Lost in the Backwoods: A Tale of the Canadian Forest

by Catharine Parr Strickland Traill

The fatal day arrived. The Bald Eagle, with unflinching hand and eye that dropped no human tear of sorrow for the son of his love, saw his son bound to the fatal post and pierced by the arrows of his own tribe. The fearful feast of human flesh was prepared, and the old chief, pale but unmoved, presided over the ceremonies. The war-dance was danced round the sacrifice, and all went off well, as if no such horrible rite had been enacted, but a fearful retribution was at hand. The Young Pine sought the tent of the Bald Eagle's daughter that evening, and was received with all due deference, as a son of so great a chief as the Black Snake merited. He was regarded now as a successful suitor; and, intoxicated with the beauty of the Beam of the Morning, he pressed her to allow the marriage to take place in a few days. The bride consented, and a day was named for the wedding feast to be celebrated; and, that due honour might be given to so great an event, invitations were sent out to the principal families of the Mohawk tribe, and these amounted to several hundreds of souls; while the young Ojebwa hunters were despatched up the river and to different parts of the country, avowedly to collect venison, beaver, and other delicacies, to regale their guests, but in reality to summon, by means of trusty scouts, a large war-party from the small lakes, to be in readiness to take part in the deadly revenge that was preparing for their enemies.

Meantime the squaws had pitched the nuptial tent and prepared the bridal ornaments. A large wigwam, capable of containing all the expected guests, was then constructed, adorned with the thick branches of evergreens, so artfully contrived as to be capable of concealing the armed Ojebwas and their allies, who in due time were introduced beneath this leafy screen, armed with the murderous tomahawk and scalping-knife, with which to spring upon their defenceless and unsuspecting guests. According to the etiquette always observed upon such occasions, all deadly weapons were left outside the tent. The bridegroom had been conducted with songs and dancing to the tent of the bride. The guests, to the number of several hundred naked and painted warriors, were assembled. The feast was declared to be ready. A great iron pot or kettle occupied the centre of the tent. According to the custom of the Indians, the father of the bridegroom was invited to lift the most important dish from the pot, whilst the warriors commenced their war-dance around him. This dish was usually a bear's head, which was fastened to a string left for the purpose of raising it from the pot.

"Let the Black Snake, the great chief of the Mohawks, draw up the head and set it on the table, that his people may eat and make merry, and that his wise heart may be glad," were the scornful words of the Bald Eagle.

A yell of horror burst from the lips of the horror-stricken father as he lifted to view the fresh gory head of his only son, the happy bridegroom the lovely daughter of the Ojebwa chief.

"Ha!" shouted the Bald Eagle, "is the great chief of the Mohawks a squaw, that his blood grows white and his heart trembles at the sight of his son, the bridegroom of the Beam of the Morning? The Bald Eagle gave neither sigh nor groan when he saw the arrows pierce the heart of his child. Come, brother, take the knife; taste the flesh and drink the blood of thy son. The Bald Eagle shrank not when you bade him partake of the feast that was prepared from his young warrior's body."

The wretched father dashed himself upon the earth, while his cries and howlings rent the air. These cries were answered by the war-whoop of the ambushed Ojebwas, as they sprang to their feet and with deafening yells attacked the guests, who, panic-stricken, naked and defenceless, fell an easy prey to their infuriated enemies. Not one living foe escaped to tell the tale of that fearful marriage feast. A second Judith had the chief's daughter proved. It was her plighted hand that had severed the head of her unsuspecting bridegroom, to complete the fearful vengeance that had been devised in return for the merciless and horrible murder of her brother.

Nor was the sacrifice yet finished; for with fearful cries the Indians seized upon the canoes of their enemies, and with the utmost speed, urged by unsatisfied revenge, hurried down the lake to an island where the women and children and such of the aged or young men as were not included among the wedding guests were encamped in unsuspecting security. Panic-stricken, the Mohawks offered no resistance, but fell like sheep appointed for the slaughter. The Ojebwas slew there the gray-head with the infant of days. But while the youths and old men tamely yielded to their enemies, there was one who, her spirit roused to fury by the murder of her father, armed herself with the war-club and knife, and boldly withstood the successful warriors. At the door of the tent of the slaughtered chief the Amazon defended her children. While the war lightning kindled in her dark eyes, she called aloud in scornful tones to her people to hide themselves in the tents of their women, who alone were braves, and would fight their battles. Fiercely she taunted the men; but they shrank from the unequal contest, and she alone was found to deal the death-blow upon the foe, till, overpowered with numbers, and pierced with frightful wounds, she fell singing her own death-song and raising the wail for the dead who lay around her. Night closed in, but the work of blood still continued. Lower down they found another encampment, and there also they slew all the inhabitants of the lodges. They then returned to the island, to gather together their dead and to collect the spoils of the tents. They were weary with the fatigue of the slaughter of that fearful day. The retribution had satisfied even their love of blood. And when they found, on returning to the spot where the heroine had stood at bay, a young solitary female sitting beside the corpse of that dauntless woman, her mother, they led her away, and did all that their savage nature could suggest to soften her anguish and dry her tears. They brought her to the tents of their women, clothed and fed her, and bade her be comforted; but her young heart burned within her, and she refused consolation. She could not forget the wrongs of her people: she was the only living creature left of the Mohawks on that island. The young girl was Indiana—the same whom Hector Maxwell had found, wounded and bound, and ready to perish with hunger and thirst, on Bare Hill.

Brooding with revenge in her heart, the young girl told them that she had stolen into the tent of the Bald Eagle, and aimed a knife at his throat; but the fatal blow was arrested by one of the young men, who had watched her enter the old chief's tent. A council was called, and she was taken to Bare Hill, bound, and left in the sad state already described.

It was with feelings of horror and terror that the Christian children listened to this fearful tale, and Indiana read in their averted eyes and pale faces the feelings with which the recital of the tale of blood had inspired them. And then it was, as they sat beneath the shade of the trees, in the soft, misty light of an Indian summer moon, that Catharine, with simple earnestness, taught her young disciple those heavenly lessons of mercy and forgiveness which her Redeemer had set forth by his life, his doctrines, and his death—telling her that if she, would see that Saviour's face in heaven, and dwell with him in joy and peace for ever, she must learn to pray for those dreadful men who had made her fatherless and motherless and her home a desolation; and that the fire of revenge must be quenched within her heart, and replaced by the spirit of love, or she could not become a child of God and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven. How hard were these conditions to the young heathen! how contrary to her nature, to all that she had been taught in the tents of her fathers, where revenge was virtue, and to take the scalp of an enemy a glorious thing!

Yet when she contrasted the gentle, kind, and dove-like characters of her Christian friends with the fierce, bloody people of her tribe and of her Ojebwa enemies, she could not but own they were more worthy of love and admiration. Had they not found her a poor, miserable, trembling captive, unbound her, fed and cherished her, pouring the balm of consolation into her wounded heart, drawing her in bands of tenderest love to forsake those wild and fearful passions that warred in her soul, and bringing her to the feet of the Saviour, to become his meek and holy child—a lamb of his "extended fold"? [Footnote: The Indian who related this narrative to the author was a son of a Rice Lake chief, Mosang Pondash by name. He vouched for its truth as a historic fact remembered by his father, whose grandsire had been one of the actors in the massacre.]