Kitabı oku: «The Red Man's Revenge: A Tale of The Red River Flood», sayfa 11

“Vat shall ye do vidout bot or canoe?”

Rollin’s question was not heeded, for at that moment two canoes were seen in the distance coming from the direction of Lake Winnipeg. One was paddled by an Indian, the other by a squaw and a boy. They made straight for the spot where our travellers were standing. As they drew near, Victor hailed them. The boy in the bow of the foremost canoe was observed to cease paddling. As he drew nearer, his eyes were seen to blaze, and eager astonishment was depicted on his painted face. When the canoe touched land he leaped of it, and, with a yell that would have done credit to the wildest redskin in the prairie, rushed at Victor, leaped into his arms, and, shouting “Vic! Vic!” besmeared his face with charcoal, ochre, vermilion, and kisses!

To say that Victor was taken by surprise would be feeble language. Of course he prepared for self-defence, at the first furious rush, but the shout of “Vic!” opened his eyes; he not only submitted to be kissed, but returned the embrace with tenfold interest, and mixed up the charcoal, ochre, and vermilion with his mouth and pose and Tony’s tears of joy.

Oh, it was an amazing sight, the meeting of these brothers. It is hard to say whether the eyes or the mouth of the onlookers opened widest. Petawanaquat was the only one who retained his composure. The eyes of Meekeye were moistened despite her native stoicism, but her husband stood erect with a grave sad countenance, and his blanket folded, with his arms in classic fashion, on his breast. As for Rollin, he became, and remained for some time, a petrifaction of amazement.

When the first burst was over, Victor turned to Petawanaquat, and as he looked at his stern visage a dark frown settled on his own, and he felt a clenching of his fists, as he addressed the Indian in his native tongue.

“What made you take him away?” he demanded indignantly.

“Revenge,” answered the red man, with dignified calmness.

“And what induces you now to bring him back?” asked Victor, in some surprise.

“Forgiveness,” answered Petawanaquat.

For a few moments Victor gazed at the calm countenance of the Indian in silent surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked, with a puzzled look.

“Listen,” replied the Indian slowly. “Petawanaquat loves revenge. He has tasted revenge. It is sweet, but the Indian has discovered a new fountain. The old white father thirsts for his child. Does not the white man’s Book say, ‘If your enemy thirst, give him drink?’ The red man brings Tonyquat back in order that he may heap coals of fire on the old white father’s head. The Great Spirit has taught Petawanaquat that forgiveness is sweeter than revenge.”

He stopped abruptly. Victor still looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“Well,” he said, smiling slightly, “I have no doubt that my father will forgive you, now that you have brought back the child.”

A gleam, which seemed to have a touch of scorn in it, shot from the Indian’s eye as he rejoined—

“When Petawanaquat brings back Tonyquat, it is a proof that he forgives the old white father.”

This was all that the Indian would condescend to say. The motives which had decided him to return good for evil were too hazy and complex for him clearly to understand, much less explain. He took refuge, therefore, in dignified silence.

Victor was too happy in the recovery of his brother to push the investigation further, or to cherish feelings of ill-will. He therefore went up to the Indian, and, with a smile of candour on his face, held out his hand, which the latter grasped and shook, exclaiming “Wat-chee!” under the belief that these words formed an essential part of every white man’s salutation.

This matter had barely been settled when a man came out of the woods and approached them. He was one of the Red River settlers, but personally unknown to any of them. From him they heard of the condition of the settlement. Of course they asked many eager questions about their own kindred after he had mentioned the chief points of the disastrous flood.

“And what of my father, Samuel Ravenshaw?” asked Victor anxiously.

“What! the old man at Willow Creek, whose daughter is married to Lambert?”

“Married to Lambert!” exclaimed Ian, turning deadly pale.

“Ay, or engaged to be, I’m not sure which,” replied the man. “Oh, he’s all right. The Willow Creek house stands too high to be washed away. The family still lives in it—in the upper rooms.”

“And Angus Macdonald, what of him?” asked Ian.

“An’ ma mère—my moder, ole Liz Rollin, an’ ole Daddy, has you hear of dem?” demanded Rollin.

At the mention of old Liz the man’s face became grave.

“Angus Macdonald and his sister,” he said, “are well, and with the Ravenshaws, I believe, or at the Little Mountain, their house being considered in danger; but old Liz Rollin,” he added, turning to the anxious half-breed, “has been carried away with her hut, nobody knows where. They say that her old father and the mother of Winklemann have gone along with her.”

Words cannot describe the state of mind into which this information threw poor Michel Rollin. He insisted on seizing one of the canoes and setting off at once. As his companions were equally anxious to reach their flooded homes an arrangement was soon come to. Petawanaquat put Tony into the middle of his canoe with Victor, while Ian took the bow paddle. Michel took the steering paddle of the other canoe, and Meekeye seated herself in the bow.

Thus they launched out upon the waters of the flood, and, bidding adieu to the settler who had given them such startling information, were soon paddling might and main in the direction of the settlement.

Chapter Twenty One.
Return of the Lost One

It chanced that, on the morning of the arrival of Victor and his comrades at the margin of the flood, Peegwish went a-fishing.

That astute Indian was fond of fishing. It suited his tastes and habits; it was an art which was admirably adapted to his tendencies. Peegwish was, naturally as well as by training, lazy, and what could be more congenial to a lazy man than a “gentle art” which involved nothing more than sitting on a river bank smoking a pipe and awaiting a bite? It had a spice of intellectuality about it too, for did it not foster a spirit of meditation, contemplation, and even of philosophical speculation—when he chanced to be awake? Moreover, it saved him from harder labour, and shut the mouths of those ill-natured people who objected to drones, and had a tendency to reproach them, for was he not assiduously procuring for men and women a portion of that nourishment without which labour would be impossible?

The peculiar action of the flood had favoured Peegwish in regard to his beloved art, for, whereas in former days he was obliged to get up from his lair and go down to the river bank to fish, now he had nothing more to do than open the window and cast out his line, and Wildcat was close at hand to fetch him a light when his pipe chanced to go out, which it frequently did, for the red old savage slept much. When, therefore, we say that Peegwish went a-fishing, it must be understood that he merely left his seat by the stove in the upper room at Willow Creek and opened the window.

Wildcat was as fond of fishing as her brother, but there were a few difficulties in her way which did not exist in his. Water had to be drawn, wood to be chopped, moccasins and leggings and coats to be made, as well as meals to be cooked. She was, therefore, compelled to fish in moderation.

“Bring a light,” said Peegwish, in that tone of mild entreaty with which he was wont to make his wants known.

There being no one else in the room at the moment, Wildcat obeyed.

Peegwish looked into the room for a moment, and extended his left hand for the piece of lighted stick; with his right hand he held his line. Suddenly that hand received an amazing tug. Peegwish unintentionally scattered the firebrand, dropped his pipe from his lips, and uttered a shout, while with both hands he held on to the jerking line.

One of Mr Ravenshaw’s largest pigs had been swept out of the outhouse lofts. Struggling with the stream, he passed under the window of the storeroom, and came across the line of Peegwish with his tail. Every one must be familiar with the tendency of tails in general to shut down when touched. The unfortunate pig obeyed the natural law, and the line continued to slip until the hook was reached, when, of course, the natural result followed. There could be no hope of escape, for the tail was remarkably tough and the line strong. Peegwish held on stoutly. Wildcat lent her aid. The jerking on the tail depressed the snout of the pig, whose shrieks, being thus varied by intermittent gurgles, rendered the noise more appalling, and quickly drew the whole household to the windows.

Unfortunately there were none there but women—Mr Ravenshaw and the other men being still absent with the boat. The canoe had also been sent off that morning for a load of firewood, so that the only way of relieving the pig was to haul him in at the window. But he was too heavy to be thus treated, and as Peegwish did not wish to break his line and lose his hook he could only hold on in despair, while Elsie and Cora, with their mother and Wildcat, stood by helpless and horrified, yet amused, by the novelty of the situation and the frightful noise.

While this scene was being enacted at Willow Greek, Victor, with the recovered Tony and the rest of them, were drawing quickly near.

Deeply though the hearts of most of these wanderers were filled with anxious fears, they could not help being impressed with the scenes of desolation—deserted and submerged homesteads, wreck and ruin—through which they passed. At one moment the two canoes were skimming over the waters of a boundless lake; at another they were winding out and in among the trees of a submerged bit of woodland. Presently they found themselves among house tops, and had to proceed cautiously for fear of sunken fences, and then out they swept again over the wide sheet of water, where the once familiar prairie lay many feet below.

The maple-trees were by that time in full leaf, and the rich green verdure of bush and tree was bursting out on all sides, when not submerged. Swallows skimmed about in hundreds, dipping the tips of their blue wings in the flood, as though to test its reality, while flocks of little yellow birds—like canaries, but rather larger, with more black on their wings—flitted from bush to tree or from isle to isle. The month of May in those regions is styled the “flower month,” and June the “heart-berry month,” but flowers and heart-berries were alike drowned out that year in Red River of the North, and none of the wonted perfumes of the season regaled the noses of our voyagers as they returned home.

“There they are at last!” exclaimed Victor, with sparkling eyes, “the elms on the knoll. D’ye see them, Tony? I do believe I see the smoking-box. But for the bushes we might see the chimneys of Willow Creek.”

Tony’s excitement was great, but the effect of his late training was seen in the suppression of all feeling, save that which escaped through the eyes. Paint and charcoal concealed the flush on his cheeks effectually.

“Tonyquat sees,” he replied.

Victor received this with a loud laugh, but Tony, although annoyed, did not lose his dignity, which the red man in the stern of the canoe observed with a look of pride and satisfaction.

Michel Rollin, in the other canoe, close alongside, was observed to hold up his hand.

“Hush!” he said, turning his head as if to listen. “I do hear someting—someting not meloderous.”

“Is it melliferous, then?” asked Vic, with a smile.

But Rollin made no reply. He was far from jesting, poor fellow, at that moment. The thought of his old mother and grandfather, and fears as to their fate, weighed heavily on his heart, and took all the fun out of him.

“It sounds like pigs,” said Ian.

“Oui. Dey be killin’ porkers,” said Rollin, with a nod, as he dipped his paddle again and pushed on.

As they drew near, the excitement of the voyagers increased, so did their surprise at the prolonged and furious shrieking. Gradually the vigour of their strokes was strengthened, until they advanced at racing speed. Finally, they swept round the corner of the old house at Willow Creek, and burst upon the gaze of its inhabitants, while Peegwish and the pig were at the height of their struggles.

Mrs Ravenshaw chanced to be the first to observe them.

“Ian Macdonald!” she shouted, for his form in the bow of the leading canoe was the most conspicuous.

“Victor!” cried the sisters, with a scream that quite eclipsed the pig.

They rushed to another window, under which the canoes were pulled up.

“Oh! Victor, Victor,” cried Mrs Ravenshaw, with a deadly faintness at her heart; “you haven’t found—”

“Mother!” cried Tony, casting off his Indian reserve and starting up with a hysterical shout, “Mother!”

“Tony!” exclaimed everybody in the same breath, for they all knew his voice, though they did not believe their eyes.

It was only four feet or so from the canoe to the window. Mrs Ravenshaw leaned over and seized Tony’s uplifted hands. Elsie and Cora lent assistance. A light vault, and Tony went in at the window, from which immediately issued half-stifled cries of joy. At that moment Peegwish uttered a terrible roar, as he fell back into the room with the broken line in his hand, accidentally driving Wildcat into a corner. A last supreme effort had been made by the pig. He had broken the hook, and went off with a final shriek of triumph.

Thus, amid an appropriate whirlwind of confusion, noise, and disaster, was the long-lost Tony restored to his mother’s arms!

Seated calmly in the stern of his canoe, Petawanaquat observed the scene with a look of profound gravity. His revenge was complete! He had returned to his enemy the boy of whom he had become so fond that he felt as though Tony really were his own son. He had bowed his head to the dictates of an enlightened conscience. He had returned good for evil. A certain feeling of deep happiness pervaded the red man’s heart, but it was accompanied, nevertheless, by a vague sense of bereavement and sadness which he could not shake off just then.

Quite as calmly and as gravely sat Ian Macdonald. His eyes once more beheld Elsie, the angel of his dreams, but he had no right to look upon her now with the old feelings. Her troth was plighted to Lambert. It might be that they were already married! though he could not bring himself to believe that; besides, he argued, hoping against hope, if such were the case, Elsie would not be living with her father’s family. No, she was not yet married, he felt sure of that; but what mattered it? A girl whose heart was true as steel could never be won from the man to whom she had freely given herself. No, there was no hope; and poor Ian sat there in silent despair, with no sign, however, of the bitter thoughts within on his grave, thoughtful countenance.

Not less gravely sat Michel Rollin in the stern of his canoe. No sense of the ludicrous was left in his anxious brain. He had but one idea, and that was—old Liz! With some impatience he waited until the ladies inside the house were able to answer his queries about his mother. No sooner did he obtain all the information they possessed than he transferred Meekeye to her husband’s canoe, and set off alone in the other to search for the lost hut—as Winklemann had done before him.

Meanwhile the remainder of the party were soon assembled in the family room on the upper floor, doing justice to an excellent meal, of which most of them stood much in need.

“Let me wash that horrid stuff off your face, darling, before you sit down,” said Miss Trim to Tony.

The boy was about to comply, but respect for the feelings of his Indian father caused him to hesitate. Perhaps the memory of ancient rebellion was roused by the old familiar voice, as he replied—

“Tonyquat loves his war-paint. It does not spoil his appetite.”

It was clear from a twinkle in Tony’s eye, and a slight motion in his otherwise grave face, that, although this style of language now came quite naturally to him, he was keeping it up to a large extent on purpose.

“Tonyquat!” exclaimed Mrs Ravenshaw, aghast with surprise, “what does the child mean?”

“I’ll say Tony, mother, if you like it better,” he said, taking his mother’s hand.

“He’s become a redskin,” said Victor, half-amused, half-anxious.

“Tony,” said Miss Trim, whose heart yearned towards her old but almost unrecognisable pupil, “don’t you remember how we used to do lessons together and play sometimes?”

“And fight?” added Cora, with a glance at Ian, which caused Elsie to laugh.

“Tonyquat does not forget,” replied the boy, with profound gravity. “He remembers the lessons and the punishments. He also remembers dancing on the teacher’s bonnet and scratching the teacher’s nose!”

This was received with a shout of delighted laughter, for in it the spirit of the ancient Tony was recognised.

But Ian Macdonald did not laugh. He scarcely spoke except when spoken to. He seemed to have no appetite, and his face was so pale from his long illness that he had quite the air of a sick man.

“Come, Ian, why don’t you eat? Why, you look as white as you did after the grizzly had clawed you all over.”

This remark, and the bear-claw collar on the youth’s neck, drew forth a question or two, but Ian was modest. He could not be induced to talk of his adventure, even when pressed to do so by Elsie.

“Come, then, if you won’t tell it I will,” said Victor; and thereupon he gave a glowing account of the great fight with the bear, the triumphant victory, and the long illness, which had well-nigh terminated fatally.

“But why did you not help him in the hunt?” asked Elsie of Victor, in a tone of reproach.

“Because he wouldn’t let us; the reason why is best known to himself. Perhaps native obstinacy had to do with it.”

“It was a passing fancy; a foolish one, perhaps, or a touch of vanity,” said Ian, with a smile, “but it is past now, and I have paid for it.—Did you make fast the canoe?” he added, turning abruptly to the Indian, who was seated on his buffalo robe by the stove.

Without waiting for an answer he rose and descended the staircase to the passage, where poor Miss Trim had nearly met a watery grave.

Here the canoe was floating, and here he found one of the domestics.

“Has the wedding come off yet?” he asked in a low, but careless, tone, as he stooped to examine the fastening of the canoe.

“What wedding?” said the domestic, with a look of surprise.

“Why, the wedding of Mr Ravenshaw’s daughter.”

“Oh no, Mr Ian. It would be a strange time for a wedding. But it’s all fixed to come off whenever the flood goes down. And she do seem happy about it. You see, sir, they was throw’d a good deal together here of late, so it was sort of natural they should make it up, and the master he is quite willin’.”

This was enough. Ian Macdonald returned to the room above with the quiet air of a thoughtful schoolmaster and the callous solidity of a human petrifaction. Duty and death were the prominent ideas stamped upon his soul. He would not become reckless or rebellious. He would go through life doing his duty, and, when the time came, he would die!

They were talking, of course, about the flood when he returned and sat down.

Elsie was speaking. Ian was immediately fascinated as he listened to her telling Victor, with graphic power, some details of the great disaster—how dwellings and barns and stores had been swept away, and property wrecked everywhere, though, through the mercy of God, no lives had been lost. All this, and a great deal more, did Elsie and Cora and Mrs Ravenshaw dilate upon, until Ian almost forgot his resolve.

Suddenly he remembered it. He also remembered that his father’s house still existed, though it was tenantless, his father and Miss Martha having gone up to see friends at the Mountain.

“Come, Vic,” he exclaimed, starting up, “I must go home. The old place may be forsaken, but it is not the less congenial on that account. Come.”

Victor at once complied; they descended to the canoe, pushed out from the passage, and soon crossed the flood to Angus Macdonald’s dwelling.