Part 22 (1/2)
”At all events, let us bring her in at once,” said Mr. Campbell. ”I will first see if my surgical a.s.sistance can be of use, and after that we will do what we can for her. How far from this did you find her?”
”About eight miles,” replied Henry; ”and Alfred has carried her almost the whole way; Martin and I have relieved each other, except once, when I took Alfred's place.”
”And so you perceive, Emma, instead of a wild turkey I have brought an Indian squaw,” said Alfred.
”I love you better for your kindness, Alfred,” replied Emma, ”than if you had brought me a wagon-load of turkeys.”
In the meantime, Martin and Henry brought in the poor Indian, and laid her down on the floor at some distance from the fire, for though she was nearly dead with the cold, too sudden an exposure to heat would have been almost equally fatal. Mr. Campbell examined her ankle, and with a little a.s.sistance reduced the dislocation. He then bound up her leg and bathed it with warm vinegar, as a first application. Mrs. Campbell and the two girls chafed the poor creature's limbs till the circulation was a little restored, and then they gave her something warm to drink. It was proposed by Mrs. Campbell that they should make up a bed for her on the floor of the kitchen. This was done in a corner near the fire-place, and in about an hour their patient fell into a sound sleep.
”It is lucky for her that she did not fall into that sleep before we found her,” said Martin; ”she would never have awoke again.”
”Most certainly not,” replied Mr. Campbell. ”Have you any idea what tribe she is of, Martin?”
”Yes, sir; she is one of the Chippeways; there are many divisions of them, but I will find out when she awakes again to which she belongs; she was too much exhausted when we found her, to say much.”
”It appears very inhuman leaving her to perish in that way,” observed Mrs. Campbell.
”Well, ma'am, so it does; but necessity has no law. The Indians could not, if they would, have carried her, perhaps one hundred miles. It would have probably been the occasion of more deaths, for the cold is too great now for sleeping out at nights for any time, although they do contrive with the help of a large fire to stay out sometimes.”
”Self-preservation is the first law of nature, certainly,” observed Mr.
Campbell; ”but, if I recollect right the savage does not value the life of a woman very highly.”
”That's a fact, sir,” replied Martin; ”not much more, I reckon, than you would a beast of burden.”
”It is always the case among savage nations,” observed Mr. Campbell; ”the first mark of civilization is the treatment of the other s.e.x, and in proportion as civilization increases, so are the women protected and well used. But your supper is ready, my children, and I think after your fatigue and fasting you must require it.”
”I am almost too tired to eat,” observed Alfred, ”I shall infinitely more enjoy a good sleep under my bear skin. At the same time I'll try what I can do,” continued he, laughing, and taking his seat at table.
Notwithstanding Alfred's observation, he contrived to make a very hearty supper, and Emma laughed at his appet.i.te after his professing that he had so little inclination to eat.
”I said I was too tired to eat, Emma, and so I felt at the time; but as I became more refreshed my appet.i.te returned,” replied Alfred, laughing, ”and notwithstanding your jeering me, I mean to eat some more.”
”How long has John been away?” said Mr. Campbell.
”Now nearly a fortnight,” observed Mrs. Campbell; ”he promised to come here Christmas-day. I suppose we shall see him to-morrow morning.”
”Yes, ma'am; and old Bone will come with him, I dare say. He said as much to me when he was going away the last time. He observed that the boy could not bring the venison, and perhaps _he_ would if he had any, for he knows that people like plenty of meat on Christmas day.”
”I wonder whether old Malachi is any way religious,” observed Mary. ”Do you think he is, Martin?”
”Yes, ma'am; I think he feels it, but does not show it. I know from myself what are, probably, his feelings on the subject. When I have been away for weeks and sometimes for months, without seeing or speaking to any one, all alone in the woods, I feel more religious than I do when at Quebec on my return, although I do go to church. Now old Malachi has, I think, a solemn reverence for the Divine Being, and strict notions of duty, so far as he understands it,--but as he never goes to any town or mixes with any company, so the rites of religion, as I may call them, and the observances of the holy feast, are lost to him, except as a sort of dream of former days, before he took to his hunter's life. Indeed, he seldom knows what day or even what month it is. He knows the seasons as they come and go, and that's all. One day is the same as another, and he can not tell which is Sunday, for he is not able to keep a reckoning.
Now, ma'am, when you desired Master John to be at home on the Friday fortnight because it was Christmas-day, I perceived old Malachi in deep thought: he was recalling to mind what Christmas-day was; if you had not mentioned it, the day would have pa.s.sed away like any other; but you reminded him, and then it was that he said he would come if he could.
I'm sure that now he knows it is Christmas-day, he intends to keep it as such.”
”There is much truth in what Martin says,” observed Mr. Campbell; ”we require the seventh day in the week and other stated seasons of devotion to be regularly set apart, in order to keep us in mind of our duties and preserve the life of religion. In the woods, remote from communion with other Christians, these things are easily forgotten, and when once we have lost our calculation, it is not to be recovered. But come, Alfred and Henry and Martin must be very tired, and we had better all go to bed. I will sit up a little while to give some drink to my patient, if she wishes it. Good-night, my children.”
CHAPTER XXI.