A pang of anguish striking to her heart, she made once more a desperate effort to awaken pity. Stretching her clasped hands towards the man who sat near her, she cried, in the piercing voice of misery, 'Oh take pity on me! I am an orphan. I have heard that sailors have kindly hearts—Have pity then—land me on the wildest coast, and I will fall down and pray for you!' The person to whom she spoke having eyed her a moment in silence, coolly drew in his oar; and rising, wrapped her close in the cloak and laid her down in the bottom of the boat, advising her with an oath to 'keep snug or she would capsize them.' In despair she renounced all further effort. Silent and motionless she lay, the cold spray dashing over her unheeded; till wet, chilled, and miserable, she was lifted on board a small brig which lay about half a mile from the shore. She was carried down to the cabin, which was more decent than is usual in vessels of that size. A clean-looking woman attended to undress her; night-clothes were in readiness for her; and every accommodation provided which her situation rendered possible. Every thing served to convince her of the care and precaution with which this cruel scheme had been concerted, and to shew her the depth of the snare into which she had fallen.
She was laid in her narrow crib, ere it occurred to her that Hargrave might be near to watch his prey. Exhausted as she was, sleep fled at the thought. She listened for his voice, for his footstep, amid the unwonted discord that disturbed her ear. Daylight returned, and no sound reached her more terrible than that of the gale rattling in the cordage and dashing the waves against the vessel's side. Worn out with fatigue and suffering, she slept at length; and a mid-day sun glanced by fits through her grated window ere she awoke to a new sense of sorrow. She rose, and going upon deck, looked sadly back upon the way she had unconsciously passed. Behind, the blue mountains were sinking in the distance; on the left lay a coast unknown to her; before her stretched the boundless deep, unvaried save by the whitening surge.
Laura spent most of her time upon deck, the fresh air reviving her failing spirits. One male and one female attendant seemed appropriated to her, and served her with even officious assiduity. Hoping that some opportunity might occur of transmitting an account of her situation to England, she begged these obsequious attendants to supply her with writing materials; but was firmly, though respectfully, refused.
The third morning came, and Laura looked in vain for any object to vary the immeasurable waste. The sun rose from one unbending line, and sunk again in naked majesty. She observed that the course of the vessel was in general directly west; and if she had before doubted, this circumstance would have convinced her of her destination. She once ventured to inquire whither the ship was bound, but was answered that 'she should know that when she reached the port.'
It was on the fourth of May that Laura began her ill-omened voyage. On the twelfth of June, land! All ran to gaze with glad eyes on what seemed a low cloud, faintly descried on the verge of the horizon—all but Laura, who looked sadly forward, as to the land of exile, of degradation,—of death. Day after day that dreaded land approached; till, by degrees, the boundless ocean was narrowed to a mighty river, and the unfrequent sail, almost too distant for mortal sight, was multiplied to a busy fleet, plying in every direction their cheerful labours. At length a city appeared in view, rising like an amphitheatre, and flashing bright with a material unknown to European architecture. Laura inquired what town it was; and, though refused all information, surmised that Quebec lay before her.
Opposite the town, the ship hove to; a boat was launched, and Laura expected to be sent on shore. Nor did she unwillingly prepare to go. 'Surely,' thought she, 'in this populous city some one will be found to listen to my tale, and wrest me from the arm of the oppressor.' The boat however departed without her, carrying ashore the man who had hitherto attended her. After remaining on shore for several hours, the man returned, and the vessel again proceeded in her voyage. Laura now imagined that Montreal was her destined port; and again she strove to hope that, among numbers, she should find aid.
A still cloudy evening had succeeded to a sultry day, when Laura observed an unusual bustle upon deck. It was growing dark, when, as she leant over the rail, to watch the fire-flies that flashed like stars in the air, the captain approaching her, told her that she must go ashore, and immediately lifted her into a boat which lay along-side. Her attendants and baggage were already there; the sailors had taken their oars; and, roaring to their companions a rough 'good night,' made towards the land. Instead, however, of gaining the nearest point, they rowed into what in the darkness seemed a creek; but Laura soon perceived that, having left the great river on which they had hitherto sailed, they were following the course of one of its tributary streams. The darkness prevented her from distinguishing objects on the banks, though now and then a light, glimmering from a casement, shewed that the haunts of man were near. She could not even discern the countenances of the sailors; but she observed, that he who seemed to direct the others, spoke in a voice which was new to her ear. All night the rowers toiled up the stream. The day dawned; and Laura perceived that, passing an open cultivated plain, she was pursuing her course towards woods impervious to the light. Dark and tangled they lowered over the stream, till they closed round, and every cheerful object was blotted from the scene.
CHAPTER XXXIII
The travellers had proceeded for some time shaded by the overhanging woods, the distance lengthened by the dreary sameness of their way, when a wild halloo smote Laura's ear; and she perceived that three Indians stood at the water-edge, making signs for the boat to land. To her unspeakable surprise, the sailors joyfully obeyed the signal. They ran their bark into a creek to which the Indians pointed, and cheerfully busied themselves in discharging their cargo. Placed with her attendants on a little eminence, which rose above the swampy margin of the river, Laura took a fearful survey of the scene around her. Save where the sluggish stream opened to the day, her view was bounded to a few yards of marshy ground, rank with unwholesome vegetation. No track appeared to lead from this desolate spot. Between the gigantic pines, brushwood and coarse grass spread in sad luxuriance. No trace was here of human footstep. All was dreary and forlorn, as the land which the first wanderers visited unwilling.