Canadian Crusoes: A Tale of the Rice Lake Plains. Catharine Parr Strickland Traill
wonder if the young king thought at that minute of his poor father, who, you know, was forced by wicked men to lay down his head upon a block to have it cut from his shoulders, because Cromwell, and others as hard-hearted as himself, willed that he should die.” “Poor king!” said Catharine, sighing, “I see that it is better to be poor children, wandering on these plains under God’s own care, than to be kings and princes at the mercy of bad and sinful men.”
“Who told your father all these things, Hec?” said Louis.
“It was the son of his brave colonel, who knew a great deal about the history of the Stuart kings, for our colonel had been with Prince Charles, the young chevalier, and fought by his side when he was in Scotland; he loved him dearly, and, after the battle of Culloden, where the Prince lost all, and was driven from place to place, and had not where to lay his head, he went abroad in hopes of better times; (but those times did not come for the poor Prince; and our colonel) after a while, through the friendship of General Wolfe, got a commission in the army that was embarking for Quebec, and, at last, commanded the regiment to which my father belonged. He was a kind man, and my father loved both him and his son, and grieved not a little when he parted from him.”
“Well,” said Catharine, “as you have told me such a nice story, Mister Hec, I shall forgive the affront about my curls.”
“Well, then, to-morrow we are to try our luck at fishing, and if we fail, we will make us bows and arrows to kill deer or small game; I fancy we shall not be over particular as to its of quality. Why should not we be able to find subsistence as well as the wild Indians?”
“True,” said Hector, “the wild men of the wilderness, and the animals and birds, all are fed by the things that He provideth; then, wherefore should His white children fear?”
“I have often heard my father tell of the privations of the lumberers, when they have fallen short of provisions, and of the contrivances of himself and old Jacob Morelle, when they were lost for several days, nay, weeks I believe it was. Like the Indians, they made themselves bows and arrows, using the sinews of the deer, or fresh thongs of leather, for bow-strings; and when they could not get game to eat, they boiled the inner bark of the slippery elm to jelly, or birch bark, and drank the sap of the sugar maple when they could get no water but melted snow only, which is unwholesome; at last, they even boiled their own mocassins.”
“Indeed, Louis, that must have been a very unsavoury dish,” said Catharine.
“That old buckskin vest would have made a famous pot of soup of itself,” added Hector, “or the deer-skin hunting shirt.” “Well, they might have been reduced even to that,” said Louis, laughing, “but for the good fortune that befel them in the way of a half-roasted bear.”
“Nonsense, cousin Louis, bears do not run about ready roasted in the forest, like the lambs in the old nursery tale.”
“Well now, Kate, this was a fact; at least, it was told as one by old Jacob, and my father did not deny it; shall I tell you about it? After passing several hungry days with no better food to keep them alive than the scrapings of the inner bark of the poplars and elms, which was not very substantial for hearty men, they encamped one night in a thick dark swamp—not the sort of place they would have chosen, but that they could not help themselves, having been enticed into it by the tracks of a deer or a moose—and night came upon them unawares, so they set to work to kindle up a fire with spunk, and a flint and knife; rifle they had none, or maybe they would have had game to eat. Old Jacob fixed upon a huge hollow pine, that lay across their path, against which he soon piled a glorious heap of boughs and arms of trees, and whatever wood he could collect, and lighted up a fine fire. You know what a noble hand old Jacob used to be at making up a roaring fire; he thought, I suppose, if he could not have warmth within, he would have plenty of it without. The wood was dry pine and cedar and birch, and it blazed away, and crackled and burnt like a pine-torch. By-and-by they heard a most awful growling close to them. ‘That’s a big bear, as I live,’ said old Jacob, looking all about, thinking to see one come out from the thick bush; but Bruin was nearer to him than he thought, for presently a great black bear burst out from the but-end of the great burning log, and made towards Jacob; just then the wind blew the flame outward, and it caught the bear’s thick coat, and he was all in a blaze in a moment. No doubt the heat of the fire had penetrated to the hollow of the log, where he had lain himself snugly up for the winter, and wakened him; but Jacob seeing the huge black brute all in a flame of fire, began to think it was Satan’s own self come to carry him off, and he roared with fright, and the bear roared with pain and rage, and my father roared with laughing to see Jacob’s terror; but he did not let the bear laugh at him, for he seized a thick pole that he had used for closing in the brands and logs, and soon demolished the bear, who was so blinded with the fire and smoke that he made no fight; and they feasted on roast bear’s flesh for many days, and got a capital skin to cover them beside.”
“What, Louis, after the fur was all singed?” said Catharine.
“Kate, you are too particular,” said Louis; “a story never loses, you know.”
Hector laughed heartily at the adventure, and enjoyed the dilemma of the bear in his winter quarter; but Catharine was somewhat shocked at the levity displayed by her cousin and brother, when recounting the terror of old Jacob and the sufferings of the poor bear.
“You boys are always so unfeeling,” she said, gravely.
“Indeed, Kate,” said her brother, “the day may come when the sight of a good piece of roast bear’s flesh, will be no unwelcome sight. If we do not find our way back to Cold Springs before the winter sets in, we may be reduced to as bad a state as poor Jacob and my uncle were in the pine swamps, on the banks of the St. John.”
“Ah!” said Catharine, trembling, “that would be too bad to happen.”
“Courage, ma belle, let us not despair for the morrow. Let us see what to-morrow will do for us; meantime, we will not neglect the blessings we still possess; see, our partridge is ready, let us eat our supper, and be thankful; and for grace let us say, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ ”
Long exposure to the air had sharpened their appetites—the hungry wanderers needed no further invitation, the scanty meal, equally divided, was soon despatched.
It is a common saying, but excellent to be remembered by any wanderers in our forest wilds, that those who travel by the sun travel in a circle, and usually find themselves at night in the same place from whence they started in the morning; so it was with our wanderers. At sunset, they found themselves once more in the ravine, beside the big stone, in which they had rested at noon. They had imagined themselves miles and miles distant from it; they were grievously disappointed. They had encouraged each other with the confident hope that they were drawing near to the end of their bewildering journey; they were as far from their home as ever, without the slightest clue to guide them to the right path. Despair is not a feeling which takes deep root in the youthful breast. The young are always hopeful; so confident in their own wisdom and skill in averting or conquering danger; so trusting; so willing to believe that there is a peculiar Providence watching over them. Poor children! they had indeed need of such a belief to strengthen their minds and encourage them to fresh exertions, for new trials were at hand.
The broad moonlight had already flooded the recesses of the glen with light, and all looked fresh and lovely in the dew, which glittered on tree and leaf, on herb and flower. Catharine, who, though weary with her fatiguing wanderings, could not sleep, left the little hut of boughs which her companions had put up near the granite rock in the valley for her accommodation, and ascended the western bank, where the last jutting spur of its steep side formed a lofty clifflike promontory, at the extreme verge of which the roots of one tall spreading oak formed a most inviting seat, from whence the traveller looked down into a level track, which stretched away to the edge of the lake. This flat had been the estuary of the mountain stream, which had once rushed down between the hills, forming a narrow gorge; but now, all was changed; the water had ceased to flow, the granite bed was overgrown, and carpeted with deer-grass and flowers of many hues, wild fruits and bushes, below;