True, but what of this civilised female tiger whom you would scorn to wed. Did not Christ die for her? May she not be saved by the same Power that drags the tiger of the lower ranks—both male and female—from the pit?”
“I doubt it not,” answered Hendrick thoughtfully, as he relapsed into his usual quiet manner, “and I am glad you appreciate Trueheart, for she is worthy of your regard. Her name was bestowed on her by her Indian relations. My children I have named after some of my kindred in the old country. The tribe to which my wife belongs are called Bethucks. They are well-disposed and kindly in disposition, and do not quarrel among themselves more than other human beings—indeed not so much as men in our own land; probably because they have not so much to quarrel about and have more elbow-room. They are good kinsmen, as I know; good hunters also, and inclined for peace, but the natives of Labrador render peace impossible, for they make frequent raids on our island, and of course we have to drive them away. If white men now come to Newfoundland, I fear that the poor Bethucks will be exterminated.” (The Bethucks are now extinct.)
“I trust not,” said Paul.
“So do I,” returned Hendrick, “and if the Gospel you have brought here only takes good root in our own land all will be well, for if men acted on the command ‘let us love one another,’ war and robbery, murder and strife, would be at an end.”
“Can we expect all men to act upon that precept?” asked Paul.
“Apparently not; but we might at least expect Christians to do so; those who accept the Gospel as their book of law. I had expected to escape from war and bloodshed when I left civilised lands and settled here, but I have been disappointed. The necessity for fighting still exists!”
“And will exist until the reign of Jesus extends to every human heart,” returned Paul. “It seems to me that what we have some right and ground to expect is, not the stoppage of all war, but the abolition of war between nations calling themselves Christian.”
It is a curious circumstance that, only a few days after the above conversation, an incident occurred which induced both Paul and Hendrick to buckle on their armour, and sally forth with a clear perception that it was their bounden duty to engage in war!
That incident was the arrival of an Indian hunter who was slightly known to Hendrick’s wife.
He came in a canoe just as the family on the Island were about to sit down to supper.
It was dark when his tall figure was seen to stalk out of the surrounding gloom into the circle of firelight. Trueheart recognised him at once, and a word from her sufficed to inform her husband that the stranger was a friend. He was welcomed of course cordially, and made to sit down in the place of honour.
Every attention he accepted with the grave solemnity of an owl, and without any other recognition than a mild grunt, which was by no means meant as a surly return of thanks, but as a quiet mode of intimating that the attention was agreeable to his feelings.
It may, perhaps, be not unknown to the reader that grave reticence is one of the characteristics of the Red men of the west. They are never in a hurry to communicate their news, whether important or otherwise, but usually, on arriving at any hospitable abode, sit down with calm dignity and smoke a pipe, or make slight reference to unimportant matters before coming to the main point of their visit—if it have a main point at all. As it is with the Red men now, so was it with the Bethucks at the time we write of. True, the pernicious practice of smoking tobacco had not yet been introduced among them, so that the social pipe was neither offered, desired, nor missed! but the Indian accepted a birch-bark basket of soup with placid satisfaction, and consumed it with slow felicity. Then, being offered a formidable venison steak, he looked calmly at his host, blinked his thanks—or whatever he felt—and devoured it.
“Has he got nothing to say for himself?” asked Captain Trench, surprised at the man’s silence.
“Plenty to say, I doubt not,” answered Hendrick, who then explained to the Captain the Indian characteristic just referred to.
“What a power of suction he has got” said Olly, referring not to the Indian, but to the family baby which he had got on his knee, and was feeding with a dangerously large lump of bear’s fat.
“What does he say?” asked Paul, referring to their visitor, who, having come to a temporary pause, with a sigh of contentment had said something in his native tongue to Hendrick.
“He asked me if the singing-birds will gladden his ears and cause his heart to thrill.”
“What means he by that?”
“He only refers to a fact well known among the Indians,” replied the hunter, with a quiet smile, “that Trueheart and Goodred have such sweet voices that they are known everywhere by the name of the singing-birds. Happening to have some knowledge of music, I have trained them to sing in parts one or two hymns taught to me by my mother, and composed, I believe, by a good monk of the olden time. Some things in the hymns puzzled me, I confess, until I had the good fortune to meet with you. I understand them better now. You shall hear one of them.”
So saying, he turned and nodded to Trueheart who of course understood the conversation. With a slight inclination of the head denoting acquiescence she began to sing. At the same moment Goodred parted her pretty lips and joined her. The result was to fill the air with harmony so sweet that the captain and his comrade were struck dumb with delight and surprise, the Indian’s jaw was arrested with an unchewed morsel in the mouth, and the family baby gazing upward in wonder, ceased the effort to choke itself on bear’s fat.
It need scarcely be said that the grunt of the Indian was very emphatic when the sounds died away like fairy-music, and that the hunter’s white guests entreated for more. Trueheart and her daughter were quite willing, and, for a considerable time, kept their audience enthralled.
At last, having washed down his meal with a final basketful of soup, the Indian began to unbosom himself of his news—a few words at a time. It was soon found, however, that he had no news of importance to tell. He was a hunter; he had been out with a party of his tribe, but having differed with them as to the best district to be visited, he had left them and continued the hunt alone. Being not far distant from the home of the white hunter who had mated with the Bethuck singing-bird, he had turned aside for no other purpose than to have his ears gladdened and his heart thrilled!
“We are happy,” said Hendrick, “that our Bethuck brother should have his ears gladdened and his heart thrilled, and we trust that the spirit of the wolf within him is subdued, now that his stomach is also filled.”
A polite grunt was the reply.
“Will our Bethuck brother tell us more news?”
“There is no more,” he answered, “Strongbow is now an empty vessel.”
“Considering that Strongbow has just filled himself with venison, he can hardly call himself an empty vessel,” responded the hunter, with intense gravity.
Strongbow turned his head quickly and gazed at the speaker. His solemnity deepened. Could his white brother be jesting? The white brother’s gravity forbade the idea. In order to convey more strongly the fact that he had no news to give the Indian touched his forehead—“Strongbow is empty here.”
“That may well be,” remarked Hendrick quietly.
Again the Indian glared. Solemnity is but a feeble word after all! He said nothing, but was evidently puzzled.
“Has our Bethuck brother seen no enemies from the setting sun? Is all quiet and peaceful among his friends?” asked the hunter.
“All is peaceful—all is quiet. But we have news of a war party that left us many days past. They had gone, about the time that the deer begin to move, to punish some white men who were cast on shore by the sea where the sun rises.”
“What say you?” cried Hendrick, starting. “Have the Red warriors been successful?”
“They have. Some of the white men have been killed, others caught and taken to our wigwams to be made slaves or to die.”
The consternation of Paul and his friends, on this being translated to them, may be imagined. Past injuries were forgotten, and instant preparations were made to set off to the rescue at the earliest dawn of the following day.
Chapter Twenty.
The Rescue Party—A Rencontre and Bad News
Hot haste now marked the proceedings of the rescue party, for Paul and his friends felt that they had no time to lose. Fortunately the weather favoured them. That very night a sharp frost set in, hardening the moist and swampy grounds over which they had to pass. Strongbow, on being made acquainted with the state of matters, willingly agreed to lead the party to the place to which he thought it likely the captives had been taken, or where, at least, information about them might be obtained from members of his own tribe.
Little Oscar, at his own urgent request, was allowed to accompany them, and Trueheart, Goodred, and the family baby and nurse were left in charge of an old Indian whose life had once been saved by Hendrick, and who, although too old to go on the war-path, was still well able to keep the family in provisions.
Although the party was small—numbering only six, two of whom were boys—it was nevertheless formidable, each man being more than usually powerful, as well as valiant, whilst the boys, although comparatively small, possessed so much of the unconquerable spirit of their sires as to render them quite equal to average men.
The frost, which seemed to have fairly set in, kept them cool during the day while walking, and rendered their bivouac-fires agreeable at nights. Little time, however, was allowed for rest or food. They pressed on each day with unflagging energy, and felt little disposition to waste time in conversation during the brief halts for needed rest and food.
Occasionally, however, some of the party felt less disposed than usual for sleep, and sought to drive away anxiety regarding their old shipmates by talking of things and scenes around them.
“Does Strongbow think that the frost will hold?” asked Hendrick, one evening after supper, as he reclined in front of the fire on a pile of brushwood.
“Strongbow cannot tell,” returned the Indian. “It looks like thaw, but the Great Spirit sometimes changes his mind and sends what we do not expect.”
Having uttered this cautious reply with sententious gravity he continued his supper in silence.
“The Great Spirit never changes his mind,” said Paul. “Perfection cannot change, because it need not.”
“Waugh!” replied the Indian. It was evident that he did not agree with Paul, but was too polite to say so.
“I like this sort o’ thing,” remarked Captain Trench, looking up from the rib on which he was engaged, and gazing round at the magnificent sweep of hill and dale of which they had a bird’s-eye view from their camp.
“So do I, daddy; with lots to eat an’ a roarin’ fire a fellow feels as happy as a king,” said Oliver.
“Happier than most kings, I doubt not,” returned Hendrick.
“But, Olly, you have mentioned only two of the things that go to produce felicity,” said Paul. “Food and fire are certainly important elements, but these would be of little avail if we had not health, strength, and appetite.”
“To say nothin’ of the fresh air o’ the mountains, and the excitement o’ the wilderness, and the enthusiasm of youth,” added the captain.
“Are you not as happy as me, daddy?” asked the boy, with a sudden glance of intelligence.
“Happier a great deal, I should say,” replied the father, “for I’m not so much of a goose.”
“Why then, daddy, if you are happier than we, what you call the enthusiasm of youth can have nothing to do with it, you know!”
“You young rascal, the enthusiasm of middle age is much more powerful than that of youth! You let your tongue wag too freely.”
“D’ye hear that, Osky?” said Oliver to his little companion in an audible whisper. “There’s comfort for you an’ me. We’ll be more enthusiastic and far happier when we come to middle age! What d’ye think o’ that?”
Oscar—who, although much inclined to fun and humour, did not always understand the curious phases of them presented to him by his civilised friend—looked innocently in his face and said, “Me no tink about it at all!” Whereupon Olly burst into a short laugh, and expressed his belief that, on the whole, that state of mind was about the happiest he could come to.
“How long, think you, will it take us to reach the wigwams of your kindred from this point?” asked Hendrick of their guide, as he prepared to lie down for the night.
“Two days,” answered the Indian.
“God grant that we may be in time,” murmured Paul, “I fear a thaw, for it would delay us greatly.”
That which was feared came upon them the next day. They were yet asleep when those balmy influences, which alone have power to disrupt and destroy the ice-king’s reign, began to work, and when the travellers awoke, the surface of the land was moist. It was not soft, however, for time is required to draw frost out of the earth, so that progress was not much impeded. Still, the effect of the thaw depressed their spirits a good deal, for they were well aware that a continuance of it would render the low grounds, into which they had frequently to descend, almost impassable.
It was, therefore, with anxious forebodings that they lay down to rest that night, and Paul’s prayer for strength and guidance was more fervent than usual.
About this period of the year changes of temperature are sometimes very abrupt, and their consequences curious. During the night frost had again set in with great intensity. Fatigue had compelled the party to sleep longer than usual, despite their anxiety to press forward, and when they awoke the rays of the rising sun were sweeping over the whole landscape, and revealing, as well as helping to create, a scene of beauty which is seldom, if ever, witnessed elsewhere.
When rain falls with a low thermometer near the earth it becomes frozen the moment it reaches the ground, and thus a regular deposit of pure glassy ice takes place on every branch and twig of the leafless shrubs and trees. The layer of ice goes on increasing, sometimes, till it attains the thickness of half an inch or more. Thus, in a few hours, a magical transformation is brought about. The trees seem to be hung with glittering jewels; the larger limbs are edged with dazzling ice-ropes; the minutest twigs with threads of gleaming crystal, and all this, with the sun shooting on and through it, presents a scene of splendour before which even our most vivid conceptions of fairy-land must sink into comparative insignificance.
Such, then, was the vision presented to the gaze of the rescue party on awaking that morning. To some of them it was a new revelation of the wonderful works of God. To Hendrick and the Indian it was familiar enough. The Newfoundlanders of modern times know it well by the name of a “silver thaw.”
After the first gaze of surprise and admiration, our travellers made hasty preparation to resume the journey, and the frost told beneficially on them in more ways than one, for while it hardened the ground it rendered the atmosphere clear and exhilarating, thus raising their spirits and their hopes, which tended greatly to increase their power of action and endurance.
That night they encamped again on a commanding height, and prepared supper with the hopeful feelings of men who expect to gain the end of their journey on the morrow.
As if to cheer them still more, the aurora borealis played in the heavens that night with unwonted magnificence. It is said that the northern lights are grander in Newfoundland even than in the Arctic regions. At all events they were finer than anything of the kind that had ever before been seen by Paul Burns or Captain Trench and his son, insomuch that the sight filled them with feelings of awe.
The entire heavens seemed to be ablaze from horizon to zenith, not as with the lurid fires of a great conflagration, which might suggest only the idea of universal devastation, but with the tender sheen of varied half-tints, playfully shooting athwart and intermingling with brighter curtains of light of every conceivable hue.
The repose of the party was somewhat interfered with by the wonders that surrounded them that night, and more than once they were startled from slumber by the loud report of great limbs of trees, which, strong though they seemed to be, were torn off by the load of ice that had accumulated on them.
Daybreak found the party again passing swiftly over the land. It really seemed as if even the boys had received special strength for the occasion, for they neither lagged behind nor murmured, but kept well up during the whole forced march. No doubt that youthful enthusiasm to which Captain Trench had referred kept Olly up to the mark, while Osky—as his friend called him—had been inured to hard labour of every kind from infancy.
At last, about noon that day, their leader came to a sudden halt, and pointed to something on the ground before him.
“What does he see?” asked Paul, in a low voice.
“Footprints,” said Hendrick.
“What of—deer?” asked the captain, in a hoarse whisper.
“No—natives. Perhaps his friends.”
While they were whispering, the Indian was on his knees examining the footprints in question. Rising after a few minutes’ survey, with a grave look he said—
“Strongbow is not sure. The prints look like those of his tribe, but—he is not sure!”
“At all events we can follow them,” said Hendrick. “The land is open; we cannot easily be surprised, and we have our weapons handy.”
As he spoke he drew an arrow from his quiver, and, affixing the notch to the bow-string, carried the weapon in his left hand. The others followed his example. Oliver felt his belt behind, to make sure that the axe was there, and glanced at the mighty club that hung from his shoulder.
Oscar, regarding with a slight degree of wonder the warlike arrangements of his friend, also fitted an arrow to his little bow, and then, with cautious steps and inquiring glances, the party continued to advance.
But Hendrick was wrong in supposing that a surprise was not probable, for suddenly from behind a frowning rock or cliff there appeared a band of armed men who confronted them, and instantly raised their bows to shoot. Quick as lightning the white men did the same. Evidently both parties were taken by surprise, for if the Indians had been a party in ambush they would have shot at the others without showing themselves. This or some such idea seemed to flash into the minds of both parties, for there was a slight hesitation on the part of each. Just at that moment a large black dog which accompanied the Indians, and had displayed all its formidable teeth and gums on seeing the strangers, was observed to cover its teeth and wag its tail interrogatively.
Hendrick gave a low whistle.
Instantly the dog bounded towards him, and began to fawn and leap upon and around him with every demonstration of excessive joy, at sight of which both parties lowered their weapons.
“The dog is an old friend,” explained Hendrick to Paul. “Good dog,” he added, addressing the animal in the Indian tongue, “you are a faithful friend—faithful in time of need.”
Then, dropping his bow and advancing unarmed to the Indians, he said—
“This dog belongs to the Bethucks of Grand Lake. Did you obtain him from them?”
“No, we did not,” replied one of the Indians, who seemed from his bearing to be a chief, “but we are kinsmen of the men of Grand Lake. One of their braves, Little Beaver, took one of our girls, Rising Sun, for his wife. We come from yonder (pointing northward). Some moons have passed since Little Beaver, who came to revisit us with his wife, left us to return to his wigwam on Grand Lake.”
“I know Little Beaver well,” said Hendrick, as the chief paused at this point; “the dog belongs to him.”
Without noticing the remark the chief continued—
“When Little Beaver and Rising Sun left us they went on alone by the shores of the great salt lake. We never saw our brave in life again. Some time after, a party of our warriors came upon a grave. They examined it, and found the dead body of Little Beaver. It was bruised, and many bones were broken. A party of white men had built lodges near to the place. It was they who had murdered Little Beaver, we knew, for there was no sign of others near, and his dog was with them. So our braves went to the kinsmen of Rising Sun, and we returned and attacked the palefaces.”
“Did you slay all the palefaces?” asked Hendrick anxiously.
“No, some we slew, others we took prisoners.”
Hendrick thought it best to reserve in the meantime his communication of all this to Paul and his friends.
“I am your kinsman also,” he said to the chief, “for Trueheart is my wife. I have much to say to you, but our business is pressing. Will you walk with me while we talk?”
The chief bowed his head, and ordered his party to fall to the rear and follow, while he walked in advance with the pale-faced hunter.
Hendrick then explained to the Indian as much about the wreck of the Water Wagtail and the dismissal of Captain Trench and his comrades as he thought necessary, and then said that although his three friends were indignant at the treatment they had received from their comrades, they would be grieved to hear that any of them were to be killed, and he greatly wished to prevent that. “Would the chief guide him to the place where the prisoners were?”
“I will guide you,” said the chief, “but you will find it hard to save them. Palefaces have slain Little Beaver and stolen Rising Sun, and palefaces must die.”
Chapter Twenty One.
Old Friends in a Sad Plight
Anxious though Paul Burns naturally was for the fate of the crew of the Water Wagtail, he could not help being interested in and impressed by the fine country which he was thus unexpectedly obliged to traverse. His mind being of a practical and utilitarian cast, as well as religious, he not only admired the grand and richly diversified land as being part of the works of God, but as being eminently suitable for the use and enjoyment of man.
“Look there,” he said to Captain Trench, as they plodded steadily along, at the same time pointing to a break in a neighbouring cliff which revealed the geological features of the land. “Do you see yonder beds of rock of almost every colour in the rainbow? These are marble-beds, and from the look of the parts that crop out I should say they are extensive.”
“But not of much use,” returned the captain, “so long as men are content to house themselves in huts of bark and skins.”
“So might some short-sighted mortal among our own savage forefathers have said long ago if the mineral wealth of Britain had been pointed out to him,” returned Paul. “Yet we have lived to see the Abbey of Westminster and many other notable edifices arise in our land.”
“Then you look forward to such-like rising in this land?” said the captain, with something of a cynical smile.
“Well, not exactly, Master Trench; but our grandchildren may see them, if men will only colonise the land and strive to develop its resources on Christian principles.”
“Such as—?” asked Trench.
“Such as the doing to others as one would have others do to one’s-self, and the enacting of equal laws for rich and poor.”
“Then will Newfoundland never be developed,” said the captain emphatically; “for history tells us that the bulk of men have never been guided by such principles since the days of Adam.”
“Since when were you enrolled among the prophets, Master Trench?”
“Since you uttered the previous sentence, Master Paul. I appeal to your own knowledge of history.”
“Nay, I question not your historical views, but your prophetical statements, as to the fate of this island. Have you not heard of this writing—that ‘the knowledge of the Lord shall cover the earth as the waters cover the sea?’ Does not that signify completeness in the spread of knowledge? And when that comes to pass, will it bear no good fruit? If not, why is it recorded as a blessed state of things to which we may look forward, and towards which we may strive? I admit that the wickedness of man may delay the desired end. Unjust laws, interference with freedom of action, hatred of truth, may check progress here as it has done elsewhere; but who can tell how soon the truth, as it is in Jesus, may begin to operate, or how rapidly it may culminate?”