Young Lion of the Woods / Or, A Story of Early Colonial Days

by Thomas Barlow Smith

The squaw replied to Mrs. Godfrey's inquiry after her sick husband, that he was very weak, almost dead. Does he know that a white woman is doming to see him this morning? asked Margaret G. "Yes," replied the Indian woman, "he be so glad see you, but he be very weak, no speak, he told me in whisper last night, after I come back camp from Jim Newall wigwam, best friend, best woman ever saw, was pale face woman, who told him of Great Chief, Big Spirit, and great hunting ground way back sun, where old Mag, (mother) was now. Pale face woman gave him book, and would talk Great Spirit and tell him look after Paul and make him good man."

Is your husband's name Paul? asked Margaret Godfrey. "Yes mam," she answered, "Paul Guidon his name." Mrs. Godfrey felt all must be a dream. She appeared lost and bewildered after she had heard the name Paul Guidon. She cast a glance at her companion and exclaimed, "Am I back to the old camping ground of Paul Guidon, and is he here?" Then her faculties seemed to desert her, for at that instant she staggered and fell into the arms of the Indian woman, with such force as to almost knock the squaw over. Mrs. Fowler noticing the stupor of her companion and her pallid features, asked her if she felt ill. She did not reply.

Little Mag, for such was the name of the handsome squaw, ran down to the river side, filled her moccasins with water and tripping back, she poured the contents full in the face of Mrs. Godfrey. She went again and again to the river, filled her moccasins and poured the water over Margaret's face and temples.

Jim Newall, who was sitting in his canoe a few yards distant, seeing the woman lying on the ground, came up and proposed to carry her to the wigwam two hundred yards distant, or under the shade of some trees near by. The latter proposition was acted upon. Jim, Mrs. Fowler and Little Mag, carried Margaret to a shaded spot a few yards away. They all sat down beside her, as she lay stretched and apparently lifeless upon the ground. After little Mag had once more poured the contents of her shoes down the neck of Margaret, and Mrs. Fowler had steadily rubbed her temples and wrists, she opened her eyes, looked wildly about, and then sat up supported by her companion.

She then commenced to speak in a low weak voice. Mrs. Fowler, listening attentively, heard her say, "Forever honored be this spot of earth: Here 'Old Mag' departed this life. Here her son Paul, that most noble spirit of the woods, who when I was weary, distressed, and a wanderer, broken in everything but spirit, poor in all but faith and courage: Here! Here! Paul took refuge, and my husband, my children and myself rested. Never shall that day be forgotten by me. I shall always look back during my life, and when I get to that other home, I shall, too, look back to this sacred spot with unabated affection and regard. Here! Here was I eight years ago with husband and children, unprovided for, unprotected, on the shore of this river, in a rude and fearful wilderness, surrounded by savages, but that noble Indian, that splendid Iroquois, whose old mother lies in everlasting sleep near here, protected us and provided for us. The hills around are hallowed in my memory, and these trees seem to stand with grace and beauty. This shore is as sacred to my mind as those of the Jordan were to the people of old. Here! yes here! how often have I communed with my loving Saviour! This ground is sacred to me because it incloses the dust of the mother of my protector. The ashes of old Margaret Guidon repose here. Is this sacred ground soon to claim the dust of her loving son? It may be that both came here to live for a brief space and then to die and mingle their ashes with this Acadian soil."

Tears streamed down over her beautiful waxen features, as Mrs. Fowler and little Mag assisted her to her feet. No penitent at a Methodist revival-service ever looked more serious than did Jim Newall, as Margaret Godfrey uttered the above.

Margaret had at length sufficiently recovered to proceed to the wigwam, assisted on either side by little Mag and Mrs. Fowler. The three walked slowly toward the home of Paul Guidon. Arriving at the entrance of the wigwam the little Chipewayan led the way inside.

The first object that met the eyes of Mrs. Godfrey was the sick Indian lying, wasted and emaciated, on a bed of spruce-boughs covered with a blanket.

Margaret Godfrey at once knelt at his bed-side and placing his dark thin hand in that of her own, said "Dear Paul, I come to see you."

He looked up at her and stared in a sort of vacant manner. He tried to raise his head, but was too weak to do so. She looked straight in his eyes, and said again, "Paul, you remember your old pale-faced friend who used to live at Grimross Neck?" As Margaret spoke the last word, Paul Guidon faintly whispered, "Thank Great Chief, I told him get you come me, Paul must not be made die till you come." Great tears rolled down his sunken cheeks as he whispered the above, and Margaret Godfrey, overpowered with emotion, lightly rested her forehead on his thin sinewy arm. Not a step. Not a sound was heard for a few minutes within the narrow circle of the wigwam, all rested as if in silent prayer, a more touching, a more peaceful, a more solemn scene, was never witnessed in palace or cottage. Deep grief, real sorrow, took full possession of those women who knelt around the bed of the dying Iroquois, in that birchen home on the banks of the St John, on the morning of September the 20th, 1784.