The lost hunter: A tale of early times

by John Turvill Adams

CHAPTER XXIII.

Wide o'er the brim with many a torrent swelled,
And the mixed ruin of its banks o'erspread,
At last the roused up river pours along:
Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes
From the rude mountain and the mossy wild.

THOMSON'S SEASONS.

The company expressed their acknowledgments to Bernard for the entertainment he had furnished, although they all seemed to consider the conduct of Wampum-hair inconsistent with his amiable character, and to pity the fate of Leelinau.

"The writer must have had some suspicion of the inconsistency himself," said Bernard, "to judge from his attempt to obviate the difficulty, by ascribing a magic change in his hero, to the application of the child's hand to the head, instead of as before, to the heart. This part of the tale is slightly and unskillfully developed."

"I cannot agree with you," said Faith, "and think you do your friend injustice. The idea is, that the guardian genius exercised a controlling influence over the destiny of the young man; and I see no reason why if we concede the power to the genius to soften his nature, we may not grant also the ability to harden it."

"Especially," observed Pownal, "as the object of the protecting spirit would have been frustrated, had the lovers been united."

All looked inquiringly towards him for an explanation.

"I mean," said he, "that with such a fierce little squaw for a wife, the gentleman with the unpronounceable name, would not have continued a man of peace long. There certainly would have been war within the wigwam, however dense the puffs of smoke from the calumet of peace outside."

All laughed at the sally, but Anne intimated that she would have preferred a different termination.

"At least," said Mr. Armstrong, who had listened in silence to the criticisms of the young people, "it teaches a profitable lesson to you girls."

"What is that, Mr. Armstrong?" inquired Anne.

"That young ladies should know their own minds."

"A most unreasonable expectation!" exclaimed Anne. "We should become as stupid—as stupid as reasonable people."

"Besides," said Faith, coming to her friend's assistance, "the story was intended for the benefit of Indian girls, and not for those who read Shakspeare."

"I suspect," said Bernard, "that the writer was better acquainted with the Shakspearean ladies, than with Indian girls."

"Why do you think so?" asked Faith.

"Do you not observe," answered Bernard, "that he confines himself to generalities? Not a word does he venture to say about the toilette of the beauty. A description of the dress of the heroine, has always been considered indispensable in every tale."

"Poh, William!" said Anne, "what a savage critic you are. But, probably, there was so little to describe, the author did not think it worth his while."

"And," said Pownal, "is anything admissible in a picture which distracts the attention and withdraws it from the principal figure? Good taste excludes ear-rings and gold chains from portraits."

"Well," said Bernard, "I dare say you are right. It may be, too, that the dress was indescribable."

"Who is this Manabozho, who comes in so opportunely, yet, without effecting much after all?" inquired Anne. "I am charmed with his appearance; particularly, his big eyes."

"He is a sort of Indian Hercules," replied Bernard, "who plays a conspicuous part in many legends. He is a compound of wisdom and folly, of benevolence and mischief, of strength and weakness, partly Manitou and partly man, and is privileged to do anything, however absurd and impossible, at one moment, while, at the next, he may be shorn of his power, so as to be incapable of taking care of himself."

"A very convenient person indeed," said Anne.

"Loosing the knot of a difficulty by the intervention of such a Power, shows but little ingenuity, I confess," said Bernard.

"There is classical authority for it, though," said Mr. Armstrong. "Homer, himself, condescends to introduce a God, when he cannot extricate himself from embarrassment without his help."

"Aye," said Bernard, "but the rule of Horace must not be forgotten, nec Deus," &c.

"True," said Mr. Armstrong; "but how would you have accomplished the feat, like one of the labors of Hercules, without some such means?"

"I do not pretend to be able to do it," answered Bernard, modestly; "but, doubtless, one possessed of more imagination could have accomplished it."

"You are but a cold advocate for your friend," said Faith. "You do not allow him half the merit he deserves"

"He would not complain were he to hear me," said Bernard. "No one can be more sensible than himself, of the defects of his work."

"And I say," said Anne, "that I like his story exceedingly; only, he knows nothing about our sex. It may be all very well for a man to praise that hard-hearted Wampum-head, and make poor Leelinau pine away for his precious sake, but, I do not believe she was so silly as to care much about him."

"If the truth were known," said Pownal, "I have no doubt that the girl rejected him, because she liked some one else better."

"And her ungallant beau," said Anne, "made up the story, to cover his confusion."

"I am satisfied with it as it is," said Faith. "We pity and love Leelinau, now; her haughtiness and pride are forgotten in her misfortunes, and we remember her as one faithful unto death."

"Your tale reminds me," said Pownal, addressing Bernard, "that there is a tremendous freshet in the Wootúppocut, and that the waters are increasing. Suppose, if the ladies consent, we make up a party, to view it, to-morrow?"

The proposition was received with approbation by all, and it was agreed, that they would meet at the house of Mr. Armstrong, as the starting-point, on the afternoon of the next day. The evening being now considerably advanced, Faith's friends took their leave.

The nine o'clock bell was ringing, as the young people passed through the quiet streets. The custom of ringing a bell, at that hour, is one which has fallen into desuetude, although, once, almost universal in New England, and may be said to bear some relation to the vesper-bell, in Roman Catholic countries. Its avowed object, indeed, was not, as in the case of the latter, to call the people to prayers, but, its effect, perhaps, was the same; for, it marked the hour at which the population of the village were in the habit of retiring to rest; and, in those days of simple faith, many were the families whose members united together, before seeking their pillows, to return thanks for the blessings of the day, and ask for protection during the defenceless hours of the night. Luxury and dissipation have since crept in, and parties assemble, now, at an hour when they formerly broke up. We call ourselves more refined, but, it may admit of a doubt, whether all our show and parade are not purchased at too dear a rate, at the price of substantial comfort and happiness.

The shore was lined with spectators, when the little party approached the scene of the freshet. We do not know that we have succeeded in conveying a clear idea of the river we have attempted to describe. It may be recollected, that it was spoken of as one of the tributaries of the Severn, coming in from the East, and sweeping round that side of the town. The banks, on the side opposite, were high and precipitous; but, on the hither side—with the exception of the narrow passage through which the river poured itself into the Severn, and for a short distance above—the ground rose gently from the stream before it reached the foot of the hill, interposing a piece of comparatively level land. The road that ran on this flat spot, and connected the eastern portion (which, from the extempore character of its buildings, as well as from other causes we do not choose to mention, was called Hasty-Pudding), with the rest of the town, was, usually, in very high floods, overflowed. Such was the fact in the present instance, and boats were busily engaged in transporting persons over the submerged road. As you stood near the mouth of the river, and looked up the current, a scene of considerable interest, and, even grandeur, presented itself. At that time, the innumerable dams higher up the stream, that have been since constructed, had not been built, nor had the rocks, at the throat, been blasted to make a wider egress. The ice, which then rushed down, as it were by agreement, simultaneously and in huge blocks—but, now-a-days, at intervals, and broken up by falling over the dams—unable to escape in the eager rivalry of the cakes to pass each other, was jammed in the throat, and piled up high in the air, looking like ice-bergs that had floated from the North Pole. You saw the stream, at all times, rapid, and now, swollen vastly beyond its ordinary proportions, rushing with ten-fold force, and hurrying, in its channel, with hoarse sounds, the ice-cakes, which, in the emulous race, grated against, and, sometimes, mutually destroyed one another, to drive some under the icy barrier, thence to glide away to the ocean, and to toss others high above the foaming torrent on the collected masses, more gradually to find their way to the same bourne. Looking away from the channel, one saw the cakes caught in the eddies, whirled up against the banks, and, in some instances, forced into smoother and shoaler water, where they grounded, or were floated into little creeks and bays formed by the irregularities of the shores. These quiet places were, of course, on the side nearest the town, the opposite bank being too abrupt and the water too deep, for there was the channel, and there the water tore along with the greatest violence.

In one of these placid bays a party of school-boys were amusing themselves with getting upon the loose blocks and pushing them about like boats. The amusement appeared to be unattended with danger, the place being so far from the current, and the water but two or three feet deep. The children, therefore, were but little noticed, especially as they were at quite a distance from where the multitude of spectators was assembled, being considerably higher up and near the flat-land, bearing the undignified name which only historical accuracy compels us to introduce. After a time a cake, on which one of the boys was standing, began slowly to slip away from the shore. So gradually was this done that it was unobserved by the boys themselves until it had quite separated itself from the neighborhood of the other cakes, so that no assistance could be rendered, when one of his companions cried out to the little fellow upon it, to push for the shore. This he had already been attempting to do, but in spite of all exertions he was unable to come nearer. On the contrary, it was evident he was receding. The water had now become so deep that his pole could no longer reach the bottom. The current had drawn in the cake, and was sweeping it with its precious freight to destruction. The children set up a cry of alarm, which was heard by the spectators below, and first attracted their attention.

A thrill of horror ran through the crowd. Men drew in their breath hard, and women shrieked, unable to turn away their eyes, fastened by a terrible fascination on the peril. Horrid apprehensions invaded the mind of many a parent. The doomed boy might be his own son. Despairing glances were cast around in every direction for help. In vain: none could be given. There was time for nothing: with every second the child was swept more rapidly to destruction.

Meanwhile the brave little fellow, planted firmly on the centre of the cake, was balancing himself with the pole, and intrepidly confronting the danger he could not avoid. Not a cry escaped, nor did his self-possession desert him. As the vexed and whirling water raised up the one side or the other of his frail bark, he would incline his body in this or that direction to preserve the equilibrium, now standing upright and now cowering close to the surface of the uncertain footing. And now the block approached the throat, where the torrent ran the swiftest and was most turbulent. The child seemed to have escaped thus far by miracle, but now it appeared impossible he would be able to maintain his place. His head must become dizzy, his courage fail in the awful confusion of so many threatening dangers; the tormented waves must upset the block, or another must strike against it and cast the boy into the water. And now the cake has reached the icy barrier stretched across the stream. It strikes; it is sucked in below and disappears.

The spell-bound spectators, their eyes fastened upon the danger of the boy, had not noticed the figure of a man, who, descending the opposite bank, and clambering at considerable risk over the masses of heaped up ice, stood waiting for the approach of the child. So truly had he judged the sweep of the current, that he had planted himself upon the edge of the ice at the precise spot where the block struck. Reaching out his arm at the moment when it slipped beneath, he seized the boy by the collar of his jacket and drew him to the place on which he stood. As soon as the crowd caught sight of the man, they saw that it was Holden.

The position of the two was still one of danger. A false step, the separating of the ice, the yielding of a cake might precipitate both into the torrent. But the heart of the man had never felt the emotion of fear. He cast his eyes deliberately round, and with a prompt decision took his course. Raising the rescued child in his arms, he started in the direction of the wharf, built just below the narrow opening. Springing with great agility and strength over the blocks, selecting for footing those cakes which seemed thickest and fastened in firmest, he made his way over the barrier and bounded safely on the land. The spectators, seeing the direction he was taking, had run down, many of them, to the place, and were waiting to receive them.

"I vow," said our friend, Tom Gladding, who was among the first to welcome Holden, "if it ain't little Jim Davenport. Why, Jim, you come pretty nigh gitting a ducking."

"Yes," said the boy, carelessly, as if he had been engaged in a frolic, "I wet my shoes some, and the lower part of my trousers."

Here a man came hastening through the crowd, for whom all made way. It was Mr. Davenport. He had been, like the rest, a witness of the danger and the rescue, but knew not that it was his own son who had made the perilous passage. But a report, running as if by magic from one to another, had reached his ears, and he was now hurrying to discover its truth. It was, indeed, his son, and Holden was his preserver. He advanced to the boy, and examined him from head to foot, as if to assure himself of his safety before he spoke a word. Shaking with agitation, he then turned to Holden, and grasping his hand, wrung it convulsively.

"May God forget me, Mr. Holden," he stammered, in a broken voice, "if I forget this service," and taking the boy by the hand he led him home.

"Well," said Gladding, who had been looking on, "Jim don't mind it much, but I guess it'll do old Davenport good."

Holden, according to his custom, seemed indisposed to enter into conversation with those around him, or to accept the civilities tendered, and started off as soon as possible, upon his solitary way. As he emerged from the crowd, he caught sight of the advancing figures of Faith and of her companions, who had more leisurely approached, and stopped to greet them. From them he seemed to receive with pleasure the congratulations showered upon him, though he disclaimed all merit for himself.

"Be the praise," he said, devoutly, "given to Him who, according to the purpose of his own will, maketh and destroyeth. The insensible block of ice and I were only instruments in His hands." He turned away, and walking rapidly was soon out of sight.

Constable Basset, who was present, had just sense enough to understand that this was no occasion for his interference, and although he followed the retreating figure of the Solitary with longing eyes, while his hands clutched at the writ, ventured on no attempt to exercise his authority.