The Crew of the Water Wagtail

A few minutes’ walk brought them to the foot of the hill where the Indian tents were pitched. Here they found a multitude of men, women, and children watching them as they descended the hill, and, from the looks of many of the former, it seemed not at all improbable that a rough reception awaited them.

“You see,” said Paul, in a low voice to the captain, “they probably class us with the murderers, because of our white skins. Our only hope, under God, rests in Hendrick.”

That Paul’s hope was not ill-founded became apparent the moment the hunter made himself known. For the scowling brows cleared at once, and one or two men, who had formerly met with the white hunter, came forward and saluted him in the European manner which he had already taught to many of the red men, namely, with a shake of the hand.

A great palaver followed in the wigwam of the chief, Bearpaw, in the course of which many things were talked about; but we confine our record to that part of the talk which bears specially on our tale.

“The men must die,” said Bearpaw sternly. “What you tell me about their harsh treatment of their chief and his son and friend only proves them to be the more deserving of death. My two young braves who visited them on the island were treated like dogs by some of them, and Little Beaver they have slain. It is just that they should die.”

“But my three friends here,” returned Hendrick, “treated your braves well, and they had no knowledge or part in the killing of Little Beaver. Perhaps the palefaces did not kill him. Do they admit that they did?”

“How can we tell what they admit? We know not their language, nor they ours. But there is no need to palaver. Did not Strongbow and his braves find the dead body of Little Beaver bruised and broken? Did they not see his black dog in the paleface camp, and has not Rising Sun disappeared like the early frost before the sun? Doubtless she is now in the camp with those palefaces who have escaped us, but whom we will yet hunt down and kill.”

“Bearpaw is right,” said Hendrick, “murderers deserve to die. But Bearpaw is also just; he will let the men of the sea speak in their own defence now that I am here to interpret?”

“Bearpaw is just,” returned the chief. “He will hear what the palefaces have got to say. One of the young men will take you to their prison.”

He signed as he spoke to a young Indian, who instantly left the tent, followed by Hendrick and his friends.

Passing right through the village the party reached a precipice, on the face of which was what appeared to be the entrance to a cavern. Two Indians stood in front of it on guard. A voice was heard within, which struck familiarly yet strangely on Paul and the captain’s ears. And little wonder, for it was the voice of Grummidge engaged in the unaccustomed act of prayer! The young Indian paused, and, with a solemn look, pointed upwards, as if to intimate that he understood the situation, and would not interrupt. Those whom he led also paused and listened—as did the sentinels, though they understood no word of what was said.

Poor Grummidge had evidently been brought very low, for his once manly voice was weak and his tones were desponding. Never before, perhaps, was prayer offered in a more familiar or less perfunctory manner.

“O Lord,” he said, “do get us out o’ this here scrape somehow! We don’t deserve it, though we are awful sinners, for we’ve done nothin’ as I knows on to hurt them savages. We can’t speak to them an’ they can’t speak to us, an’ there’s nobody to help us. Won’t you do it, Lord?”

“Sure it’s no manner o’ use goin’ on like that, Grummidge,” said another voice. “You’ve done it more than wance a’ready, an’ there’s no answer. Very likely we’ve bin too wicked intirely to deserve an answer at all.”

“Speak for yourself Squill,” growled a voice that was evidently that of Little Stubbs. “I don’t think I’ve been as wicked as you would make out, nor half as wicked as yourself! Anyhow, I’m goin’ to die game, if it comes to that. We can only die once, an’ it’ll soon be over.”

“Ochone!” groaned Squill, “av it wasn’t for the short allowance they’ve putt us on, an’ the bad walkin’ every day, an’ all day, I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’ve scarce got strength enough left to sneeze, an’ as to my legs, och! quills they are instid of Squill’s.”

“For shame, man,” remonstrated Grummidge, “to be makin’ your bad jokes at a time like this.”

The tone of the conversation now led the young Indian to infer that interruption might not be inappropriate, so he turned round the corner of rock that hid the interior from view, and led his party in front of the captives. They were seated on the ground with their backs against the wall, and their arms tied behind them.

The aspect of the unfortunate prisoners was indeed forlorn. It would have been ludicrous had it not been intensely pitiful. So woe-begone and worn were their faces that their friends might have been excused had they failed to recognise them, but even in the depths of his misery and state of semi-starvation it was impossible to mistake the expressive visage of poor Squill, whose legs were indeed reduced to something not unsuggestive of “quills,” to say nothing of the rest of his body.

But all the other prisoners, Grummidge, Stubbs, Blazer, Taylor, and Garnet, were equally reduced and miserable, for the harsh treatment and prolonged journeying through forest and swamp, over hill and dale, on insufficient food, had not only brought them to the verge of the grave, but had killed outright one or two others of the crew who had started with them.

The visitors, owing to their position with their backs to the light of the cave’s mouth, could not be recognised by the prisoners, who regarded them with listless apathy until Captain Trench spoke, swallowing with difficulty a lump of some sort that nearly choked him.

“Hallo! shipmates! how goes it? Glad to have found ye, lads.”

“Och!” exclaimed Squill, starting up, as did all his companions; but no other sound was uttered for a few seconds. Then a deep “thank God” escaped from Grummidge, and Little Stubbs tried to cheer, but with small success; while one or two, sitting down again, laid their thin faces in their hands and wept.

Reader, it were vain to attempt a description of the scene that followed, for the prisoners were not only overwhelmed with joy at a meeting so unexpected, but were raised suddenly from the depths of despair to the heights of confident hope, for they did not doubt that the appearance of their mates as friends of the Indians was equivalent to their deliverance. Even when told that their deliverance was by no means a certainty, their joy was only moderated, and their hope but slightly reduced.

“But tell me,” said Paul, as they all sat down together in the cave, while the Indians stood by and looked silently on, “what is the truth about this Indian who was murdered, and the dog and the woman?”

“The Indian was never murdered,” said Grummidge stoutly. “He had evidently fallen over the precipice. We found him dead and we buried him. His dog came to us at last and made friends with us, though it ran away the day the settlement was attacked. As to the woman, we never saw or heard of any woman at all till this hour!”

When Bearpaw was told how the matter actually stood, he frowned and said sternly—

“The palefaces lie. If they never saw Rising Sun, why did she not come back to us and tell what had happened? She was not a little child. She was strong and active, like the young deer. She could spear fish and snare rabbits as well as our young men. Why did she not return? Where is she? Either she is dead and the palefaces have killed her, or they have her still among them. Not only shall the palefaces answer for her with their lives, but the Bethucks will go on the war-path to the coast and sweep the paleface settlement into the sea!”

It was of no avail that Hendrick pleaded the cause of the prisoners earnestly, and set forth eloquently all that could be said in their favour, especially urging that some of them had been kind to the two Indians who first visited the white men. Rising Sun had been a favourite with the chief; she was dead—and so the palefaces must die!

Chapter Twenty Two.

Tells of Terrible Suspense—Violent Intentions and Religious Discussion

“Now I tell you what it is, Master Hendrick,” said Captain Trench, the day after their arrival at the Indian camp. “I see this is goin’ to be an ugly business, an’ I give you fair warning that I’m goin’ to git surly. I won’t stand by quietly and see Grummidge and my men slaughtered before my eyes without movin’ a finger. I’ll keep quiet as long as there’s any chance of all your palaverin’ resulting in anything, but if the worst comes to the worst I’ll show fight, even if I should have to stand alone with all the red devils in Newfoundland arrayed against me.”

“I honour your feelings, Captain Trench, but doubt your judgment. How do you propose to proceed?”

“Will you join me? Answer me that question first.”

“I will join you in any scheme that is reasonable,” returned Hendrick, after a pause, “but not in a useless attempt to fight against a whole colony of Indians.”

“Then I’ll keep my plans of procedure in my own noddle,” said the captain, turning away with an indignant fling, and taking the path that led to the cave or prison-house of his shipmates, for as yet they were allowed free intercourse with their friends.

“Grummidge,” said he, in a stern voice, as he squatted down on the floor beside the unfortunate seaman, “things look bad, there’s no doubt about that, an’ it would be unkind deception to say otherwise, for that villain Bearpaw seems to git harder and harder the more they try to soften him. Now what I want to know is, are you an’ the others prepared to join me, if I manage to cut your cords an’ give you weapons, an’—”

“Shush! clap a stopper on your mouth, cappen,” said Grummidge in an undertone, “the redskins are listening.”

“An’ what then? They know no more about English than I know about Timbuctoosh,” returned the captain irascibly. “Let ’em listen! What I was a-goin’ to say is, are you an’ the other lads ready to follow me into the woods an’ bolt if we can, or fight to the death if we can’t?”

“Sure an’ I’m ready to fight,” interposed Squill, “or to follow ye to the end o’ the world, an’ further; but if I do I’ll have to leave my legs behind me, for they’re fit for nothin’. True it is, I feel a little stronger since your friend Hendrick got the bastes to increase our allowance o’ grub, but I’m not up to much yet. Howsiver, I’m strong enough p’r’aps to die fightin’. Anyhow, I’ll try.”

“So will I,” said Little Stubbs. “I feel twice the man I was since you found us.”

“Putt me down on the list too, cap’n,” said Fred Taylor, who was perhaps the least reduced in strength of any of the prisoners. “I’m game for anything short o’ murder.”

Similar sentiments having been expressed by his other friends, the captain’s spirit was somewhat calmed.

Leaving them he went into the woods to ponder and work out his plans. There he met Paul and Hendrick.

“We are going to visit the prisoners,” said the former.

“You’ll find ’em in a more hopeful frame of mind,” observed the captain.

“I wish they had better ground for their hopes,” returned his friend, “but Bearpaw is inexorable. We are to have a final meeting with him to-morrow. I go now to have a talk with our poor friends. It may be that something in their favour shall be suggested.”

Nothing, however, was suggested during the interview that followed, which gave the remotest hope that anything they could say or do would influence the savage chief in favour of his prisoners. Indeed, even if he had been mercifully disposed, the anger of his people against the seamen—especially the relatives of Little Beaver and those who had been wounded during the attack on Wagtail settlement—would have constrained him to follow out what he believed to be the course of justice.

When the final meeting between the visitors and the chief took place, the latter was surrounded by his principal warriors.

“Hendrick,” he said, in reply to a proposal that execution should be at least delayed, “the name of the white hunter who has mated with the Bethuck girl is respected everywhere, and his wishes alone would move Bearpaw to pardon his paleface foes, but blood has been shed, and the price of blood must be paid. Hendrick knows our laws—they cannot be changed. The relations of Little Beaver cry aloud for it. Tell your paleface friends that Bearpaw has spoken.”