The Crew of the Water Wagtail Part 25

"Well, and what o' that? Would it be the first time that men have been killed in a good cause?"

"But a cause can't be a good one unless some good comes of it! If there was a chance at all, I would say go at 'em, daddy, an' bowl 'em down like skittles, but you know there's no chance in your plan. Boltin'

into the woods an' gittin' lost would be little use in the face o'

savages that can track a deer by invisible footprints. An' fighting them would be like fighting moskitoes--one thousand down, another thousand come on! Besides, when you an' I are killed--which we're sure to be--what would come o' mother, sittin' there all alone, day after day, wonderin' why we never come back, though we promised to do so?

Think how anxious it'll make her for years to come, an' how broken-hearted at last; an' think how careful she always was of you.

Don't you remember in that blessed letter she sent me, just before we sailed, how she tells me to look well after you, an' sew the frogs on your sea-coat when they git loose, for she knows you'll never do it yourself, but will be fixin' it up with a wooden skewer or a bit o'

rope-yarn. An' how I was to see an' make you keep your feet dry by changin' your hose for you when you were asleep, for you'd never change them yourself till all your toes an' heels came through 'em. Ah! daddy, it will be a bad job for mother if they kill you and me!"

"But what can I do, Olly?" said the mariner, in a somewhat husky voice, when this pathetic picture was presented to his view. "Your mother would be the last to advise me to stand by and look on without moving a finger to save 'em. What can I do, Olly? What can I do?"

This question was more easily put than answered. Poor Oliver looked as perplexed as his sire.

"Pr'aps," he said, "we might do as Paul said he'd do, an' pray about it."

"Well, we might do worse, my son. If I only could believe that the Almighty listens to us an' troubles Himself about our small affairs, I--"

"Don't you think it likely, father," interrupted the boy, "that if the Almighty took the trouble to make us, He will take the trouble to think about and look after us?"

"There's somethin' in that, Olly. Common sense points out that there's somethin' in that."

Whether or not the captain acted on his son's suggestion, there is no record to tell. All we can say is that he spent the remainder of that day in a very disturbed, almost distracted, state of mind, now paying short visits to the prisoners, anon making sudden rushes towards the chief's tent with a view to plead their cause, and checking himself on remembering that he knew no word of the Indian tongue; now and then arguing hotly with Paul and Hendrick, that all had not been done which might or ought to have been done, and sometimes hurrying into the woods alone.

Meanwhile, as had been antic.i.p.ated, the chief sent for Hendrick and Paul to demand an explanation of the strange words which they had used about forgiveness and the broken law of the Great Spirit and Jesus Christ.

It would be out of place here to enter into the details of all that was said on both sides, but it may not be uninteresting to state that, during the discussion, both the palefaces and the red men became so intensely absorbed in contemplation of the vast region of comparatively new thought into which they were insensibly led, that they forgot for the time being the main object of the meeting, namely, the ultimate fate of the captives.

That the chief and his warriors were deeply impressed with the Gospel message was evident, but it was equally evident that the former was not to be moved from his decision, and in this the warriors sympathised with him. His strong convictions in regard to retributive justice were not to be shaken.

"No," he said, at the end of the palaver, "the blood of a Bethuck has been shed; the blood of the palefaces must flow."

"But tell him that that is not just even according to his own views,"

said Paul. "The blood of one paleface ought to suffice for the blood of one Bethuck."

This was received in silence. Evidently it had some weight with the chief.

"The paleface is right," he said, after a minute's thought. "Only one shall die. Let the prisoners decide among themselves who shall be killed. Go, Bearpaw has spoken--waugh!"

A few minutes later, and the prisoners, with their friends, were a.s.sembled in the cave discussing this new phase of their case.

"It's horrible!" said Grummidge. "D'ye think the chief is really in earnest?"

"There can be no doubt of it," said Hendrick.

"Then, my lads, I'll soon bid ye all farewell, for as I was your leader when the so-called murder was done, I'm bound in honour to take the consequences."

"Not at all," cried Squill, whose susceptible heart was touched with this readiness to self-sacrifice. "You can't be spared yet, Grummidge; if any man shud die it's the Irishman. Shure it's used we are to bein'

kilt, anyhow!"

"There'll be none o' you killed at all," cried Captain Trench, starting up with looks of indignation. "I'll go and carry out _my_ plans--ah!

you needn't look like that, Olly, wi' your poor mother's reproachful eyes, for I'm determined to do it, right or wrong!"

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

DELIVERANCE.

Fortunately for Captain Trench, and indeed for the whole party, the execution of his plan was rendered unnecessary by an incident the full significance of which requires that we should transport the reader to another, but not far distant, part of the beautiful wilderness of Newfoundland.

Under the boughs of a spreading larch, on the summit of a mound which commanded a wide prospect of plain and mora.s.s, sat an Indian woman. She might have been taken for an old woman, so worn and thin was she, and so hollow were her cheeks; but the glossy blackness of her hair, the smoothness of her brow, and the glitter of her dark eyes told that she was yet in her youthful years.

She sat perfectly listless, with a vacant yet steadfast expression on her thin features, as if she were dreaming with her eyes open. The view before her was such as might indeed arouse the admiration of the most stolid; but it was evident that she took no notice of it, for her eyes were fixed on the clouds above the horizon.

Long she sat, almost motionless, thus gazing into s.p.a.ce. Then she began to sing in a low sweet voice a plaintive air, which rose and fell for some time more like a tuneful wail than a song. Suddenly, and in the very midst of her song, she burst into a wild laugh, which increased in vehemence until it rang through the forest in a scream so terrible that it could be accounted for by nothing but insanity. That the poor creature's reason was indeed dethroned became evident from her subsequent movements, for after falling backwards from the exhaustion produced by her effort, or, it might be, from the sheer weakness resulting from partial starvation, she got up and began quietly to cut up and devour raw a small bird which she had killed with a stone.

Strengthened a little by this food, she rose and made a futile effort to draw more closely around her a little shawl, or rather kerchief of deerskin, which covered her shoulders, shuddering with cold as she did so.

Her short leathern gown and leggings were so soiled and torn that the ornamental work with which they had been originally decorated was almost invisible, and the moccasins she had worn hung in mere shreds upon her little feet.

Rising slowly, and with a weary sigh, the poor creature descended the side of the hill and entered the forest at the foot of it.

Lying concealed in a neighbouring thicket an Indian youth had watched the motions of the girl. It was evident, from his gaze of surprise, that he had just discovered her. It was equally evident, from his expression of perplexity, that he hesitated to intrude upon one who, he could not help seeing, was mad; but when she moved forward he followed her with the soft wary tread of a panther.

At first the girl's step was slow and listless. Then it became rapid.

A fit of excitement seemed to come on, and she began to run. Presently the excitement seemed to have pa.s.sed, for she fell again into the listless walk. After a time she sat down, and recommenced her low wailing song.

At this point, taking advantage of a neighbouring thicket, the young Indian drew as near to the girl as possible, and, in a low voice, uttered the Indian word for--"Rising Sun!"

Starting violently, the girl turned round, stretched out both arms, and, with intense hope expressed in every feature, took a step forward. In an instant the expression vanished. Another terrible scream resounded in the air, and, turning quickly away, she fled like a hunted deer.

The young man pursued, but he evidently did not try to overtake her-- only to keep her in sight. The maniac did not choose her course, but ran straight before her, leaping over fallen trees and obstructions with a degree of agility and power that seemed marvellous. Sometimes she shrieked as she ran, sometimes she laughed fiercely, but she never looked back. At last she came to a small lake--about a quarter of a mile wide. She did not attempt to skirt it, but went straight in with a wild rush, and, being well able to swim, struck out for the opposite sh.o.r.e. The young man followed without hesitation, but could not overtake her, and when he landed she had disappeared in the woods beyond.

Skilled to follow a trail, however, the youth soon recovered sight of her, but still did not try to overtake her--only to keep her in view.

At length the fire which had sustained the poor creature seemed to have burned itself out. In attempting to leap over a low bush Rising Sun stumbled, fell, and lay as if dead.

The Indian youth came up and, raising her in his arms, looked very sadly into her face. She still breathed, but gave no other sign of life. The youth, therefore, lifted her from the ground. He was tall and strong.

She was small in person, and reduced almost to skin and bone. He carried her in his arms as though she had been but a little child, and, an hour later, bore her into the Indian camp, for which for many days past she had been making--straight as the arrow flies from the bow.

He carried her at once to the chief's tent and laid his burden softly down, at the same time explaining how and where he had found her.

Bearpaw sprang up with an air of excitement which an Indian seldom displays. Evidently his feelings were deeply touched, as he knelt and raised the girl's head. Then he ordered his chief squaw to supply Rising Sun with some warm food.

It was evening when this occurred. Most of the people were supping in their tents. No one was with the chief save his own family and two of his braves.

When the poor maniac revived under the influence of the warm food, she started up with wild looks and sought again to fly, but was forcibly detained by one of the braves.

"Oh, let me go--let me go!--to his mother!" she wailed piteously, for she felt herself to be helpless in the youth's strong grasp.

"Has Rising Sun forgotten Bearpaw?" said the chief tenderly, as he stood before her.