Legends of the Northwest Part 10

Then merrily rose the blithe song of the _voyageurs_ homeward returning, And thus, as they glided along, sang the bugle-voiced boatmen in chorus:

SONG

Home again! home again! bend to the oar!

Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_ He rides on the river with his paddle in his hand, And his boat is his shelter on the water and the land.

The clam in his sh.e.l.l and the water turtle too, And the brave boatman's sh.e.l.l is his birch bark canoe.

So pull away, boatmen, bend to the oar; Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_.

Home again! home again! bend to the oar!

Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_.

His couch is as downy as a couch can be, For he sleeps on the feathers of the green fir-tree.

He dines on the fat of the pemmican-sack, And his _eau de vie_ is the _eau de lac_.

So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar; Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_.

Home again! home again! bend to the oar!

Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_.

The brave, jolly boatman,--he never is afraid When he meets at the portage a red, forest maid, A Huron, or a Cree, or a blooming Chippeway; And he marks his trail with the _bois brules_.

So pull away, boatmen; bend to the oar; Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_.

Home again! home again! bend to the oar!

Merry is the life of the gay _voyageur_.

[a] Fire arm--spirit metal.

[b] Lake Superior--at that time the home of the Ojibways. (Chippewas)

In the reeds of the meadow the stag lifts his branchy head stately and listens, And the bobolink, perched on the flag, her ear sidelong bends to the chorus.

From the brow of the Beautiful Isle, [a]

half hid in the midst of the maples, The sad-faced Winona, the while, watched the boat growing less in the distance.

Till away in the bend of the stream, where it turned and was lost in the lindens, She saw the last dip and the gleam of the oars ere they vanished forever.

Still afar on the waters the song, like bridal bells distantly chiming, The stout, jolly boatmen prolong, beating time with the stroke of their paddles; And Winona's ear, turned to the breeze, lists the air falling fainter and fainter Till it dies like the murmur of bees when the sun is aslant on the meadows.

Blow, breezes,--blow softly and sing in the dark, flowing hair of the maiden; But never again shall you bring the voice that she loves to Winona.

[a] Wista Waste--Nicollet Island.

Now a light, rustling wind from the South shakes his wings o'er the wide, wimpling waters; Up the dark winding river DuLuth follows fast in the wake of Tamdoka.

On the slopes of the emerald sh.o.r.es leafy woodlands and prairies alternate; On the vine-tangled islands the flowers peep timidly out at the white men; In the dark-winding eddy the loon sits warily, watching and voiceless, And the wild goose, in reedy lagoon, stills the prattle and play of her children.

The does and their sleek, dappled fawns p.r.i.c.k their ears and peer out from the thickets, And the bison-calves play on the lawns, and gambol like colts in the clover.

Up the still flowing Wakpa Wakan's winding path through the groves and the meadows.

Now DuLuth's brawny boatmen pursue the swift gliding bark of Tamdoka; And hardly the red braves out-do the stout, steady oars of the white men.

Now they bend to their oars in the race --the ten tawny braves of Tamdoka; And hard on their heels in the chase ply the six stalwart oars of the Frenchmen.

In the stern of his boat sits DuLuth, in the stern of his boat stands Tamdoka; And warily, cheerily, both urge the oars of their men to the utmost.

Far-stretching away to the eyes, winding blue in the midst of the meadows, As a necklet of sapphires that lies unclaspt in the lap of a virgin, Here asleep in the lap of the plain lies the reed-bordered, beautiful river.

Like two flying coursers that strain, on the track, neck and neck, on the home-stretch, With nostrils distended, and mane froth-flecked, and the neck and the shoulders, Each urged to his best by the cry and the whip and the rein of his rider, Now they skim o'er the waters and fly, side by side, neck and neck, through the meadows.

The blue heron flaps from the reeds, and away wings her course up the river; Straight and swift is her flight o'er the meads, but she hardly outstrips the canoemen.

See! the _voyageurs_ bend to their oars till the blue veins swell out on their foreheads; And the sweat from their brawny b.r.e.a.s.t.s pours; but in vain their Herculean labor; For the oars of Tamdoka are ten, and but six are the oars of the Frenchmen, And the red warriors' burden of men is matched by the _voyageur's_ luggage.

Side by side, neck and neck, for a mile, still they strain their strong arms to the utmost, Till rounding a willowy isle, now ahead creeps the boat of Tamdoka, And the neighboring forests profound, and the far-stretching plain of the meadows To the whoop of the victors resound, while the panting French rest on their paddles.

With sable wings wide o'er the land, night sprinkles the dew of the heavens; And hard by the dark river's strand, in the midst of a tall, somber forest, Two camp-fires are lighted, and beam on the trunks and the arms of the pine-trees.

In the fitful light darkle and gleam the swarthy-hued faces around them.

And one is the camp of DuLuth, and the other the camp of Tamdoka, But few are the jests and uncouth of the _voyageurs_ over their supper, While moody and silent the braves round their fire in a circle sit crouching; And low is the whisper of leaves and the sough of the wind in the branches; And low is the long-winding howl of the lone wolf afar in the forest; But shrill is the hoot of the owl, like a bugle blast blown in the pine-tops, And the half-startled _voyageurs_ scowl at the sudden and saucy intruder.

Like the eyes of the wolves are the eyes of the watchful and silent Dakotas; Like the face of the moon in the skies, when the clouds chase each other across it.

Is Tamdoka's dark face in the light of the flickering flames of the camp fire.

They have plotted red murder by night, and securely contemplate their victims.

But wary and armed to the teeth are the resolute Frenchmen and ready, If need be, to grapple with death, and to die hand to hand in the desert.

Yet skilled in the arts and the wiles of the cunning and crafty Algonkins, They cover their hearts with their smiles, and hide their suspicions of evil.

Round their low, smouldering fire, feigning sleep, lie the watchful and wily Dakotas; But DuLuth and his _voyageurs_ heap their fire that shall blaze till the morning, Ere they lay themselves snugly to rest, with their guns by their side on the blankets, As if there were none to molest but the ravening beasts of the forest.

'Tis midnight. The rising moon gleams, weird and still o'er the dusky horizon; Through the hushed, somber forest she beams, and fitfully gloams on the meadows; And a dim, glimmering pathway she paves, at times, on the dark stretch of river.

The winds are asleep in the caves --in the heart of the far-away mountains; And here on the meadows and there, the lazy mists gather and hover; And the lights of the Fen-Spirits [72] flare and dance on the low-lying marshes, As still as the footsteps of death by the bed of the babe and its mother; And hushed are the pines, and beneath lie the weary limbed boatmen in slumber.

Walk softly,--walk softly, O Moon, through the gray, broken clouds in thy pathway, For the earth lies asleep, and the boon of repose is bestowed on the weary.

Toiling hands have forgotten their care; e'en the brooks have forgotten to murmur; But hark!--there's a sound on the air!

--'tis the light-rustling robes of the Spirits.

Like the breath of the night in the leaves, or the murmur of reeds on the river, In the cool of the mid-summer eves, when the blaze of the day has descended.

Low-crouching and shadowy forms, as still as the gray morning's footsteps, Creep sly as the serpent that charms, on her nest in the meadow, the plover; In the shadows of pine-trunks they creep, but their panther-eyes gleam in the fire-light, As they peer on the white men asleep, in the glow of the fire, on their blankets.

Lo, in each swarthy right hand a knife, in the left hand, the bow and the arrows!

Brave Frenchmen! awake to the strife!

--or you sleep in the forest forever.

Nay, nearer and nearer they glide, like ghosts on the fields of their battles, Till close on the sleepers, they bide but the signal of death from Tamdoka.

Still the sleepers sleep on.

Not a breath stirs the leaves of the awe-stricken forest; The hushed air is heavy with death; like the footsteps of death are the moments.

"_Arise_!"--At the word, with a bound, to their feet spring the vigilant Frenchmen; And the dark, dismal forests resound to the crack and the roar of their rifles; And seven writhing forms on the ground clutch the earth. From the pine-tops the screech owl Screams and flaps his wide wings in affright, and plunges away through the shadows; And swift on the wings of the night flee the dim, phantom forms of the spirit.

Like cabris [80] when white wolves pursue, fled the four yet remaining Dakotas; Through forest and fen-land they flew, and wild terror howled on their footsteps.

And one was Tamdoka. DuLuth through the night sent his voice like a trumpet; "Ye are Sons of Unktehee, forsooth!

Return to your mothers, ye cowards!"

His shrill voice they heard as they fled, but only the echoes made answer.

At the feet of the brave Frenchmen, dead, lay seven swarthy Sons of Unktehee; And there, in the midst of the slain, they found, as it gleamed in the fire light, The horn-handled knife from the Seine, where it fell from the hand of Tamdoka.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RIVER WAKPA WAKAN OR SPIRIT RIVER]

In the gray of the morn, ere the sun peeped over the dewy horizon, Their journey again was begun, and they toiled up the swift, winding river; And many a shallow they pa.s.sed on their way to the Lake of the Spirits; But dauntless they reached it at last, and found Akee-pa-kee-tin's village, [a]

On an isle in the midst of the lake; and a day in his teepee they tarried.

[a] see Hennepin's account of Aqui-pa-que-tin and his village.

Shea's Hennepin 227.

Of the deed in the wilderness spake, to the brave Chief, the frank-hearted Frenchman.

A generous man was the Chief and a friend of the fearless explorer; And dark was his visage with grief at the treacherous act of the warriors.

"Brave Wazi-Kute is a man, and his heart is as clear as the sun-light; But the head of a treacherous clan, and a snake in the bush is Tamdoka,"

Said the chief; and he promised Duluth, on the word of a friend and a warrior, To carry the pipe and the truth to his cousin, the chief at Kathaga; For thrice at the Tanka Mede had he smoked in the lodge of the Frenchman; And thrice had he carried away the bountiful gifts of the trader.

When the chief could no longer prevail on the white men to rest in his teepee, He guided their feet on the trail to the lakes of the winding Rice-River. [a]

Now on speeds the light bark canoe, through the lakes to the broad Gitchee Seebee; [b]

And up the great river they row, --up the Big Sandy Lake and Savanna; And down through the meadows they go to the river of broad Gitchee Gumee. [c]

[a] Now called "Mud River"--it empties into the Mississippi at Aitkin.

[b] _Gitchee seebee_--Big River--the Ojibway name for the Mississippi, which is a corruption of Gitchee Seebee--as Michigan is a corruption of _Gitchee Gumee_--Great Lake, the Ojibway name of Lake Superior.