Books: Owindia
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Charlotte Selina Bompas >> Owindia
But we have wandered too far from Accomba and her sad history. We
must now transport the reader to that portion of the shores of the
Mackenzie which was described at the opening of our story. The scene
indeed should be laid a few miles lower down the river than that at
first described, but the aspect and condition of things is but little
altered. A number of camps are there, pitched within some ten,
twenty, and thirty yards of each other. The dark brown, smoke-tinted
leather tents or lodges, have a certain air of comfort and
peacefulness about them, which is in no wise diminished, by the smoke
curling up from the aperture at the top, or the voices of children
running in and out from the tent door. These are the tents of
Mackenzie River Indians, speaking the Slave tongue, and mostly known
by name to the Company's officers at the neighbouring forts or
trading posts, known also to the Bishop and Clergy at the Mission
stations, who have often visited these Indians and held services for
them at their camps, or at the little English churches at Fort
Simpson, Fort Norman, etc. etc., and those little dark-eyed children
are, with but few exceptions, baptized Christians. Many of them have
attended the Mission Schools for the few weeks in Spring or Fall,
when their parents congregate round the forts; they can con over
portions of their Syllabic Prayer-books, and find their place in the
little Hymn books, for "O come, all ye faithful," "Alleluia! sing to
Jesus;" and "Glory to thee, my God, this night," while such anthems
as "I will arise," and others are as familiar to the Slave Indians as
to our English children. Yes, it is a Christian community we are
looking at; and yet, sad to say, it is in one of those homes that the
dark deed was committed which left five little ones motherless, and
spread terror and confusion among the whole camp.
It was a lovely morning in May, 1880. The ice upon the Mackenzie
River had but lately given way, having broken up with one tremendous
crash. Huge blocks were first hurled some distance down the river,
then piled up one above another until they reached the summit of the
bank fifty or sixty feet high, and being deposited there in huge
unsightly masses, were left to thaw away drop by drop, a process
which it would take some five or six weeks to accomplish. Some of the
men had lately returned from a bear hunt, being, however,
disappointed of their prey--a matter of less consideration than
usual, for Bruin, being but lately roused from his long winter sleep,
was in a less prime condition than he would be a few weeks later.
Michel, the hunter, had one of his "ugly fits" upon him;--this was
known throughout the camps. The women only shrugged their shoulders,
and kept clear of his lodge. The men paid him but little attention,
even when he skulked in for awhile after dark to smoke his pipe by
their camp fire. But on this morning neither Michel nor his wife had
been seen outside their camp; only one or two of the children had
turned out at a late hour and looked wistfully about, as if longing
for someone to give them food and other attention.
Suddenly, from within the lodge a shot was heard, and a terrible
muffled sound, which none heard without a shudder. Then came the
shrieks of the terrified children, who ran out of the lodge towards
their neighbours. By this time all the Indians were aware that
something horrible had occurred in Michel's camp, and from every
lodge, far and near, they hurried out with looks of dread and
inquiry. The farthest lodge was not more than sixty yards from that
of Michel, and the nearest was hardly a dozen yards removed, although
a little further back from the edge of the bank. When the first man
entered the lodge it could not have been more than a few seconds
after the firing of the fatal shot, for Michel was still standing,
gun in hand, and his poor wife sighing forth the last few
breathings of her sad and troubled life. She had kept her word, and
met her death without one cry or expostulation! It might have been
heard from far, that groan of horror and dismay which sprung
spontaneous from the one first witnessing the ghastly scene, and then
from the whole of the assembled Indians.
"Se tue! Se tue!" "My sister, my sister!" cried the women, as one by
one they gazed upon the face of the departed; then kneeling down,
they took hold of the poor still warm hand, or raised the head to see
if life were indeed extinct; then as they found that it was truly so,
there arose within that lodge the loud, heart-piercing Indian wail,
which, once heard, can never be forgotten. Far, far through the
tangled wood it spread, and across the swift river; there is nothing
like that wail for pathos, for strange succession of unusual tones,
for expression of deep need--of the heart-sorrow of suffering
humanity!
In the meantime the chief actor in that sad tragedy had let the
instrument of his cruelty fall from his hand; it was immediately
seized by one of the Indians and flung into the river. Michel made no
resistance to this, albeit even at that moment it might have occurred
to him that being deprived of his gun, he was shorn of well nigh his
only means of subsistence. He turned to leave his tent, and with a
scared, wild look, slowly raised the blanket which hung at its
entrance; but he was not suffered to escape so easily: the men of the
surrounding camps were gathered close outside, and as with one
consent, they laid hold of the miserable culprit and pinned him to
the spot; then ensued a fierce Babel of tongues, each one urging his
own opinion as to the course of treatment befitting the occasion. The
din of these many voices, mingled with the sad wail of the women in
the tent, made an uproar and confusion which it would be hard to
describe. It ended, however, by one of the Indians producing a long
coil of babiche, and to this another added some pieces of rope, and
with these they proceeded to bind their prisoner hand and foot, and
then again to bind him to one of the nearest trees. Having succeeded
in doing this effectually, but one thought seemed to seize the whole
community,--to flee from the spot. But one other duty remained to be
performed, and this they now prepared to carry out.
The funeral rites of the North American Indian, it need hardly be
remarked, are of the very simplest description; indeed, it is only of
late years, and since Christianity has spread among them, that they
have been persuaded to adopt the rites and ceremonies of Christian
burial. Formerly, in many instances, the body of the deceased would
be wrapped in its blanket, and then hoisted up on a wooden stage
erected for the purpose; after which the friends of the departed
would make off with the utmost speed imaginable. Sometimes even this
tribute to a lost friend would not be forthcoming; the Indian has an
unspeakable dread of death, and of the dead; from the moment that the
heart of his best beloved has ceased to beat, he turns from the
lifeless form, nor cares to look upon it again. The new blanket
which, perhaps, was only worn a day or two by the departed, will now,
with scrupulous care, be wrapped around his dead body; for although
he were blanketless himself, no Indian could be persuaded to use that
which had once been a dead man's property. Then, it may be, the
corpse would be left lying in the leather lodge or tent, which would
afterwards be closely fastened up; and it has sometimes devolved upon
the Missionaries to spend the night outside, watching the camp and
keeping a fire burning in order to ward off dogs or wolves, which
would otherwise undoubtedly have broken into the tent and made short
work of the lifeless body deserted by all its friends and neighbours
and dearest connexions.
In the case of the wife of Michel, however, there arose a feeling
among her people in the camp, which appeared to be unanimous, not to
leave her poor mangled body deserted in the lodge, but at once to
commit it to the earth. Accordingly the women ceased their wailing,
there was a call for action, and each one bestirred himself with as
much earnestness and self-restraint as possible. Two or three of the
men started off to dig the grave (a work of no small labour at that
time when, be it remembered, the frost was hardly out of the ground),
others gathered round the women who were wrapping the deceased in her
blanket, with her shawl and handkerchief, her beaded leggings, and
moccasins, which were hunted out, one by one, and put on her with
loving, albeit trembling hands. Then the poor lifeless form was
lifted out of the tent, and carried a few yards further back from the
river, to where the grave was being made ready. Here all was soon
prepared; silently, reverently the body was lowered into its shallow
resting place; the earth was thrown over it, then a young fir-tree
was cut down, shorn of its bark, and driven upright in the ground,
and a few streamers of coloured rag or ribbon, furnished by the
women, tied on to the top of the pole. The task was ended, and the
young mother of twenty-eight years, who awoke that morning in the
full bloom of health and vigour, was left to slumber on in that long
sleep, which shall be broken only on the morning of the Resurrection!
And now, indeed, there was nothing more to be done, they must flee
from that desecrated spot as soon as possible. With one accord, every
tent and lodge was taken down, bundles were packed, canoes were
lifted into the water, and in less than two hours from the
commencement of these operations, the whole work of packing and
dislodging was effected, and six good-sized canoes, with three or
four smaller ones, were bearing their freight of men, women, and
children, to the opposite bank of the river.
In describing the events of that morning but little mention has been
made of Michel's children; they were not, however, forgotten. As soon
as the first shock of the discovery was over, and the women had a
little expended their feelings and emotions in the tears and wail of
sorrow, they began to turn their attention to the motherless little
ones. And first they gave them food, which would be an Indian's
preliminary step under every emergency; then, they folded kind
motherly arms around them, and imprinted warm kisses on the terror-
stricken faces; and by all such fond endearments they strove to make
them forget their sorrow: for an Indian, passive and undemonstrative
as he may be under ordinary circumstances, is full of love and
tenderest offices of pity when real occasion calls them forth. It was
thus, then, that the children were taken and dispersed among the
various families in the rapid flight from their recent camping
grounds. The canoes had started, and were being paddled at full speed
across the river, when suddenly, to the dismay and amazement of every
one, the figure of Michel was seen standing by the river brink! Had a
spectre at that moment presented itself before them, they could
hardly have been more astonished; but the poor man's actions were at
all times strange and unaccountable; and that he should have released
himself in so short an interval from his bonds, was only consistent
with the whole character of the man who had always proved himself
equal to every emergency, and defied any attempt to thwart his
designs. The language used by the miserable man on the present
occasion was bitter and abusive; it related to his children, who he
said were being taken away that they might be delivered to the white
man; but his words fell idly upon the ears of the Indians, who only
shuddered as they gazed upon his dark visage now distorted with
passion; and his whole figure, to which portions of the cords which
had bound him were still clinging, presenting the appearance of a man
possessed, the veritable Nakani--(wild man of the woods,) in whom the
Indians believe, and whom they so greatly dread.
It was not until the Indians had reached the other side of the
river, which at that part may be a mile and a quarter wide, that they
collected together and became aware that _one of the children was
missing!_ That this should be so, and that in their terror and
haste to depart they had forgotten or overlooked the baby, still a
nursling, who must have been crawling about outside the camp during
the fatal tragedy of that morning, may seem strange. More strange
still, that not one of that party should have thought of going back
to seek her. But the female infant occupies an insignificant place
among those uncivilized people: the birth of one of them is greeted
with but a small fraction of the honours with which a male child
would be welcomed.
And into the causes of the death of not a few of these girl-babies
it would perhaps be painful to enquire; but many a poor Indian mother
will delude herself into the belief that she has done a merciful act
when the little infant of a few hours' life is buried deep under the
snow, the mother's sin undiscovered, and "my baby saved from
starvation."
And so the poor Indians of our story troubled themselves but little
about the missing babe, and there was certainly a bare possibility
that the father might come upon it and succour it--for Michel had
always been a kind father, that he might possibly find and carry the
child to one of the camps not far distant, where it would, for a time
at least, be cared for. The camps therefore were pitched in the new
camping ground; the men of the party were soon off, laying their fish
nets; the women, gathering round their camp fires, renewed their
wailing and lamentations; the little ones slept, worn out with
fatigue and sorrow, and ere nightfall every sound was stilled. The
stars shone out on those few clustered tents,--and on that solitary
grave the other side of the river. The Aurora spanned the northern
sky, and played with bright and flickering light, now tremulous upon
the blue ether, then heaving and expanding, spreading itself out with
indescribable grace and beauty. Then it would seem to gather itself
together, folding its bright rays as an angel might fold its wings:
for a time it is motionless, but this is but the prelude to more
wondrous movements. Soon it commences to play anew, sending its
flaming streamers in new directions, and now contracting now
expanding, filling the whole heavens with glory of an ever-changing
hue.
But there is yet another wonder connected with this, which of all
the phenomena of Nature, nearest approaches to the supernatural: it
has uttered a sound--that beautiful sheaf of many tinted flames!
Once, twice, we have heard it, or if it were not _that_, it was
an angel's whisper! In that great solitude there is no fear of any
other sound intruding to deceive our ear. There, is such deep silence
over hill and dale that scarcely a leaf would dare to flutter
unperceived, and the ear might start to catch the sighing of a
breeze. But this faint sound, given on rare occasions by the Aurora,
unlike any sound of earth, yet seems in perfect keeping with the
marvellous and spiritual beauty of the phenomena, and but increases
and deepens the awe with which it must ever be beheld.
But on this memorable night there was yet another sound, which from
time to time broke upon the almost unearthly stillness: this was the
cry of an infant, coming from the neighbourhood of Michel's camp. The
little one, of whom mention has already been made, had, it seemed,
been, forgotten by all, or if once thought of, there was yet no
effort made to save it from the doom which, to all appearance, now
awaited it,--the Indians comforting themselves with the hope that the
father would look after it, and the father supposing, not
unnaturally, that all his children were together taken off by their
indignant friends and relatives. And so the little one, who had been
but a few hours previously nestling in her mother's arms, spent that
cold night of early spring unsheltered and alone on the high bank of
the river whither she had crawled in the early morning hours. One
could fancy its plaintive cry increasing in vehemence as the hours
wore on, and cold and exhaustion overcame her, with a sense of
weariness and desolation unknown, unfelt, before. There must have
been a sad feeling of wonder and perplexity at the unwonted silence
which reigned around her, at the absence of all familiar sounds and
voices. True, her father's dogs were there, faithful watchers through
the night, who had helped to keep the family in food and fuel through
the long winter months, hauling the sleighs, laden with moose or
deer's meat; or with good-sized fir trees, morning by morning, for
their camp fires. Strong, faithful creatures they were, patient and
enduring, sharing all the hardships and privations of the Indian,
with a fortitude and devotion to be met with nowhere else. It would
have been hard enough to tell when those four watchers of the little
one had had their last good meal; the scraps awarded to most dogs
seldom could be spared for them,--the very bones, picked bare by the
hungry masters, were grudged them, being carefully kept, and broken
and melted down for grease (that most necessary ingredient in
Northern diet.) Sometimes indeed their famished nature would assert
itself, and they would steal something, it might be a rabbit caught
in the snare near the camp (a most tempting bait for a hungry dog) or
perchance a choice piece of dried fish hung high, yet not quite high
enough to miss the spring of "Capri" or "Muskimo;" or a piece of soap
lately purchased of the white man, or even a scrap of moose-skin
reserved as shoe leather. All helped to assuage the pangs of hunger,
yet these indulgences would be dearly purchased by the inevitable
cuffs and blows which followed, till the poor brutes, scarred and
bleeding, were fain to creep away and hide in some hole, until the
imperative call or whistle made fresh claim for their services.
How little do we know for whom we are pleading, when, morning by
morning, we beseech our dear Lord to "comfort and succour all them
who in this transitory life are in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness,
or any other adversity!" And still less able are we to realize the
countless answers to our feeble prayers already winging their way to
every portion of the inhabited globe; o'er moor and fen, o'er lake
and sea and prairie, in the crowded town and in the vast wilderness.
Was it in blessed England, where the sun has long past the meridian;
while here in the far North-West, there are but the first faint tints
of early dawn:--was it in England, or in some far distant isle of the
sea, or on some outward bound ship--where the sailor finds time but
for a few hurried words of daily prayer--that that heartfelt
petition went up, offered in the Blessed Name, which won for the
helpless infant on the river-bank the succour brought her?
A small birch-bark canoe was wending its way up the river on the
morning following that on which Michel's wife had met her death. It
came from Fort Little Rapids, and was proceeding to Fort Simpson,
some 500 miles up the rivet. There were three men in the canoe, a
Cree, or Swampy Indian, in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company,
and two Slaves or Etcha-Ottine of Mackenzie River. They were paddling
rapidly, having lately been ashore for breakfast, and being anxious
to reach Fort Simpson as soon as possible. La V.'s custom was to take
the left bank of the river going up stream; but on this occasion, for
no particular reason which he could give, he agreed with his men to
take the right side. They had not long past the region of the smoky
banks [Footnote: "The region of the smoky banks." These fires, called
"Boucanes" by the Canadians, occur in several parts of the Mackenzie
and Athabasca district. In the neighbourhood of Lake la Biche, and
also along the miry bank, a number of jets of hot steam find vent
through the mud, and make the waters of the river bubble. Above Fort
Norman, on the Mackenzie, in several spots the banks give out smoke
and occasionally flames. These fires have existed for ages, and are
regarded with the greatest awe and superstition by the Indians. A
little higher up the river there are hot springs and a small
Solfaferra, like the larger one near Naples.], when a sound was heard
which caused the three men simultaneously to stop their paddling and
listen. It occurred again and yet again, at long intervals; one man
pronounced it a dog, but La V. shook his head, and declared it to
be the cry of an infant, and that he would put ashore and ascertain
if it were not so. Very faint was that cry, and waxing, even as they
listened, still more feeble; were it dog or infant, the cry was
evidently from one in the very last stage of exhaustion. Soon, as
they drew closer to the bank, the fir poles of the lately forsaken
camp suggested the probability of the spot from whence the moans
proceeded. The men drew to shore, and hauled up the canoe, while La
V., whose curiosity was much excited, sprang out and proceeded to
climb the bank. On the summit of the bank close to the edge lay four
dogs; or rather they had lain there, but they all started up, and
looked defiance, as soon as steps were heard approaching their
charge. Close within the circle they had formed around her, lay a
little bundle of rags, wrapping the now nearly lifeless form of a
thirteen months old child. Apparently, the moans which had met the
ears of the men in the canoe were her last, for on lifting her up in
his arms, La V. could detect no signs of life. For how many hours had
she lain there, without food or warmth, excepting that afforded by
the dogs, who lay closely round her? But there was no time to
speculate. Without a moment's delay the men cut down three or four
young fir trees, and proceeded to make a fire; and La V., folding the
little one in his "capot"--sat down and tried to bring back life and
warmth into her. In a short, time, a kettle was boiling on the fire;
tea was made, and, with womanly tenderness, a few drops were
administered. After a little time the men had the comfort of seeing a
favourable result of their efforts. A little natural warmth returned
to the poor body, some action at the heart was perceptible, and the
dark eyes opened and sought--the Mother!
That evening the three men and their small burden reached Fort
Simpson, where the news of Michel's crime and the dispersion of the
Indians was already known. There was no doubt now as to whose the
rescued child might be, and it was touching to see how one and
another of the Indian mothers came forward and offered to adopt it as
her own. Yet it is no light charge for an Indian to undertake to rear
a child not her own, at so tender an age; and it is especially hard
in a country where milk is not to be procured, and where fish or
rabbit soup is the only substitute for an infant's natural food.
Minneha tried it, however, for a few weeks. She was cousin to poor
Accomba, and spent whole nights in wailing and lamenting, saying, "My
sister! my sister! why might I not die instead of you? Oh, my sister,
who shall mother your little ones? Who shall work for them? Who shall
hunt for them, and bring them the young sayoni skin (sheep skin) from
the mountains? Who shall bring them meat when they are hungry--the
fine fat ribs, the moose nose, or beaver tail, and the fine bladders
of grease, which we cook with the flour from the white man's country?
You were proud of your 'tezone' my sister. She had your eyes, dark as
the berries of the sassiketoum, and they flashed fire like the aurora
of winter nights. Your laugh was pleasant. Oh, my sister! like the
waters dancing over the stones, it fell: it was good to listen to
your words when we were partners in the days of our childhood. Our
mothers dwelt together; they loved each other with sisters' love;
they dwelt together among their own people. Etcha-Ottine were they,
the finest of all Tinne-Zua (Indian men)! You laughed and sang, my
sister, when we played in the woods together; when we cut the birch
trees to make sirop in the spring time; when we sewed the rogans of
the birch bark, or plaited the quills of the porcupine into belts,
and made our father's gun-cases, or our own leather dresses for the
Fall. Many a time we went out in the canoe together; we paddled among
the islands when the berries were ripe; we spent the night in
gathering the sweet ripe fruit--moose-berry and moss-berry, the
little eye-berry, and the sassiketoum. In the summer we went to the
Forts, and pitched our camps near the white man's house. We sold our
furs to the 'big master,' and he gave us blankets and dress pieces,
and beads to make us fine leggings; and tobacco, and tea, and shot,
and ammunition. Then we went to the Praying man's house, and he kept
school for us every day, and made us read in the big books; and told
us of Niotsi N Dethe (Great God), and the poor, silly wife who
listened to the bad Spirit, and stole the big berry, which God told
her not to steal; and of the blessed Saviour, who was so good and
came down from Heaven to save us, because He saw we were so helpless;
and He loved the poor Indian as well as the white man, and, told the
praying men to come and seek after us, and pour water on us, and say
good words for us. Those were good days, my sister! Why did they not
last? Why did bad Michel come and take you away in his canoe? So many
wanted you; they wanted you much, and they would have been kind and
good to you. Tene Sla asked the big master for you, and I think he
would have got you, but for your mother, who said he was not a good
hunter; and Nagaja wanted you, and Jemmy, the Loucheux boy; but your
father was dead, and your mother said you must take a man who would
hunt for her, and bring her meat; and so bad Michel came and took you
away to the Praying man and to Yazete Koa (the church), and you
became his wife. For a time he was kind and good to you, my sister,
and be loved his children, and was a fine hunter. Many bears did he
track in the woods: he had a hunter's eye, and could see them from
far, and a hunter's ear to catch the faintest sound of their feet. He
would bring you deer's meat, killed by the first shot. No one could
say that Michel gave his children meat that had run long, and was
heated and bad for food. He would bring rats in the spring time. When
the water spread upon the ice, by the water side, he would track
them: fleet-footed are they, and glide swiftly into their hole; but
Michel was swifter than they. When Michel sank hooks in the lake, the
fish came, fine trout from Bear Lake you have eaten; it was hard for
you to lift it, my sister; its head was a meal for the little ones;
the best for your tezone, the best for your tezone. But, ah! my
sister, you have left it now. Oh! cruel Michel has made his children
motherless! The baby looks pitiful--it looks pitiful: it stretches
out its hands for its mother's breast; it longs to taste the sweet
draughts of milk. Ah! Accomba, my sister, my partner, why did cruel
Michel come and take you from my side?"