CHAPTER IX.

“But winter has yet brighter scenes, he boasts Splendours beyond what gorgeous summer knows, Or autumn, with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light.”

BRYANT.

Netnokwa, whom we left journeying to the lands of the Wabash, visited the friends whom she was seeking, remained there sometime, and then with her daughter and captive proceeded up far into the regions of the North-west. Several months had elapsed, and the maiden, of whom no tidings had been heard since her capture, might be seen standing in the door of a bark hut, situated on the borders of Rainy Lake, and gazing anxiously out as if expecting the arrival of some one. She was closely muffled up in firs, and with increasing anxiety in her countenance, would ever and anon step forth, and search in every direction the dreary waste. Yet she remained out but a moment, for the snow was falling fast, the earth was already covered to some depth, and the winds as they hurried eddying past, drifted it up in heaps. Forced in by the pitiless storm, she again resumed her situation at the door.

A few months, what changes they sometimes produce! Yes, only a few months had passed, and how changed in appearance was the captive! The joyous expression of countenance which marked her happier days had fled; gone was the beauty which mantled her cheeks, and in its stead, there was melancholy stamped in every feature of her pale and delicate face. Still she was beautiful, or perhaps I should say interesting rather than beautiful. The fire of her dark eyes was undimmed, and when in her anxiety, she moved them restlessly about, they served to light up her pale and settled features, as beautifully as the moon does a fleecy cloud when it passes over its face.

Night was now fast setting in, and still the storm abated not, but rather appeared to drive on with more fury; dreary in the extreme, would have been the prospect even to an old hunter, then doubly so must it have been to our heroine; still she uttered no lament, ventured no accusation against the authors of her misfortune, but continued to search with the eyes of affection, the waste before her.

Netnokwa had not yet reached her place of destination, and being prevented from journeying farther by the intense cold of the weather, had here stopped to wait for a more auspicious season. Her conduct to the captive maiden had been marked in its kindness, and the attention of Miskwa might be regarded as sisterly, so freely, and with so much apparent pleasure did she seem to bestow it. They treated her not as a prisoner, they required no offices of drudgery from her, but supplied all her wants, and endeavoured to make her as comfortable as possible. This disposition on their part to please, sprung up from the meek and unoffending manner of the captive, from the gentleness and timidity which encircled her, and from the uncomplaining silence with which she bore her misfortunes. She was an object of sorrow, and Netnokwa and Miskwa pitied her, and regretted that she had not been permitted to escape to the settlements, and would at that time have restored her to her friends but for the dread fear of calling down upon their head the wrath of the Prophet. Another reason was, that both Netnokwa and Miskwa from their intercourse with the traders in selling their peltries, had learned the meaning of a few English words, which enabled them to comprehend the wants of the captive, and to make themselves acquainted with many of the sad particulars of her story, which, savage as the Indians may generally be deemed, only served to awaken in their breasts feelings of the deepest sympathy.

As I have no fancy for broken dialects, I shall in the further developement of this story, give a free translation to such conversations as may occur between the captive and the two Indians who have her in charge, and if in this I err, my apology must be, that it is done with a hope, that on that account they may prove more interesting to the reader.

As the life of one who depends on the casualties of the chase for support is frequently one of great hardship and suffering, we must not imagine an exemption in the case of Netnokwa and Miskwa, accustomed as they were to the woods, and skilled as was the latter in the use of her bow. No, far from it.

But to return to the captive, situated as we have described her. She was alone. No living thing was at that time an inmate of her lodge, and even if there had been, there were no means of sustaining life. The last particle of food had been eaten hours before, and nothing now remained but a few dried skins. About the centre of the cabin were the embers of a dying fire, which she now proceeded to rebuild. While engaged in this duty, there entered a light, graceful figure, clad in rich skins, which fitted closely, and imparted to their wearer somewhat the appearance of an Indian boy. A small rifle hung at his back, yet a single glance at the delicate formation of his features proclaimed him of a different sex. Gazing around but for an instant, “where is my mother, Sweet Flower?” she said.

“I have not seen her since the morning,” replied the maiden, and a partial gleam of joy shone for an instant on her wasted countenance, upon the entrance of her friend.

“The storm hurries on, the snow is drifting fast in heaps, and mother's blood courses slowly through her veins; I will go seek her.”

“Oh! do not, Miskwa, do not leave me,” cried the maiden, “you can render no service this dark night, and will most probably be lost in the snows. Oh! you know not how anxiously I have watched for you. Now will you leave me? Let us raise a large fire; Netnokwa is wise in her knowledge of the woods, and will be here presently.”

Yielding to the persuasion of the captive, Miskwa laid aside her cap and rifle, and seated herself near the fire. Her dress consisted of a kirtle or short frock, of English manufacture, fitting closely to her chest, and extending down to her knees. Her feet were encased in moccasins beautifully embroidered; the embroidery, the work of her own hands, and tightly laced they displayed the proportions of a foot and ankle which many a fairer face would envy. Her hair was simply parted in front, and drawn behind her ears, it floated loosely over her shoulders. She was beautiful, and withal, she was sprightly, and playful, and seemingly unconscious of her situation.

“Did you kill any game to day, Miskwa?” inquired the captive.

“No,” said Miskwa, “not a foot print have I seen to day. The game is wise, and the falling snow has driven it to its cover.”

“And did you walk far, Miskwa?”

“My path was long. I told thee I saw no foot-print. I mistake; I followed a moose until the falling snow effaced its steps.”

“This is a hard life you lead,” said the captive, “you had better carry me to the settlements. I have friends, and you and your mother shall live with me. Several times, even since I have been with you, have we been near starving, and if this snow storm continues, it will end all our sufferings.”

“Never fear,” said Miskwa. “The red people are children of the Great Spirit, and he will provide for them. The wild woods shall be our home, and I will take care of ‘Sweet Flower.’ I will love her and give her food.”

The captive needed no assurance of this, as far as it lay in the power of Miskwa; for she had already received from her the most devoted marks of affection, and if she now felt a doubt, it was because the figure before her was so slight and delicate that it seemed rather to need assistance than to be capable of affording it to others. Yet, delicate as Miskwa seemed, few were able to undergo more fatigue. In the chase she was not excelled. No one let fly a more unerring arrow, no one shot with a rifle closer to the mark, nor was the bounding roe of the forest more fleet. She owed her acquirements entirely to her mother, who, as before stated, was one of the most remarkable women of her age, and as much noted for her acquaintance with every species of skill which belonged to her race, as she was conspicuous for the clemency and humanity which adorned her character. She was likewise superstitious in a great degree, so much so, that she mingled it with all her acts, and it served to impart a mysterious colouring to her character which only tended to increase her power.

However, the night wore on apace, and still the storm continued. Even Miskwa's apprehensions for her mother began to increase, and she, with the captive, sallied out to examine the state of the weather, and see if any thing would offer itself as the means of relief. But all hope of rendering any assistance was cut off; the night grew darker, and the driving storm indicated that it would be madness to venture.

“Let us return,” said Miskwa, “I will pray to the Great Spirit:—he will preserve me and my mother.”

“With all my heart,” said the captive, “and I too will unite in prayer.”

Having entered the lodge, they had scarcely thrown themselves on their knees, before a noise was heard at the door, and at the same moment, Netnokwa entered, as calm and composed as though her journey had been but an every day occurrence. Shaking the snow from her clothes, she disencumbered herself of some of her garments, drew near the fire, and lit her pipe.

“My children hunger, and have no food,” said she.

“None,” said Miskwa;—“no game has crossed my path to-day:—it heard the storm in the whistling wind, and went to its hiding place.”

“And was Miskwa wise?”

“Miskwa searched for food for her mother; the path was far from her lodge, yet she returned, and reached it before the night grew dark.”

“Thou wer't more wise than thy mother, Miskwa. Her blood is now like a sluggish stream; it creeps slowly. The howling storm spent its force upon the old oak, and racked it to its roots. Had Netnokwa remained out an hour longer, she would not now want food; her spirit would be in the happy hunting grounds with her warriors who have gone before her. What would have become of her children?”

Miskwa renewed the fire, and drawing closer to her mother;—“Miskwa always begs her mother that her path may not be far from her wigwam,—She has seen many years, and should rest. Her daughter will supply her with food.”

“We hunger now,—when morning comes, will it bring forth food?” inquired Netnokwa.

“It will,” said Miskwa;—“the Great Spirit will take care of his children. When morning comes, if Miskwa can find no game, she will break the ice, and catch the dory.”

“Thou art good, my daughter. The Great Spirit will take care of his children who love him. Let us pray to him, and ask him to give us food in the morning. The pale face cannot live so long as we can without food.”

“Be it as the Great Spirit wills,” said the captive, “but I had rather do without it than that you should go out such weather as this to seek it.”

“He that does not seek, shall never find,” said Netnokwa; “the Great Spirit will not help those who do not help themselves.”

She then knelt, and prayed.

Some time was spent in prayer by Netnokwa, and then spreading their pukkwi, and kindling up the fire, they lay around it, and nestling up close to each other, slept away the night.

What a contrast had a few short months exhibited in the fortunes of the captive;—one too so young, so beautiful, and so innocent that one would have deemed her well calculated to disarm even fate of its ire.—Yes, but a few short months had elapsed since she was in the possession of parents, of friends, and the comforts of life. They have passed, and she is an orphan, dwelling in the wilderness, and suffering with want. Yet it was not hunger, nor bodily suffering which caused her melancholy, but the loneliness of her situation, and the gloom which hung over the future, brought up and educated as she had been, and yet doomed to wear out her days in an Indian wigwam.

For some time she slept not, but thought of the past. She was sad, and as the storm hurried howling around her little dwelling, she clung closer to Miskwa, and felt a sympathy, in the driving blast, whose notes touched a chord in unison with her own feelings, and even made her more sad;—yet it was the joy of sorrow! for she contrasted the present with the past, and her mind separating the sweet from the bitter, dwelt only on the brighter recollections of her earlier days.

At last, day came, and with it came want, and knawing hunger, and the prospect of starving to death; but with all this, never did a more beautiful morn greet the children of Adam. The atmosphere was pure and cloudless, and the reflection of the sun from the wide unbroken waste of snow which lay before them, created a light as bright as though it were reflected from so much burnished silver. The inmates of the lodge having ventured out, were warmed into buoyancy of spirits by its genial rays, and bright gleams of happiness for a moment passed before them, upon beholding the dazzling splendour of the scene. Even Netnokwa's swarthy features were moved, and the flow of earlier feelings seemed struggling with the infirmities of age; but they soon departed, and her present situation, with its sad circumstances, was all she saw; calling her children to her, for she was pleased to regard the captive in that light, she said:—

“My children, Netnokwa prayed last night to the Great Spirit. When you slept, he came in a dream to me, and said: ‘Netnokwa, you shall feast to-morrow, and plenty shall be in your wigwam.’ And a vision passed before me, and in it I saw a stream, which found its way to the lake now before me, and near its source, I saw a slaughtered bear. Will Miskwa bring this meat to her mother?”

“Yes, and thank thee too,” said Miskwa;—and filled with life and animation, she entered the hut, wrapped herself in furs, and seizing her rifle, was equipped for the chase. Walking to the door, she discharged it, saying, “Mother, the bear will be lucky which escapes me to-day,” and then commenced reloading it.

“Thou art right, Miskwa,” said her mother;—“thy gun should not fail thee when thou art hungry.”

“Say when my mother is hungry,” said Miskwa, “and ‘Sweet Flower’ drooping in our wigwam.”

Having rammed down the powder, she thrust her little hand into her pockets, and drawing forth several balls, held them out to the captive, “Wilt thou by choosing, give good luck to the red maiden, ‘Sweet Flower?’” said she.

Her companion complied, and thought these words, though she spoke them not, “good as thou art pretty, Miskwa, may my fortune never betide thee.” Miskwa being now ready, tripped out, as graceful and pretty a figure as eyes ever beheld, and though not fashionably, she was beautifully dressed. Closely muffling her neck was turned a rich fur, as pure in whiteness as the fresh fallen snow, and which formed a beautiful contrast with the jet black glossy hair which fell far below it. Her cap was formed of the richest beaver, and that so tastefully fashioned, that a maiden alone could have made it. She was a sweet creature, and many a lassie who can boast the refinements of civilization was far less interesting than the maid of the forest.

The captive went to the door, to see her labour her way through the snow; but away she ran, like the bounding roe of the forest, and as playful, and as happy, as though she were only running for pastime. With so much cheerfulness did she hurry on to fulfil a dream. Yet there was a holier purpose, it was to relieve the sufferings of a mother and a friend.

Now, if the nature of her errand seems incompatible with the gentleness of her sex, and the delicate formation of her frame, I pray you, gentle reader, be not startled, for we are the creatures of habit, and Miskwa had been trained to exercises of this kind from her infancy; and if any fears should arise in your bosom as to the result of the conflict, let me endeavour to allay them, as Miskwa did her own, by saying, “one who shot so well, need fear no danger.” And if, still unsatisfied, you should wonder that Miskwa, with so much alacrity, would in such a season venture forth, merely to fulfil a dream, let me say, that she lived surrounded by superstition, and that her mother's dream was to her, pretty much what an authenticated statement would be to one in civilized life; and furthermore, that Netnokwa, though she had detailed a dream, always endeavoured to produce ordinary events by supernatural means, and consequently, what she had detailed as a dream, was but knowledge gained by previous labour.

The captive having watched until Miskwa was lost to her view, entered the lodge, and with much anxiety in her manner, said, “Mother, will no harm come to Miskwa?”

“The Great Spirit will take care of his good children,” said Netnokwa, “Miskwa is a good child.”

“But will not the beast she is gone to seek, harm her?” said the captive.

“It will not bite so much as hunger,” said Netnokwa. “Miskwa is prudent; fear not, daughter.”

I know not why, but at the close of this speech, the captive sat down and wept, while Netnokwa prepared to enlarge the fire. A few hours passed, and Miskwa returned successful from the chase, having found a bear in such a place as the one described. Plenty was now in their wigwam, and game soon after becoming abundant, they remained until the melting of the snow enabled them to proceed on their journey to Red River, which flows into Lake Winnipeek, whither they were now bound, and where, at the period of our narrative, Netnokwa resided.[1]

[Footnote 1: See note C.]