CHAPTER XV.
“Where wild in woods the lordly savage ran.”
DRYDEN.
What changes a few years make in places! That spot over which the Indians roved, free of all control, is now a large and wide-spreading town. Those glorious old trees are fast fading away, the memory only of them remains to some of the first settlers, who saw them twenty-five years ago, shadowing the now open market-place; the fine old oaks have disappeared, but the green emerald turf that they once shaded still remains. The wild rushing river still pours down its resistless spring floods, but its banks have been levelled, and a noble bridge now spans its rapid waters. It has seen the destruction of two log-bridges, but this new, substantial, imposing structure bids fair to stand from generation to generation. The Indian regards it with stupid wonder: he is no mechanic; his simple canoe of birch bark is his only notion of communication from one shore to another. The towns-people and country settlers view it with pride and satisfaction, as a means of commerce and agricultural advantage. That lonely hill, from which Catharine viewed the rapid-flowing river by moonlight, and marvelled at its beauty and its power, is now the Court-house Hill, the seat of justice for the district,—a fine, substantial edifice; its shining roof and pillared portico may be seen from every approach to the town. That grey village spire, with its groves of oak and pine, how invitingly it stands! those trees that embower it, once formed a covert for the deer. Yonder scattered groups of neat white cottages, each with its garden of flowers and fruit, are spread over what was once an open plain, thinly planted with poplar, oaks, and pine. See, there is another church; and nearer, towards the west end of the town, on that fine slope, stands another, and another. That sound that falls upon the ear is not the rapids of the river, but the dash of mill wheels and mill dams, worked by the waters of that lovely winding brook which has travelled far through woods and deep forest dingles to yield its tribute to the Otonabee. There is the busy post-office, on the velvet carpet of turf; a few years, yes, even a few years ago, that spot was a grove of trees. The neat log building that stood then alone there, was inhabited by the Government Agent, now Colonel Macdonald, and groups of Indians might be seen congregated on the green, or reposing under the trees, forming meet subjects for the painter’s pencil, for he knew them well, and was kind to them.
The Indian only visits the town, once the favourite site for his hunting lodge, to receive his annual government presents, to trade his simple wares of basket and birch-bark work, to bring in his furs, or maybe to sell his fish or venison, and take back such store goods as his intercourse with his white brethren has made him consider necessary to his comforts, to supply wants which have now become indispensable, before undreamed of. He traverses those populous, busy streets, he looks round upon dwellings, and gay clothes, and equipages, and luxuries which he can neither obtain nor imitate; and feels his spirit lowered—he is no more a people—the tide of intellect has borne him down, and swept his humble wigwam from the earth. He, too, is changing: he now dwells, for the most part, in villages, in houses that cannot be moved away at his will or necessity; he has become a tiller of the ground, his hunting expeditions are prescribed within narrow bounds, the forest is disappearing, the white man is everywhere. The Indian must also yield to circumstances; he submits patiently. Perhaps he murmurs in secret; but his voice is low, it is not heard; he has no representative in the senate to take interest in his welfare, to plead in his behalf. He is anxious, too, for the improvement of his race: he gladly listens to the words of life, and sees with joy his children being brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord; he sees with pride some of his own blood going forth on the mission of love to other distant tribes; he is proud of being a Christian; and if there be some that still look back to the freedom of former years, and talk of “the good old times,” when they wandered free as the winds and waters through those giant woods, they are fast fading away. A new race is rising up, and the old hunter will soon become a being unknown in Canada.
There is an old gnarled oak that stands, or lately stood, on the turfy bank, just behind the old Government-house (as the settlers called it), looking down the precipitous cliff on the river and the islands. The Indians called it “the white girl’s rest,” for it was there that Catharine delighted to sit, above the noise and bustle of the camp, to sing her snatches of old Scottish songs, or pray the captive exile’s prayer, unheard and unseen.
The setting sun was casting long shadows of oak and weeping elm athwart the waters of the river; the light dip of the paddle had ceased on the water, the baying of hounds and life-like stirring sounds from the lodges came softened to the listening ear. The hunters had come in with the spoils of a successful chase; the wigwam fires are flickering and crackling, sending up their light columns of thin blue smoke among the trees; and now a goodly portion of venison is roasting on the forked sticks before the fires. Each lodge has its own cooking utensils. That jar embedded in the hot embers contains sassafras tea, an aromatic beverage, in which the squaws delight when they are so fortunate as to procure a supply. This has been brought from the Credit, far up in the west, by a family who have come down on a special mission from some great chief to his brethren on the Otonabee, and the squaws have cooked some in honour of the guests. That pot that sends up such a savoury steam is venison pottage, or soup, or stew, or any name you choose to give the Indian mess that is concocted of venison, wild rice, and herbs. Those tired hounds that lay stretched before the fire have been out, and now they enjoy the privilege of the fire, some praise from the hunters, and receive withal an occasional reproof from the squaws, if they approach their wishful noses too close to the tempting viands.
The elder boys are shooting at a mark on yonder birch-tree; the girls are playing or rolling on the grass; “The Snow-bird” is seated on the floor of the wigwam braiding a necklace of sweet grass, which she confines in links by means of little bands of coloured quills; Catharine is working mocassins beside her;—a dark shadow falls across her work from the open tent door—an exclamation of surprise and displeasure from one of the women makes Catharine raise her eyes to the doorway; there, silent, pale, and motionless, the mere shadow of her former self, stands Indiana—a gleam of joy lights for an instant her large lustrous eyes. Amazement and delight at the sight of her beloved friend for a moment deprives Catharine of the power of speech; then terror for the safety of her friend takes place of her joy at seeing her. She rises regardless of the angry tones of the Indian woman’s voice, and throws her arms about Indiana as if to shield her from threatened anger, and sobs her welcome in her arms.
“Indiana, dear sister! how came you hither, and for what purpose?”
“To free you, and then die,” was the soft low tremulous answer. “Follow me.” Catharine, wondering at the calm and fearless manner with which the young Mohawk waved back the dusky matron who approached as if with the design of laying hands upon her unwelcome guest, followed with beating heart till they stood in the entrance of the lodge of the Bald Eagle; it was filled with the hunters, who were stretched on skins on the floor reposing in quiet after the excitement of the chase.
The young Mohawk bent her head down and crossed her arms, an attitude of submission, over her breast as she stood in the opening of the lodge; but she spoke no word till the old chief waving back the men, who starting to their feet were gathering round him as if to shield him from danger, and sternly regarding her, demanded from whence she came and for what purpose.