Part 9 (1/2)
Louis steps forward from the shadow of the pine branches to the edge of the inclined plane in the foreground. The slow tread of approaching steps is now distinctly heard advancing; it may be a deer.
Two figures approach, and Louis moves a little within the shadow again. A clear shrill whistle meets his ear. It is Hector's whistle, he knows that, and a.s.sured by its cheerful tone, he springs forward, and in an instant is at his side, but starts at the strange companion that he half leads, half carries. The moonlight streams broad and bright upon the shrinking figure of an Indian girl apparently about the same age as Catharine: her ashy face is concealed by the long ma.s.s of raven black hair which falls like a dark veil over her features; her step is weak and unsteady, and she seems ready to sink to the earth with sickness or fatigue. Hector, too, seems weary. The first words that Hector said were, ”Help me, Louis, to lead this poor girl to the foot of the pine: I am so tired I can hardly walk another step.”
Louis and his cousin together carried the Indian girl to the foot of the pine. Catharine was just rousing herself from sleep, and she gazed with a bewildered air on the strange companion that Hector had brought with him. The stranger lay down, and in a few minutes sank into a sleep so profound it seemed to resemble that of death itself. Pity and deep interest soon took the place of curiosity and dread in the heart of the gentle Catharine, and she watched the young stranger's slumber as tenderly as though she had been a sister or beloved friend, while Hector proceeded to relate in what manner he had encountered the Indian girl.
”When I struck the high slope near the little birch grove we called the '_Birken Skaw_,' I paused to examine if the council-fires were still burning on Bare Hill; but there was no smoke visible, neither was there a canoe to be seen at the lake sh.o.r.e where Louis had described their landing-place at the mouth of the creek. All seemed as silent and still as if no human footstep had trodden the sh.o.r.e. I sat down and watched for nearly an hour, till my attention was attracted by a n.o.ble eagle, which was sailing in wide circles over the tall pine-trees on Bare Hill. a.s.sured that the Indian camp was broken up, and feeling some curiosity to examine the spot more closely, I crossed the thicket of cranberries and cedars and small underwood that fringed the borders of the little stream, and found myself, after a little pus.h.i.+ng and scrambling, among the bushes at the foot of the hill.
”I thoughts it not impossible I might find something to repay me for my trouble, flint arrowheads, a knife, or a tomahawk; but I little thought of what these cruel savages had left there,--a miserable wounded captive, bound by the long locks of her hair to the stem of a small tree! Her hands and feet were fastened by thongs of deer-skin to branches of the tree, which had been bent downward for that purpose.
Her position was a most painful one. She had evidently been thus left to perish by a miserable death of hunger and thirst; for these savages, with a fiendish cruelty, had placed within sight of their victim an earthen jar of water, some dried deers' flesh, and a cob [Footnote: A head of the maize, or Indian corn, is called a ”cob.”] of Indian corn. I have the corn here,” he added, putting his hand in his breast and displaying it to view.
”Wounded she was, for I drew this arrow from her shoulder,” and he showed the flint head as he spoke, ”and fettered. With food and drink in sight the poor girl was to perish, perhaps to become a living prey to the eagle that I saw wheeling above the hill-top. The poor thing's lips were black and parched with pain and thirst. She turned her eyes piteously from my face to the water-jar, as if to implore a draught.
This I gave her; and then having cooled the festering wound, and cut the thongs that bound her, I wondered that she still kept the same immovable att.i.tude, and thinking she was stiff and cramped with remaining so long bound in one position, I took her two hands and tried to induce her to move. I then for the first time noticed that she was tied by the hair of her head to the tree against which her back was placed. I was obliged to cut the hair with my knife; and this I did not do without giving her pain, as she moaned impatiently. She sank her head on her breast, and large tears fell over my hands as I bathed her face and neck with the water from the jar. She then seated herself on the ground, and remained silent and still for the s.p.a.ce of an hour; nor could I prevail upon her to speak, or quit the seat she had taken. Fearing that the Indians might return, I watched in all directions, and at last I began to think it would be best to carry her in my arms; but this I found no easy task, for she seemed greatly distressed at any attempt I made to lift her, and by her gestures I fancied she thought I was going to kill her. At least my patience began to be exhausted, but I did not like to annoy her. I spoke to her as gently and soothingly as I could. By degrees she seemed to listen with more composure to me, though she evidently knew not a word of what I said to her. She rose at last, and taking my hands, placed them above her head, stooping low as she did so; and this seemed to mean she was willing at last to submit to my wishes. I lifted her from the ground and carried her for some little way; but she was too heavy for me. She then suffered me to lead her along whithersoever I would take her; but her steps were so slow and feeble through weakness, that many times I was compelled to rest while she recovered herself. She seems quite subdued now, and as quiet as a lamb.”
Catharine listened, not without tears of genuine sympathy, to the recital of her brother's adventures. She seemed to think he had been inspired by G.o.d to go forth that day to the Indian camp to rescue the poor forlorn one from so dreadful a death.
Louis's sympathy was also warmly aroused for the young savage, and he commended Hector for his bravery and humanity.
He then set to work to light a good fire, which was a great addition to their comfort as well as cheerfulness. They did not go back to their cave beneath the upturned trees to sleep, preferring lying, with their feet to the fire, under the shade of the pine. Louis, however, was despatched for water and venison for supper.
The following morning, by break of day, they collected their stores, and conveyed them back to the shanty. The boys were thus employed while Catharine watched beside the wounded Indian girl, whom she tended with the greatest care. She bathed the inflamed arm with water, and bound, the cool healing leaves of the _tacamahac_ [Footnote: Indian balsam.] about it with the last fragment of her ap.r.o.n; she steeped dried berries in water, and gave the cooling drink to quench the fever-thirst that burned in her veins and glittered in her full soft melancholy dark eyes, which were raised at intervals to the race of her youthful nurse with a timid hurried glance, as if she longed yet feared to say, ”Who are you that thus tenderly bathe my aching head, and strive to soothe my wounded limbs, and cool my fevered blood? Are you a creature like myself, or a being sent by the Great Spirit from the far-off happy land to which my fathers have gone, to smooth my path of pain, and lead me to those blessed fields of sunbeams and flowers where the cruelty of the enemies of my people will no more have power to torment me?”
CHAPTER VI
”Here the wren of softest note Builds its nest and warbles well, Here the blackbird strains his throat Welcome, welcome to our cell.”
--COLERIDGE.
The day was far advanced before the sick Indian girl could be brought home to their sylvan lodge, where Catharine made up a comfortable couch for her with boughs and gra.s.s, and spread one of the deer-skins over it, and laid her down as tenderly and carefully as if she had been a dear sister. This good girl was overjoyed at having found a companion of her own age and s.e.x. ”Now,” said she, ”I shall no more be lonely, I shall have a companion and friend to talk to and a.s.sist me.”
But when she turned in the fulness of her heart to address herself to the young stranger, she felt herself embarra.s.sed in what way to make her comprehend the words she used to express the kindness that she felt for her and her sorrow for her sufferings.
The young stranger would raise her head, look intently at her as if striving to interpret her words, then sadly shake her head, and utter her words in her own plaintive language, but, alas! Catharine felt it was to her as a sealed book.
She tried to recall some Indian words of familiar import that she had heard from the Indians when they came to her father's house, but in vain. Not the simplest phrase occurred to her, and she almost cried with vexation at her own stupidity. Neither was Hector or Louis more fortunate in attempts at conversing with their guest.
At the end of three days the fever began to abate; the restless eye grew more steady in its gaze, the dark flush faded from the cheek, leaving it of a gray ashy tint, not the hue of health, such as even the swarthy Indian shows, but wan and pallid, her eyes bent mournfully on the ground.
She would sit quiet and pa.s.sive while Catharine bound up the long tresses of her hair, and smoothed them with her hands and the small wooden comb that Louis had cut for her use. Sometimes she would raise her eyes to her new friend's face with a quiet sad smile, and once she took her hands within her own and gently pressed them to her breast and lips and forehead, in token of grat.i.tude; but she seldom gave utterance to any words, and would remain with her eyes fixed vacantly on some object which seemed unseen, or to awaken no idea in her mind.
At such times the face of the young squaw, wore a dreamy apathy of expression, or rather it might with more propriety have been said the absence of all expression, almost as blank as that of an infant of a few weeks old.
How intently did Catharine study that face, and strive to read what was pa.s.sing within her mind! How did the lively intelligent Canadian girl, the offspring of a more intellectual race, long to instruct her Indian friend, to enlarge her mind by pointing out such things to her attention as she herself took interest in! She would then repeat the name of the object that she showed her several times over, and by degrees the young squaw learned the names of all the familiar household articles about the shanty, and could repeat them in her own soft plaintive tone; and when she had learned a new word, and could p.r.o.nounce it distinctly, she would laugh, and a gleam of innocent joy and pleasure would lighten up her fine dark eyes, generally so fixed and sad-looking.
It was Catharine's delight to teach her pupil to speak a language familiar to her own ears. She would lead her out among the trees, and name to her all the natural objects that presented themselves to view.
And she in her turn mae ”Indiana” (for so they named the young squaw, after a negress that she had heard her father tell of, a nurse to one of his colonel's infant children) tell her the Indian names for each object they saw. Indiana soon began to enjoy in her turn the amus.e.m.e.nt arising from instructing Catharine and the boys, and often seemed to enjoy the blunders they made in p.r.o.nouncing the words she taught them.
When really interested in anything that was going on, her eyes would beam out, and her smile gave an inexpressible charm to her face; for her lips were red, and her teeth even and brilliantly white, so purely white that Catharine thought she had never seen any so beautiful in her life before. At such times her face was joyous and innocent as a little child's; but there were also hours of gloom, that transformed it into an expression of sullen apathy. Then a dull gla.s.sy look took possession of her eye, the full lip drooped and the form seemed rigid and stiff. Obstinate determination neither to move nor speak characterized her in what Louis used to call the young squaw's ”dark hour.” Then it was that the savage nature seemed predominant, and her gentle nurse almost feared to look at her _protegee_ or approach her.