That day we traveled a long distance, at least, so it seemed to us. When nearly overcome with fatigue, we saw from the tow-path an island in the river, and upon it a small house. Near the shore a man stood beside a canoe. We made signs to him to come to us, and he immediately sprang into his canoe and came over. We asked him to take us to the island, and he cheerfully granted our request, but said we must sit very still, or we would find ourselves in the water. I did not wonder he thought so, for the canoe was very small, and the weight of three persons sank it almost even with the surface of the river, while the least motion would cause it to roll from side to side, so that we really felt that we were in danger of a very uncomfortable bath if nothing worse.
We landed safely, however, and were kindly welcomed by the Indian family in the house. Six squaws were sitting on the floor, some of them smoking, others making shoes and baskets. They were very gayly dressed, their skirts handsomely embroidered with beads and silk of various colors. One of the girls seemed very intelligent, and conversed fluently in the English language which she spoke correctly. But she did not look at all like an Indian, having red hair and a lighter skin than the others. She was the only one in the family that I could converse with, as the rest of them spoke only their native dialect; but the nun who was with me could speak both French and Indian.
They treated us with great kindness, gave us food, and invited in to stay and live with them; said we could be very happy there, and to induce us to remain, they informed us that the village we saw on the other side of the river, called St. Regis, was inhabited by Indians, but they were all Roman Catholics. They had a priest, and a church where we could go to Mass every Sabbath. Little did they imagine that we were fleeing for life from the Romish priests; that so far from being an inducement to remain with them, this information was the very thing to send us on our way with all possible speed. We did not dare to stay, for I knew full well that if any one who had seen us went to confession, they would be obliged to give information of our movements; and if one priest heard of us, he would immediately telegraph to all the priests in the United States and Canada, and we should be watched on every side. Escape would then be nearly impossible, therefore we gently, but firmly refused to accept the hospitality of these good people, and hastened to bid them farewell.
I asked the girl how far it was to the United States. She said it was two miles to Hogansburg, and that was in the States. We then asked the man to take us in his canoe to the village of St. Regis on the other side of the river. He consented, but, I thought, with some reluctance, and before he allowed us to land, he conversed some minutes with the Indians who met him on the shore. We could not hear what they said, but my fears were at once awakened. I thought they suspected us, and if so, we were lost. But the man came back at length, and, assisted us from the boat. If he had any suspicions he kept them to himself.
Soon after we reached the shore I met a man, of whom I enquired when a boat would start for Hogansburg. He gazed at us a moment, and then pointed to five boats out in the river, and said those were the last to go that day. They were then ready to start, and waited only for the tow-boat to take them along. But they were so far away we could not get to them, even if we dared risk ourselves among so many passengers. What could we do? To stay there over night, was not to be thought of for a moment. We were sure to be taken, and carried back, if we ventured to try it. Yet there was but one alternative; either remain there till the next day, or try to get a passage on the tow-boat. It did not take me a long time to decide for myself, and I told the nun that I should go on, if the captain would take me! "What! go on the tow-boat!" she exclaimed, "There are no ladies on that boat, and I do not like to go with so many men." "I am not afraid of the men," I replied, "if they are not Romanists, and I am resolved to go." "Do not leave me," she cried, with streaming tears. "I am sure we can get along better if we keep together, but I dare not go on the boat." "And I dare not stay here," said I, and so we parted. I to pursue my solitary way, she to go, I know not whither. I gave her the parting hand, and have never heard from her since, but I hope she succeeded better than I did, in her efforts to escape.
I went directly to the captain of the boat and asked him if he could carry me to the States. He said he should go as far as Ogdensburg, and would carry me there, if I wished; or he could set me off at some place where he stopped for wood and water. When I told him I had no money to pay him, he smiled, and asked if I was a run-a-way. I frankly confessed that I was, for I thought it was better for me to tell the truth than to try to deceive. "Well," said the captain, "I will not betray you; but you had better go to my state-room and stay there." I thanked him, but said I would rather stay where I was. He then gave me the key to his room, and advised me to go in and lock the door, "for," said he, "we are not accustomed to have ladies in this boat, and the men may annoy you. You will find it more pleasant and comfortable to stay there alone." Truly grateful for his kindness, and happy to escape from the gaze of the men, I followed his direction; nor did I leave the room again until I left the boat. The captain brought me my meals, but did not attempt to enter the room. There was a small window with a spring on the inside; he would come and tap on the window, and ask me to raise it, when he would hand me a waiter on which he had placed a variety of refreshments, and immediately retire.
CHAPTER XII. — STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND.
That night and the next day I suffered all the horrors of sea-sickness; and those who have known by experience how completely it prostrates the energies of mind and body, can imagine how I felt on leaving the boat at night. The kind-hearted captain set me on shore at a place where he left coal and lumber, a short distance from the village of Ogdensburg. He gave me twelve and half cents, and expressed regret that he could do no more for me. He said he could not direct me to a lodging for the night, being a stranger in the place, and this the first time he had been on that route. Should this narrative chance to meet his eye, let him know that his kind and delicate attentions to a stranger in distress, are and ever will be remembered with the gratitude they so richly merit. It was with evident reluctance that he left me to make my way onward as I could.