Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Big Otter
On returning to the hall with the once familiar and well-remembered instrument, I believe every man there felt a tendency to worship her. But who shall describe the effect produced when she began to play, with the utmost facility and with deep feeling, one of the most beautiful of the plaintive Scottish melodies? Bane and Dougall shaded their rugged faces with their rugged hands to hide the tears that could not be restrained. Lumley, whose mind, although untouched by associations, was peculiarly susceptible to sweet sounds, sat entranced. So did Big Otter, who could only glare; because instrument, tune, and performer, were alike new and magical to him. Even Salamander forgot his jealousy and almost collapsed with wonder. As for Dumont, Coppet, and the others—they clasped their hands, opened their eyes and mouths, and simply drank it in.
There was no applause when the air ceased, but a deep sigh from every one seemed to be the indication of a return to ordinary consciousness. Waboose and her mother did not sigh, however. They sat still and gazed in silent wonder. Jessie Macnab, with a slight blush at the unexpected effect, ran her fingers lightly over the keys of her instrument, and then suddenly began to play a Highland reel with tremendous vigour!
If an electric shock had traversed the marrow or our backbones, the result could not have been more surprising.
“Wow! Tougall, man!” exclaimed Bane, starting up and flinging away his chair.
Dougall said nothing, but he uttered a Celtic yell suggestive of war and all its horrors to Big Otter, and, starting up, began the Highland fling opposite to his friend in the most violent manner. As I was not a bad dancer of Scots’ reels myself, and the music had caused me also to boil over, I started up likewise and faced Macnab, who, being equally affected, stood up to me in a moment, and away we went, hammer and tongs, with stamp and whoop and snap of finger—oh! the scene is indescribable. Indeed, I may say that to an ordinary civilised man who never saw it, the scene is inconceivable, so—we will pass on.
While these stirring events were taking place inside the hall, a black-faced, red-painted savage was flattening his ugly nose against a pane of glass outside one of the windows. It was Attick, whom our chief had convicted of stealing about the time of our arrival. That unpleasant savage had never forgiven Lumley, and, being exceedingly vindictive, had resolved to murder him! With this end in view, he had been prowling about the place for several days, having arrived with a band of his tribe who had assembled at Christmas-time to enjoy some of the good cheer which they understood to be going at that season among the pale-faces.
On New Year’s night unknown to his comrades—for it was his intention to do the deed secretly, and leave the imputation upon all—he watched his opportunity, and thought he had found it when, after the dance was over and the guests had retired, he saw Lumley seated by the fire in conversation with the newly-arrived pale-face girl. Macnab and I had gone with the men to their house for some purpose—I forget what—so that the two were left alone.
Attick might easily have opened the door and shot his victim, but the report, he knew, would have roused every one; besides, his absence at the moment and his dirty gun would have betrayed him to his comrades; so, being a strong man, he preferred the scalping-knife, with the use of which he was of course familiar.
Now, it chanced that there hung a small looking-glass over the hall fireplace. In that glass Lumley could see not only himself, but the door and windows of the room behind him, as he sat chatting with Jessie Macnab. Happening to glance into the glass, he observed the flattened nose of Attick on the window-pane with the glaring eyes above it. A tête-à-tête with the fair Jessie was too pleasant, however, to be interrupted by such a trifle; he therefore continued the conversation, though he kept a sharp look-out behind him. Presently he saw the door open—open so gently that it gave forth no sound. Immediately after, a blackened and savage head appeared with a diabolical expression on the countenance. It was followed slowly by a hand in which a gleaming knife was clutched. Lumley now fully understood what was meditated, for he recognised Attick through his war-paint. He did not move, however, for he felt that if he sprang up too soon the savage could easily leap back through the doorway and escape into the dark woods. He therefore laid strong constraint on himself and waited.
Miss Macnab’s back was turned to the savage, but not having the advantage of the glass, she could not see him, and continued her pleasant prattle. Like a dark, noiseless shadow, the Indian advanced, and raised his knife.
“Then you like this wilderness life?” asked Jessie, at that moment.
“Yes, I confess, Miss Macnab, that it has its charms as well as its disagreeables—the utter want of society being the worst of the latter.”
“I should have thought,” said the girl, looking up, “that you—but—but—why do you gaze and frown so fiercely at that—”
She was promptly answered, for Lumley sprang up at the moment with panther-like agility, wheeled round, seized the uplifted arm, and, with a wrench so violent as to break it, he hurled the savage to the ground.
Jessie Macnab sprang up in consternation, but did not give way to that supposed female-in-alarm necessity—a scream. At the same moment Macnab and I entered.
“Hallo! Lumley. What’s all this?” cried Macnab. “Nobody hurt, I hope?”
“I fear the Indian is hurt somewhat,” said our chief, looking down at his enemy, who lay stunned upon the floor. “Go, Max, assemble our men and fetch all the Indians.”
In a few minutes all were assembled in the hall, when Lumley, in a low, stern voice, related what had occurred, appealing to Jessie to corroborate what he said.
“Now,” he added in conclusion, turning to the Indians, “I have no quarrel with you. There lies your comrade. He has forfeited his life to me, but I forgive him. Take him away.”
Lumley said no more, as, in solemn surprise and silence, the Indians lifted up their comrade and bore him out of the hall; but he took good care to make no reference whatever to the looking-glass, and I verily believe that to this day it is believed by the red-men of that region that Lumley has eyes in the back of his head.
Chapter Eighteen.
The Mysterious Packet—Friends depart, and Lumley is caught singing
The uncertainty of all sublunary things is a truism so trite that I do not mean to insult the reader’s understanding by attempting to prove it. I merely refer to it in order to say that the great Nor’-west is not exempt from that general rule of uncertainty.
At first peace and prosperity attended us, at least in all the main lines of life, with only trivial variations, and we felt disposed to believe that the sunshine would continue to gladden us throughout the whole winter. But such was not to be the case. Soon after the events narrated in the last chapter, clouds began to gather, the peaceful flow of our life was interrupted, and at last a storm burst which filled the inhabitants of our little fort with consternation.
After the attempted murder by Attick on New Year’s Day, the Indians left the fort, taking their wounded friend along with them. No doubt they felt that it would be scarcely reasonable in them to expect to be entertained with the good things of the pale-faces after the dastardly attempt that had been made on our chief’s life. But Attick, who had been wounded more deeply in his feelings than in his body, resolved to be revenged. He was the more urged to this because his savage affections had been fixed on, and no doubt he had been sharp enough to perceive my own regard for the girl, and was jealous enough to believe that I would take advantage of my position and of her residence at the fort to supplant him.
Bad men invariably find like-minded spirits ready to help them in their dark designs. Among the redskins of his tribe Attick found no difficulty in securing the allegiance of one or two men, who were in the habit of looking up to him as their leader, and it was not very long before he found his opportunity—as shall soon be told. When the Macnabs had spent three weeks with us, they set off on the return journey to the Mountain Fort, taking Waboose along with them—for Jessie Macnab had taken so strong a fancy to the fair-haired half-caste that she had prevailed on her to agree to visit the Mountain Fort in company with her mother, from whom she refused to be separated even for a few days.
Before their departure, however, I had a conversation with Waboose, in which I reminded her of the packet about which she had spoken to me on a memorable occasion in the woods. I may remark here in passing that I had conscientiously held to my promise to Lumley, and had carefully abstained from making the slightest effort to gain the girl’s affections, or to show her the state of my own feelings. Indeed, I had rather avoided her as much as possible without appearing rude or unkind. Of course I could not however, help showing my pity for, and sympathy with, her poor invalid mother, and as I was the only one in our little community who possessed the smallest knowledge of medicine or surgery I was forced to visit their hut daily in the capacity of doctor.
“Waboose,” said I, during the conversation above referred to, “you need not be anxious about your mother. I feel assured that her complaint is of such a nature that her general health will be benefited by a trip over the snow—provided she is kept warm and does not travel too far each day. Of course there is no fear of that, with you and Miss Macnab to look after her, and I have given careful directions to Mr Macnab how to treat her.”
“You are very kind,” replied the girl with much earnestness of tone and manner.
“And now, Waboose,” I continued, “you remember saying long ago you would show me the packet that—”
“Yes, it is here,” she said, quickly, taking it out of the folds of a light shawl which covered her shoulders—the gift of Jessie—and handing it to me.
“Thank you. Well, I will examine it carefully this afternoon and give it back to you to-morrow before you start.”
“No, keep it. I can trust you,” she said, with a simple look that somehow depressed me, for it was almost too simple and sisterly to my mind. “Besides,” she added, “it is safer in your hands than mine, and when I come again you will explain to me what it contains.”
Next day the party left us. It consisted of Macnab, who, with his wonted energy of nature, was leader and beater of the track; the sprightly Jessie in a cariole drawn by four dogs; Waboose’s mother in a similar cariole, and the fair Waboose herself, on snow-shoes, for she preferred the mode of travelling to which she had been most accustomed. Two Indians dragging provision-sleds brought up the rear.
It had been arranged that I should convoy the party to their first bivouac in the snow, spend the night with them, and continue to journey with them the second day as far as was consistent with the possibility of returning to the fort that night. Jack Lumley accompanied us at first, but another small party of Indians had come in to stay at the fort at that time, and although he had, I am certain, a very strong desire to go further, with his usual self-sacrificing spirit when duty pointed another way, he turned and left us at the end of a few miles.
I spent the night in the snow-bivouac as arranged, and continued to journey onward with the party next day, until Macnab refused to let me go another step.
“Now, Max,” he said, laughingly, “you must turn here. Why, man, it will be midnight before you get in, good walker though you be. Come, good-bye.”
“Well, well, I suppose it’s better to turn since you seem tired of my company,” said I, turning to Jessie, who stood up in her sleigh to shake hands. “Good-bye, Miss Macnab.”
“Jessie, man, Jessie—none of your Miss Macnabs here, else I’ll tumble you into the snow by way of farewell,” shouted the irrepressible Highlander.
“Very well, good-bye, Jessie,” said I, with a laugh, though my heart was heavy enough. “Good-bye, Waboose—farewell all.”
With a wave of his hand Macnab tramped on ahead, the sleigh-bells rang out merrily and the rest of the party followed.
After they had gone a few yards Waboose turned and waved her hand again. As I looked on her fair face, glowing with health and exercise, her upright, graceful figure in its picturesque costume and her modest mien, I felt that two beams of light had shot from her bright blue eyes and pierced my heart right through and through. It was a double shot—both barrels, if I may say so—well aimed at the centre of the bull’s-eye!
Next moment she was gone—the whole party having dipped over the brow of a snow-drift.
“An Indian! a half-caste!” I exclaimed in a burst of contempt, going off over the plain at five miles an hour, “nothing of the sort. A lady—one of Nature’s ladies—born and br–no, not bred; no need for breeding where genuine purity, gentleness, tenderness, simplicity, modesty—”
I stuck at this point partly for want of words and partly because my snow-shoes, catching on a twig, sent my feet into the air and stuck my head and shoulders deep into a drift of snow. Though my words were stopped, however, the gush of my enthusiasm flowed steadily on.
“And what can be more worthy of man’s admiration and respectful affection?” I argued, as I recovered my perpendicular, coughed the snow out of my mouth and nose, and rubbed it out of my eyes; “what more worthy of true-hearted devotion than this—this—creature of—of light; this noble child of nature—this Queen of the Wilderness?”
I repeated “This Queen of the Wilderness” for a considerable time afterwards. It seemed to me a happy expression, and I dwelt upon it with much satisfaction as I sped along, sending the fine snow in clouds of white dust from my snow-shoes, and striding over the ground at such a pace that I reached Fort Wichikagan considerably before midnight in spite of Macnab’s prophecy.
I am not naturally prone thus to lay bare the secret workings of my spirit. You will, therefore, I trust, good reader, regard the revelation of these things as a special mark of confidence.
On reaching the fort I observed that a bright light streamed from the hall windows, casting a ruddy glow on the snow-heaps which had been shovelled up on each side of the footpath in front, and giving, if possible, a paler and more ghostly aspect to the surrounding scenery.
I went to one of the windows and, imitating Attick, flattened my nose against a pane. A pain was the immediate result, for, the glass being intensely cold, I was obliged to draw back promptly.
Lumley was seated alone at one side of the fire, in the familiar attitude of a man who meditates profoundly—or sleepily; namely, with his legs stretched straight out in front of him, his hands deep in his trousers-pockets, and his chin sunk on his breast, while his eyes stared fixedly at the flames.
I was about to quit my post of observation when a sudden action of my friend arrested me.
Drawing up his legs, grasping his knees with his hands, turning his eyes to the ceiling with that gaze which implies that planks and roof count for nothing in the way of intercepting the flight of Mind to the realms of Inspiration, Lumley opened his handsome mouth and broke forth into song. He had a magnificently harsh voice. I could distinguish both air and words through the double windows. The song was that which I have already quoted elsewhere—“Lovely young Jessie, the flower of Dunblane.” The deep pathos of his tone was thrilling! It flashed a new thought into my brain. Then I became amazed at my own blind stupidity. I now understood the meaning of that restless activity which had struck me recently as being so uncharacteristic of my sedate friend; that anxiety to have all our food well cooked and nicely served, in one who habitually took food just as it came, and cared nothing for quality or appearance; that unusual effort to keep our hall neat and in order; those sharp reproofs to the astonished Salamander for failure in punctuality at meal-hours; that very slight indication of a more frequent use of the brush and comb, in one whose crisp curls required little aid from such implements.
Under the excitement of my discovery I burst into the room with, “Oh! Lumley, you deceiver!” cutting him short in the very middle of those repeated “lovely young Jessies” which constitute the very pith and marrow of the song.
“Why, Max! back already?” cried my friend, starting up with a slightly-confused look, which confirmed my suspicion, and rattling on at a pace which was plainly meant to carry me past the subject. “How you must have walked, to be sure, unless, indeed, you convoyed them only a short part of the way; but that could not have been the case. It would have been so unlike your gallant nature, Max—eh? Well, and how did they get on? Snow not too soft, I hope? Encampment comfortable? But no fear of that of course, with Peter Macnab as leader. No capsizes?”
“None,” said I, seizing advantage of a slight pause; “everything went as well as possible, and the carioles went admirably—especially Jessie’s.”
I looked at him pointedly as I said this, but he coolly stooped to lift a billet and put it on the fire as he rattled on again.
“Yes? That’s just what I hoped for, though I could not be quite sure of it for she has the old one which I had patched up as well as possible. You see, as Macnab said—and of course I agreed with him—it was only fair that the invalid should have the strongest and easiest-going conveyance. By the way, Max, I’ve heard some news. Do you know that that scoundrel Attick is stirring up the tribes against us?”
“No—is he?” said I, quite forgetting the fair Jessie, at this piece of information.
“Yes, and the rascal, I fear, may do us irreparable damage before we can tame him, for he has considerable influence with the young and fiery spirits among the savages—so Big Otter says. Fortunately his power lies only in the tongue, at present, for it seems I broke his arm the night he tried to murder me; but that will mend in time.”
“Very unfortunate,” said I, “that this should happen at the beginning of our career in this region. We must thwart his plans if we can.”
“Moreover,” continued Lumley, with a sly look, “I am told that he has the presumption to aspire to the hand of Waboose!”
“Indeed!” I exclaimed, as a flame of indignation seemed to shoot through my whole frame; “we must thwart his plans in that direction emphatically.”
“Of course, of course,” said my friend, gravely; “it would never do to let such a sweet girl throw herself away on a savage; besides, she’s such a favourite with Jessie Macnab, you know. It would never do—never.”
I looked at him quickly, but he was gazing abstractedly at the fire. I felt that I was no match for my friend at badinage, and gave it up!
“But what do you think he could do!” I asked with some anxiety, after a few minutes’ thought. “You know that Waboose would as soon think of marrying that bloodthirsty savage as she would think of marrying a—a—”
“A pine-tree or a grizzly bear. Yes, I know,” interrupted Lumley, “he will never get her with her own consent; but you know that savages have a knack of marrying women without their consent and then there is the possibility of his attempting to carry her off—and various other possibilities.”
I saw that my friend was jestingly attempting to test my feelings, but I made no reply at first, though I felt strongly on the subject.
“Well, Lumley,” said I, at length, “your first suggestion I meet with the reply that the consent of parents is not ignored among Indians, and that Waboose’s mother is an Indian of so high-minded and refined a nature—partly acquired, no doubt, from her husband—that she will never consent to give her daughter to such a man; such a brute, I might say, considering what he attempted. As to Waboose herself, her father’s gentle nature in her secures her from such a misfortune; and as to her being carried off—well, I don’t think any savages would be bold enough to try to carry off anything from the grip of Peter Macnab, and when we get her back here we will know how to look after her.”
“It may be so,” said Lumley, with a sigh; “and now, my boy, to change the subject, we must buckle to our winter’s work in right good earnest; I mean what may be styled our philanthropic work; for the other work—firewood-cutting, hunting, store arranging, preparation for the return of Indians in spring, with their furs, and all the other odds and ends of duty—is going along swimmingly; but our classes must be resumed, now that the holidays are over, for we have higher interests to consider than the mere eating that we may live, and living that we may eat.”
“All right,” said I heartily, for I was very glad to help in a species of work which, I felt gave dignity to all our other labours. “I’ll get the slates out and start the men at arithmetic to-morrow evening, from the place where we left off. What will you do? Give them ‘Robinson Crusoe’ over again?”
“No, Max, I won’t do that, not just now at all events. I’ll only finish the story and then begin the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ You observed, no doubt that I had been extending my commentaries on ‘Robinson,’ especially towards the last chapters.”
“Yes—what of that?”
“Well, I am free to confess that that was intentionally done. It was a dodge, my boy, to get them into the habit of expecting, and submitting to, commentary, for I intend to come out strong in that line in my exposition of the Pilgrim—as you shall see. I brought the book with this very end, and the long winter nights, in view. And I mean to take it easy too—spin it out. I won’t bore them with too much at a time.”
“Good, but don’t spin it out too long, Lumley,” said I; “you know when men set their hearts on some magnificent plan or scheme they are apt to become prosy. I suppose you’ll also take the writing class, as before?”
“I suppose I must,” returned my friend, with a sigh, “though it goes against the grain, for I was never very good at penmanship, and we have lost our best scholars too, now that Waboose and her mother are gone.”
“By the way, that reminds me,” said I, “that Waboose gave me the packet which she received from her father not long before he was drowned. Here it is.”
I drew it from my breast-pocket and held it up. “She told me her father had said it was no use her opening it, as she could not read it, but that she was to give it to the first white man whom she could trust; you remember my mentioning that to you? she gave it to me only yesterday, and I have not yet found time to read it.”
“Did she say she could trust you, Max!”
“Of course she did. Why not?”
“Oh, certainly, why not?” repeated my friend, with a peculiar look. “Did she say you might communicate its contents to me?”
“Well, no, she did not,” I replied, feeling rather perplexed. “But I am quite sure that, if she meant to trust me at all, she meant to trust to my discretion in the whole matter; and—Jack Lumley,” I added, getting up and grasping my friend’s hand, “if I cannot trust you I can trust nobody.”
“That will do,” he said, returning the squeeze. “You are safe. Go ahead.”
The packet was wrapped in a piece of birch-bark, and tied with a bit of fibrous root. This covering removed, I found a white cambric handkerchief, inside of which was something hard. It turned out to be the miniature of a handsome man, somewhere between forty and fifty. Beside it was a manuscript in English. On one corner of the kerchief was marked in faded ink the name “Eve.”
Holding out the portrait I said,—“You see. I knew he was a gentleman. This must be her father.”
“No doubt,” replied Lumley—“but what says this letter?”
Unfolding the manuscript I spread it carefully on my knee and began to read.
