The Crew of the Water Wagtail

When this was interpreted to Paul Burns a sudden thought flashed into his mind, and standing forth with flushed countenance and raised arm, he said—

“Hendrick, tell the chief of the Bethucks that when the Great Spirit formed man He made him without sin and gave him a just and holy law to obey; but man broke the law, and the Great Spirit had said that the price of the broken law is death. So there seemed no hope for man, because he could not undo the past, and the Great Spirit would not change His law. But he found a way of deliverance. The Great Spirit himself came down to earth, and, as the man Jesus Christ, paid the price of the broken law with His own blood, so that guilty, but forgiven, man might go free. Now, if the Great Spirit could pardon the guilty and set them free, would it be wrong in Bearpaw to follow His example?”

This was such a new idea to the Indian that he did not at first reply. He stood, with folded arms and knitted brow, pondering the question. At last he spoke slowly—

“Bearpaw knows not the thing about which his paleface brother speaks. It may be true. It seems very strange. He will inquire into the matter hereafter. But the laws that guide the Great Spirit are not the laws that guide men. What may be fit in Him, may not be fit in them.”

“My dark-skinned brother is wrong,” said Hendrick. “The law that guides the Great Spirit, and that should guide all His creatures, is one and the same. It is the law of love.”

“Was it love that induced the palefaces to kill Little Beaver and steal Rising Sun?” demanded the chief fiercely.

“It was not,” replied Hendrick; “it was sin; and Bearpaw has now an opportunity to act like the Great Spirit by forgiving those who, he thinks, have sinned against him.”

“Never!” returned the chief vehemently. “The palefaces shall die; but they shall live one day longer while this matter is considered in council, for it is only children who act in haste. Go! Bearpaw has spoken.”

To have secured even the delay of a single day was almost more than the prisoners’ friends had hoped for, and they resolved to make the most of it.

“Now, Hendrick,” said Paul, when they were in the tent that had been set aside for their use, “we must be prepared, you and I, to give the chief a full account of our religion; for, depend on it, his mind has been awakened, and he won’t rest satisfied with merely discussing the subject with his men of war.”

“True, Paul; what do you propose to do?”

“The first thing I shall do is to pray for guidance. After that I will talk with you.”

“For my part,” said Captain Trench, as Paul rose and left the tent, “I see no chance of moving that savage by religion or anything else, so I’ll go an’ make arrangements for the carryin’ out o’ my plans. Come along to the woods with me, Olly, I shall want your help.”

“Father,” said the boy, in a serious tone, as they entered the forest, “surely you don’t mean to carry out in earnest the plan you spoke of to Grummidge and the others yesterday?”

“Why not, my son?”

“Because we are sure to be all killed if you do. As well might we try to stop the rising tide as to subdue a whole tribe of savages.”

“And would you, Olly,” said the seaman, stopping and looking sternly at the boy, “would you advise me to be so mean as to look on at the slaughter of my shipmates without making one effort to save them?”

“I would never advise you to do anything mean, father; an’ if I did so advise you, you wouldn’t do it; but the effort you think of makin’ would not save the men. It would only end in all of us bein’ killed.”

“Well, and what o’ that? Would it be the first time that men have been killed in a good cause?”

“But a cause can’t be a good one unless some good comes of it! If there was a chance at all, I would say go at ’em, daddy, an’ bowl ’em down like skittles, but you know there’s no chance in your plan. Boltin’ into the woods an’ gittin’ lost would be little use in the face o’ savages that can track a deer by invisible footprints. An’ fighting them would be like fighting moskitoes—one thousand down, another thousand come on! Besides, when you an’ I are killed—which we’re sure to be—what would come o’ mother, sittin’ there all alone, day after day, wonderin’ why we never come back, though we promised to do so? Think how anxious it’ll make her for years to come, an’ how broken-hearted at last; an’ think how careful she always was of you. Don’t you remember in that blessed letter she sent me, just before we sailed, how she tells me to look well after you, an’ sew the frogs on your sea-coat when they git loose, for she knows you’ll never do it yourself, but will be fixin’ it up with a wooden skewer or a bit o’ rope-yarn. An’ how I was to see an’ make you keep your feet dry by changin’ your hose for you when you were asleep, for you’d never change them yourself till all your toes an’ heels came through ’em. Ah! daddy, it will be a bad job for mother if they kill you and me!”

“But what can I do, Olly?” said the mariner, in a somewhat husky voice, when this pathetic picture was presented to his view. “Your mother would be the last to advise me to stand by and look on without moving a finger to save ’em. What can I do, Olly? What can I do?”

This question was more easily put than answered. Poor Oliver looked as perplexed as his sire.

“Pr’aps,” he said, “we might do as Paul said he’d do, an’ pray about it.”

“Well, we might do worse, my son. If I only could believe that the Almighty listens to us an’ troubles Himself about our small affairs, I—”

“Don’t you think it likely, father,” interrupted the boy, “that if the Almighty took the trouble to make us, He will take the trouble to think about and look after us?”

“There’s somethin’ in that, Olly. Common sense points out that there’s somethin’ in that.”

Whether or not the captain acted on his son’s suggestion, there is no record to tell. All we can say is that he spent the remainder of that day in a very disturbed, almost distracted, state of mind, now paying short visits to the prisoners, anon making sudden rushes towards the chief’s tent with a view to plead their cause, and checking himself on remembering that he knew no word of the Indian tongue; now and then arguing hotly with Paul and Hendrick, that all had not been done which might or ought to have been done, and sometimes hurrying into the woods alone.

Meanwhile, as had been anticipated, the chief sent for Hendrick and Paul to demand an explanation of the strange words which they had used about forgiveness and the broken law of the Great Spirit and Jesus Christ.

It would be out of place here to enter into the details of all that was said on both sides, but it may not be uninteresting to state that, during the discussion, both the palefaces and the red men became so intensely absorbed in contemplation of the vast region of comparatively new thought into which they were insensibly led, that they forgot for the time being the main object of the meeting, namely, the ultimate fate of the captives.

That the chief and his warriors were deeply impressed with the Gospel message was evident, but it was equally evident that the former was not to be moved from his decision, and in this the warriors sympathised with him. His strong convictions in regard to retributive justice were not to be shaken.

“No,” he said, at the end of the palaver, “the blood of a Bethuck has been shed; the blood of the palefaces must flow.”

“But tell him that that is not just even according to his own views,” said Paul. “The blood of one paleface ought to suffice for the blood of one Bethuck.”

This was received in silence. Evidently it had some weight with the chief.

“The paleface is right,” he said, after a minute’s thought. “Only one shall die. Let the prisoners decide among themselves who shall be killed. Go, Bearpaw has spoken—waugh!”

A few minutes later, and the prisoners, with their friends, were assembled in the cave discussing this new phase of their case.

“It’s horrible!” said Grummidge. “D’ye think the chief is really in earnest?”

“There can be no doubt of it,” said Hendrick.

“Then, my lads, I’ll soon bid ye all farewell, for as I was your leader when the so-called murder was done, I’m bound in honour to take the consequences.”

“Not at all,” cried Squill, whose susceptible heart was touched with this readiness to self-sacrifice. “You can’t be spared yet, Grummidge; if any man shud die it’s the Irishman. Shure it’s used we are to bein’ kilt, anyhow!”

“There’ll be none o’ you killed at all,” cried Captain Trench, starting up with looks of indignation. “I’ll go and carry out my plans—ah! you needn’t look like that, Olly, wi’ your poor mother’s reproachful eyes, for I’m determined to do it, right or wrong!”

Chapter Twenty Three.

Deliverance

Fortunately for Captain Trench, and indeed for the whole party, the execution of his plan was rendered unnecessary by an incident the full significance of which requires that we should transport the reader to another, but not far distant, part of the beautiful wilderness of Newfoundland.

Under the boughs of a spreading larch, on the summit of a mound which commanded a wide prospect of plain and morass, sat an Indian woman. She might have been taken for an old woman, so worn and thin was she, and so hollow were her cheeks; but the glossy blackness of her hair, the smoothness of her brow, and the glitter of her dark eyes told that she was yet in her youthful years.

She sat perfectly listless, with a vacant yet steadfast expression on her thin features, as if she were dreaming with her eyes open. The view before her was such as might indeed arouse the admiration of the most stolid; but it was evident that she took no notice of it, for her eyes were fixed on the clouds above the horizon.

Long she sat, almost motionless, thus gazing into space. Then she began to sing in a low sweet voice a plaintive air, which rose and fell for some time more like a tuneful wail than a song. Suddenly, and in the very midst of her song, she burst into a wild laugh, which increased in vehemence until it rang through the forest in a scream so terrible that it could be accounted for by nothing but insanity. That the poor creature’s reason was indeed dethroned became evident from her subsequent movements, for after falling backwards from the exhaustion produced by her effort, or, it might be, from the sheer weakness resulting from partial starvation, she got up and began quietly to cut up and devour raw a small bird which she had killed with a stone. Strengthened a little by this food, she rose and made a futile effort to draw more closely around her a little shawl, or rather kerchief of deerskin, which covered her shoulders, shuddering with cold as she did so.

Her short leathern gown and leggings were so soiled and torn that the ornamental work with which they had been originally decorated was almost invisible, and the moccasins she had worn hung in mere shreds upon her little feet.

Rising slowly, and with a weary sigh, the poor creature descended the side of the hill and entered the forest at the foot of it.

Lying concealed in a neighbouring thicket an Indian youth had watched the motions of the girl. It was evident, from his gaze of surprise, that he had just discovered her. It was equally evident, from his expression of perplexity, that he hesitated to intrude upon one who, he could not help seeing, was mad; but when she moved forward he followed her with the soft wary tread of a panther.

At first the girl’s step was slow and listless. Then it became rapid. A fit of excitement seemed to come on, and she began to run. Presently the excitement seemed to have passed, for she fell again into the listless walk. After a time she sat down, and recommenced her low wailing song.