Фредерик Марриет
The Settlers in Canada
CHAPTER XVI
The next morning was bright and clear, and when Emma and Mary went out, attended by Alfred, to go and milk the cows, although the cold was intense, every thing looked so brilliant and sparkling in the sunshine that they regained their spirits. The lake was still unfrozen, and its waters, which were of an azure blue, contrasted with the whole of the country covered with snow, and the spruce firs with their branches loaded presented an alternate layer of pure white and of the darkest green. Birds there were none to be seen or heard. All was quiet, so quiet that as they stepped along the path which had been cleared away to the cow-house, they almost started at the sound of their own voices, which the atmosphere rendered more peculiarly sonorous and ringing. Alfred had his rifle on his shoulder, and walked in front of his cousins.
"I have come to prove that all your fears are groundless, my dear Emma, and that you need not have any alarm about a skulking, cowardly wolf," said Alfred.
"Well, that may be," replied Emma, "but still we are very glad of your company."
They arrived at the cow-house without any adventure, let loose Sancho, who had been tied up, as it was decided that the dog should remain at home with the others, and proceded to milk the cows. Having finished that task and supplied them with fodder, Mary Percival observed, as they were retracing their steps,
"I must say that it would not only be more convenient but more agreeable if the cows were kept nearer to the house."
"It would be certainly," replied Alfred. "It is a pity that there is not a cow-shed within the palisades; but we have no means of making one at present. Next year, when my father has purchased his horses and his sheep, which he talks of doing, we are to build a regular yard and sheds for all the animals close to the house, and palisaded round as the house now is, with a passage from one palisade to the other. Then it will be very convenient; but 'Rome was not built in a day,' as the proverb says; and we must, therefore, wait another winter."
"And be devoured by the wolves in the mean time," replied Emma, laughing.
"Why, you are getting over your fright already, Emma."
"Yes; I feel pretty bold, now I think there is nothing to be afraid of."
The remainder of the week was passed away in practicing upon the snow-shoes by the males of the party, the women scarcely ever venturing out of doors, as the cold was very severe. Mary and Emma were accompanied by Alfred for the first three or four days; and after that, notwithstanding that the howling of the wolves was heard every night, they took courage when they found that the animals never made their appearance by daylight, and went as before to milk the cows by themselves. On the Saturday, they were in the hopes of seeing old Malachi Bone, but he did not make his appearance, and John, who could now get on very well in his snow-shoes, became very impatient. Alfred and Martin were also very anxious to see the old man, that they might ascertain if he had made any discoveries relative to the Indians. Sunday, as usual, was a day of rest from labor; the services were read by Mr. Campbell, and the evening passed in serious conversation. Mr. Campbell, although usually in good spirits, was certainly not so on that evening: whether it was that the severity of the winter which had set in and the known long duration of it which they had to encounter had an effect upon his spirits, he was melancholy as well as serious. He more than once referred to the former residence when in England, which was a very unusual thing for him to do, and by degrees the conversation was turned in that direction, and, although no one said so, they all felt what a change there was in their present position from that which they had been forced to leave. Mrs. Campbell, who perceived that a gloom was gathering over the whole party, made several remarks tending to reconcile them to their present lot, and, after a time Mr. Campbell observed—
"Perhaps, my dear children, it may be a divine mercy which has sent you here to this wilderness; true it is that we are removed from civilization, and shut up here by a severe winter, deprived of the enjoyments and pleasures which are to be found in the society which we were compelled to leave; but let us also bear in mind that we are removed from the many temptations which might have there assailed us."
"But still, papa, you would be very glad if circumstances would permit us to return to England; would you not?" said Percival.
"Yes, my child, I should, and even if I had remained here so long as to have become attached to the place and to the isolation which at first is felt so irksome, I would still return to England and to society, if I had the means. As Christians, we are not to fly from the world and its temptations, but to buckle on our armor, and putting our trust in Him who will protect us, fight the good fight; that is, doing our duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call us."
"But if ever we were to return to England, there would be no chance of our living as we did before we left it, would there, papa?"
"I see none, my dear boy; but we never know what is in store for us. Should any of us ever return, I presume it would be to live in a more humble way; and for my part, I should prefer that it were so, for although I trust I did not greatly misuse that wealth which I so long supposed to be mine, I should not be sorry to have much less, and therefore less responsibility."
"Indeed, my dear Campbell, imperfect as we all are, I do not believe that many could have made a better use of it than you did."
"I thought so at the time, my dear," replied Mr. Campbell, "but since it has been lost to me, I have often thought that I might have done more good with it. But the fact is, my dear children, there is nothing so dangerous to our eternal welfare as great wealth; it tends to harden the heart by affording the means of constant self-indulgence:—under such circumstances, man is apt to become selfish, easily satisfied with his own works, and too proud to see his errors. Did you observe in the Litany, which I read at this morning's service, how very appropriately is inserted the prayer, for deliverance under the perils of wealth?—
"'In all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us.'
"Examine this, my dear children: in all time of our tribulation,—that is in poverty and distress, and perhaps famishing from want (and in few positions are people so incited to crime), then in all time of our wealth, evidently and distinctly placing wealth as more dangerous to the soul's welfare than the extremest poverty and its accompanying temptations; and observe, only exceeded by the most critical of all dangerous positions, when all has been done and nothing can be undone,—the hour of death, followed by the day of judgment."
Mr. Campbell ceased speaking, and there was a pause for a minute or two in the conversation, when Mary Percival said, "What, then, my dear uncle, do you consider as the most enviable position in life?"
"I consider a moderate independence as the most enviable; not occupied in trade, as the spirit of barter is too apt to make us bend to that which is actually fraud. I should say, a country gentleman living on his own property and among his own tenants, employing the poor around him, holds a position in which he has the least temptation to do wrong, and the most opportunities of doing good."
"I agree with you, my dear Campbell," said his wife; "and yet how few are satisfied even with that lot."
"Because the craving after wealth is so strong, that every one would have more than he hath, and few men will be content. The desire of aggrandizement overcomes and masters us; and yet what can be more absurd than to witness the care and anxiety of those to gain riches, who have already more perhaps than is necessary for their wants,—thus 'heaping up riches, not knowing who may gather them,' and endangering the soul to obtain that which they must leave behind them when they die. Others amass wealth, not actuated by the avarice of hoarding it up, but by the appetite for expending it; who collect unjustly that they may lavish profusely; these are equally foolish, and how important is that lesson given in the Scriptures." Mr. Campbell opened the Bible which lay before him and read—
"And he spake a parable unto them. The ground of a certain rich man brought forth plentifully.
"And he said, What shall I do? because I have no room where to bestow my fruits.
"And he said: This will I do; I will pull down my barns and build greater, and there will I bestow all my fruits and my goods.
"And I will say to my soul: Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years, take thine ease; eat, drink, and be merry.
"But God said unto him: Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee."
After a short silence, Mrs. Campbell observed, "I have often reflected since I have been here upon what might have been our position had we decided upon remaining in England. We might at this moment have been in the greatest distress, even wanting a meal; and I have, therefore, often thanked God that He left us the means of coming here and providing for ourselves as we have done, and as I have no doubt shall, with His blessing, continue to do. How much better off are we at this moment than many thousands of our countrymen who remain in England! How many are starving! How many are driven into crime from want! while we have a good roof over our heads, sufficient clothing and more than sufficient food. We have, therefore, great reason to thank God for the mercies He has vouchsafed to us; He has heard our prayer, 'Give us this day our daily bread.'" "Yes," continued Mr. Campbell, "'Give us this day our daily bread,' is all that we are taught to ask for; and it comprehends all; and yet how heartlessly is this pronounced by many of those who do repeat their daily prayers. So is the blessing asked at meals, which is by too many considered as a mere matter of form. They forget, that He who gives can also take away; and in their presumption, suppose their own ability and exertion to have been the sole means of procuring themselves a daily supply of food; thanking themselves rather than the Giver of all good. How many thousands are there who have been supplied with more than they require from their cradle down to their grave, without any grateful feeling toward Heaven; considering the butcher and baker as their providers, and the debt canceled as soon as the bills are paid. How different must be the feeling of the poor cottager, who is uncertain whether his labor may procure him and his family a meal for the morrow, who often suffers privation and hunger, and, what is more painful, witnesses the sufferings of those he loves. How earnest must be his prayer when he cries, 'Give us this day our daily bread.'"
This conversation had a very strong effect upon the party, and when they retired to rest, which they did shortly after, they laid their heads upon their pillows not only with resignation, but with thankfulness for the mercies which had been vouchsafed to them, and felt that in the wilderness they were under the eye of a watchful and gracious Providence.
CHAPTER XVII
On the Monday morning Alfred and Martin went to the cow-house, and slaughtered the bullock which they had obtained from the commandant of the fort. When it was skinned it was cut up, and carried to the storehouse, where it was hung up for their winter consumption.
As the party were sitting down to dinner, they were greeted by Captain Sinclair and a young lieutenant of the garrison. It hardly need be said that the whole family were delighted to see them. They had come overland on their snow-shoes, and brought some partridges, or grouse, as they are sometimes called, which they had shot on their way. Captain Sinclair had obtained leave from the commandant to come over and see how the Campbells were getting on. He had no news of any importance, as they had had no recent communications with Quebec or Montreal; all was well at the fort, and Colonel Forster had sent his compliments, and begged, if he could be useful, that they would let him know. Captain Sinclair and his friend sat down to dinner, and talked more than they ate, asking questions about every thing.
"By the by, Mr. Campbell, where have you built your pig-sties?"
"Inside the palisade, next to the fowl-house."
"That is well," replied Captain Sinclair, "for otherwise you may be troubled by the wolves, who are very partial to pork or mutton."
"We have been troubled with them," replied Emma; "at least with their howlings at night, which make me tremble as I lie awake in bed."
"Never mind their howling, Miss Emma; we have plenty of them round the fort, I can assure you; unless attacked, they will not attack you, at least, I never knew an instance, although I must confess that I have heard of them."
"You will, of course, sleep here to-night?"
"Yes: we will, if you have a bear or buffalo skin to spare," replied Captain Sinclair.
"We will manage it, I have no doubt," said Mr. Campbell.
"And if you could manage, Captain Sinclair," said Emma, somewhat archly, "as you say that they are not dangerous animals, to bring us a few skins to-night, it would make the matter easy."
"Emma, how can you talk such nonsense?" cried Mary Percival. "Why should you ask a guest to undertake such a service? Why have you not proposed it to Alfred or Henry, or even Martin?"
"We will both try, if you please," replied Alfred.
"I must put my veto on any such attempts, Alfred," said Mr. Campbell. "We have sufficient danger to meet without running into it voluntarily, and we have no occasion for wolves' skins just now. I shall, however, venture to ask your assistance to-morrow morning. We wish to haul up the fishing-punt before the ice sets in on the lake, and we are not sufficiently strong-handed."
During the day Captain Sinclair took Alfred aside to know if the old hunter had obtained any information relative to the Indians. Alfred replied that they expected him every day, but as yet had not received any communication from him. Captain Sinclair stated that they were equally ignorant at the fort as to what had been finally arranged, and that Colonel Forster was in hopes that the hunter would by this time have obtained some intelligence.
"I should not be surprised if Malachi Bone were to come here to-morrow morning," replied Alfred. "He has been away a long while, and, I am sure, is as anxious to have John with him as John is impatient to go."
"Well, I hope he will; I shall be glad to have something to tell the Colonel, as I made the request upon that ground. I believe, however, that he was very willing that I should find an excuse for coming here, as he is more anxious about your family than I could have supposed. How well your cousin Mary is looking."
"Yes; and so is Emma, I think. She has grown half a head since she left England. By the by, you have to congratulate me on my obtaining my rank as lieutenant."
"I do indeed, my dear fellow," replied Captain Sinclair. "They will be pleased to hear it at the fort. When will you come over?"
"As soon as I can manage to trot a little faster on these snow-shoes. If, however, the old hunter does not come to-morrow, I will go to the fort as soon as he brings us any news."
The accession to their party made them all very lively, and the evening passed away very agreeably. At night, Captain Sinclair and Mr. Gwynne were ushered into the large bedroom, where all the younger male portion of the family slept, and which, as we before stated, had two spare bed-places.
The next morning, Captain Sinclair would have accompanied the Miss Percivals on their milking expedition, but as his services were required to haul up the fishing punt, he was obliged to go down, with all the rest of the men, to assist; Percival and John were the only ones left at home with Mrs. Campbell. John, after a time, having, as usual, rubbed down his rifle, threw it on his shoulder, and, calling the dogs which lay about, sallied forth for a walk, followed by the whole pack except old Sancho, who invariably accompanied the girls to the cow-house.
Mary and Emma tripped over the new-beaten snow-path to the cow-house, merry and cheerful, with their pails in their hands, Emma laughing at Captain Sinclair's disappointment at not being permitted to accompany them. They had just arrived at the cow-house, when old Sancho barked furiously, and sprang to the side of the building behind them, and in a moment afterward rolled down the snowheap which he had sprung over, holding on and held fast by a large black wolf. The struggle was not very long, and during the time that it lasted the girls were so panic-struck, that they remained like statues within two yards of the animals. Gradually the old dog was overpowered by the repeated snapping bites of the wolf, yet he fought nobly to the last, when he dropped under the feet of the wolf, his tongue hanging out, and bleeding profusely and lifeless. As soon as his adversary was overpowered, the enraged animal, with his feet upon the body of the dog, bristling his hair and showing his powerful teeth, was evidently about to attack the young women. Emma threw her arm around Mary's waist, advancing her body so as to save her sister. Mary attempted the same, and then they remained waiting in horror for the expected spring of the animal, when of a sudden the other dogs came rushing forward, cheered on by John, and flew upon the animal. Their united strength soon tore him down to the ground, and John coming up, as the wolf defended himself against his new assailants, put the muzzle of his rifle to the animal's head, and shot it dead.
The two sisters had held up during the whole of this alarming struggle; but as soon as they perceived the wolf was dead and that they were safe, Mary could stand no longer, and sank down on her knees, supporting her sister, who had become insensible.
If John showed gallantry in shooting the wolf, he certainly showed very little toward his cousins. He looked at Mary, nodded his head toward the wolf's body, and saying "He's dead," shouldered his rifle, turned round and walked back to the house.
On his return he found that the party had just come back from hauling up the punt, and were waiting the return of the Miss Percivals to go to breakfast.
"Was that you who fired just now, John?" said Martin.
"Yes," replied John.
"What did you fire at?" said Alfred.
"A wolf," replied John.
"A wolf! where?" said Mr. Campbell.
"At the cow-lodge," replied John.
"The cow-lodge!" said his father.
"Yes; killed Sancho!"
"Killed Sancho! why, Sancho was with your cousins!"
"Yes," replied John.
"Then, where did you leave them?"
"With the wolf," replied John, wiping his rifle very coolly.
"Merciful Heaven!" cried Mr. Campbell, as Mrs. Campbell turned pale; and Alfred, Captain Sinclair, Martin, and Henry, seizing their rifles, darted out from the house, and ran with all speed in the direction of the cow-house.
"My poor girls!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell.
"Wolf's dead, father," said John.
"Dead! Why didn't you say so, you naughty boy!" cried Mrs. Campbell.
"I wasn't asked," replied John.
In the meantime the other party had gained the cow-house; and, to their horror, beheld the wolf and dog dead, and the two young women lying on the snow, close to the two animals; for Mary had fainted away shortly after John had walked off. They rushed toward the bodies of the two girls, and soon discovered that they were not hurt. In a short time they were recovered, and were supported by the young men to the house.
As soon as they arrived, Mrs. Campbell took them into their room, that they might rally their spirits, and in a quarter of an hour returned to the party outside, who eagerly inquired how they were.
"They are much more composed," replied Mrs. Campbell; "and Emma has begun to laugh again; but her laugh is rather hysterical and forced; they will come out at dinner-time. It appears they are indebted to John for their preservation, for they say the wolf was about to spring upon them when he came to their assistance. We ought to be very grateful to Heaven for their preservation. I had no idea, after what Martin said about the wolves, that they were so dangerous."
"Why, ma'am, it is I that am most to blame, and that's the fact," replied Martin. "When we killed the bullock I threw the offal on the heap of snow close to the cow-lodge, meaning that the wolves and other animals might eat it at night, but it seems this animal was hungry, and had not left his meal when the dog attacked him, and that made the beast so rily and savage."
"Yes; it was the fault of Martin and me," replied Alfred. "Thank Heaven it's no worse!"
"So far from it being a subject of regret, I consider it one of thankfulness," replied Mr. Campbell. "This might have happened when there was no one to assist, and our dear girls might have been torn to pieces. Now that we know the danger, we may guard against it for the future."
"Yes, sir," replied Martin; "in future some of us will drive the cows home, to be milked every morning and evening; inside the palisade there will be no danger. Master John, you have done well. You see, ma'am," continued Martin, "what I said has come true. A rifle in the hands of a child is as deadly a weapon as in the hands of a strong man."
"Yes; if courage and presence of mind attend its use," replied Mr. Campbell. "John, I am very much pleased with your conduct."
"Mother called me naughty," replied John, rather sulkily.
"Yes, John, I called you naughty, for not telling us the wolf was dead, and leaving us to suppose your cousins were in danger; not for killing the wolf. Now I kiss you, and thank you for your bravery and good conduct."
"I shall tell all the officers at the fort what a gallant little fellow you are, John," said Captain Sinclair; "there are very few of them who have shot a wolf, and what is more, John, I have a beautiful dog, which one of the officers gave me the other day in exchange for a pony, and I will bring it over, and make it a present to you for your own dog. He will hunt any thing, and he is very powerful—quite able to master a wolf, if you meet with one. He is half mastiff and half Scotch deerhound, and he stands as high as this," continued Captain Sinclair, holding his hand about as high as John's shoulder.
"I'll go to the fort with you," said John, "and bring him back."
"So you shall, John, and I'll go with you," said Martin, "if master pleases."
"Well," replied Mr. Campbell, "I think he may; what with Martin, his own rifle, and the dog, John will, I trust be safe enough."
"Certainly, I have no objection," said Mrs. Campbell, "and many thanks to you, Captain Sinclair."
"What's the dog's name?" said John.
"Oscar," replied Captain Sinclair. "If you let him walk out with your cousins, they need not fear a wolf. He will never be mastered by one, as poor Sancho was."
"I'll lend him sometimes," replied John.
"Always; when you don't want him yourself, John."
"Yes, always," replied John, who was going out of the door.
"Where are you going, dear," said Mrs. Campbell.
"Going to skin the wolf," replied John, walking away.
"Well, he'll be a regular keen hunter," observed Martin, "I dare say old Bone has taught him to flay an animal. However, I'll go and help him, for it's a real good skin." So saying, Martin followed John.
"Martin ought to have known better than to leave the offal where he did," observed Captain Sinclair.
"We must not be too hard, Captain Sinclair," said Alfred. "Martin has a contempt for wolves, and that wolf would not have stood his ground had it been a man instead of two young women who were in face of him. Wolves are very cunning, and I know will attack a woman or child when they will fly from a man. Besides, it is very unusual for a wolf to remain till daylight, even when there is offal to tempt him. It was the offal, the animal's extreme hunger, and the attack of the dog—a combination of circumstances—which produced the event. I do not see that Martin can be blamed, as one can not foresee every thing."
"Perhaps not," replied Captain Sinclair, "and 'all's well that ends well.'"
"Are there any other animals to fear?" inquired Mrs. Campbell.
"The bear is now safe for the winter in the hollow of some tree or under some root, where he has made a den. It will not come out till the spring. The catamount or panther is a much more dangerous animal than the wolf; but it is scarce. I do think, however, that the young ladies should not venture out, unless with some rifles in company, for fear of another mischance. We have plenty of lynxes here; but I doubt if they would attack even a child, although they fight when assailed, and bite and claw severely."
The Misses Percival now made their appearance. Emma was very merry, but Mary rather grave. Captain Sinclair, having shaken hands with them both, said—
"Why, Emma, you appear to have recovered sooner than your sister!"
"Yes," replied Emma; "but I was much more frightened than she was, and she supported me, or I should have fallen at the wolf's feet. I yielded to my fears; Mary held up against hers; so, as her exertions were much greater than mine, she has not recovered from them so soon. The fact is, Mary is brave when there is danger, and I am only brave when there is none."
"I was quite as much frightened as you, my dear Emma," said Mary Percival; "but we must now help our aunt, and get dinner ready on the table."
"I can not say that I have a wolfish appetite this morning," replied Emma, laughing; "but Alfred will eat for me and himself too."
In a few minutes dinner was on the table, and they all sat down without waiting for Martin and John, who were still busy skinning the wolf.
