Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Big Otter
In a few minutes the boat was on the beach. We sprang ashore, and hastened to the spot where a thin wreath of smoke indicated the remains of a camp-fire.
Of course we carried our arms, not knowing whom we should meet with.
After examining the spot carefully, Big Otter stood up and was about to speak to our chief, when a slight peculiar chirp was heard in the bushes. It is probable that we should have deemed it that of some small bird and paid no attention to it if our Indian had not suddenly bent his head on one side as if to listen. At the same time he replied to the chirp. Again the sound was heard, and Big Otter, turning round quickly, without uttering a word, entered the bushes and disappeared.
“Stand ready, lads!” said Lumley in a quiet voice, bringing forward the muzzle of his gun, “there’s no saying what may come of this.”
Scarcely had he spoken when a rustling was heard in the bushes. Next moment they were thrust aside and Big Otter reissued from them, followed by two Indians, whom he introduced to us as his brother and nephew. At the same time he gave us the gratifying information that his tribe had moved up from the region in which they usually dwelt for the purpose of hunting and fishing in the neighbourhood of the lake, and that the camp was not more than six or seven miles distant from the spot on which we stood.
To this Lumley replied by expressing his gratification at the news, and shaking hands with the two Indians, who, however, received the shake with some distrust and much surprise, until Big Otter explained the nature and meaning of the white man’s salutation. He also explained the meaning of “What cheer.” On hearing which Maqua, not to be outdone in politeness, extended his hand for another shake, and exclaimed “Watchee!” with profound gravity. Mozwa, with some hesitation, imitated his father’s example.
While we were thus pleasantly engaged, a sonorous trumpet sound was heard behind the clump of small trees near us. A moment later and two magnificent wild swans sailed over the tree-tops and above our heads. They made a tumultuously wild swoop to one side on discovering the near proximity of their enemy man but were too late. Almost before any of the party had time to move a muscle, two sharp cracks were heard, and both swans fell stone dead, with a heavy splash, at the margin of the lake.
It was our chief, Jack Lumley, who had brought them down with his double-barrelled fowling-piece. I have omitted to mention that Lumley was one of the noted crack-shots of the country at that time—noted not only for the deadly precision, but also for the lightning-like rapidity of his aim.
The Indians, albeit themselves pretty fair marksmen, were deeply impressed with this evidence of skill, and it went far to strengthen the influence which our chief’s manly proportions and genial countenance had already begun to exercise.
“That’s a good beginning, Lumley,” said I, “for it not only impresses our new friends favourably, but provides excellent fresh meat for supper.”
“Yonder comes better meat for supper,” he replied, pointing towards a neighbouring height, where we could see the forms of two men approaching, with the carcase of a deer between them.
It was Donald Bane and James Dougall who had been thus successful. These sons of the Scottish Highlands, being ardent sportsmen as well as good marksmen, had been appointed to the post of hunters to our party, and were frequently sent ashore to procure fresh meat.
“The country is swarmin’ wi’ game, Muster Lumley,” said Bane, as they came up, and flung down the deer. “Not only teer an’ rabbits, but tucks an’ geese, an’ all sorts o’ pirds. Moreover, Tougall, she got into a bog after wan o’ the peasts, an’ I thought I wass goin’ to lose him altogither. ‘Shames Tougall,’ says I, ‘don’t you go anither step till I come to you, or you’re a lost man,’ but Shames went on—he was always an obstinate loon—”
“Dat is true,” remarked Salamander.
“Hold yer noise!” said Bane. “Well, sur, Tougall went on, an’ sure enough the very next step down he went up to the neck—”
“No, Tonald,” interrupted Dougall, “it wass not up to the neck; it wass only to the waist. The nixt after that it wass up to the neck, but then I wass soomin’.”
“Ye would hey bin soomin’ yet, Shames, if I had not pulled ye oot,” said his friend.
“Oo ay, Tonald Pane. That iss true, but—”
“Well, Dougall,” interrupted Lumley at this point, “it will be better to dry your garments than discuss the question just now. We will encamp here, so go to work, boys.”
There was no need for more. During our long journey into these far-off wilds each man had fallen into his allotted place and work, and the force of habit had made us so like machines that I think if we had suddenly become a party of somnambulists we would have gone through the same actions each evening on landing.
Accordingly, Lumley and I gathered small branches and rekindled the Indians’ fire, which had by that time almost gone out. Marcelle Dumont being professionally a forger of axes, and Henri Coppet, being an artificer in wood, went off to cut down trees for firewood; and Donald Bane with his friend set about cutting up and preparing the venison, while Blondin superintended and assisted Salamander and the others in landing the cargo, and hauling up the boat.
“Max,” said Lumley to me that evening during an interval in our devotion to steaks and marrow-bones, “look around for a moment if you can tear your gross mind from the contemplation of food, and tell me what you see?”
He made a sweep with his arm to indicate the surrounding scenery, which was at the moment irradiated by the after-glow of the setting sun, as well as the brightening beams of the full moon.
“I see,” said I, looking up, “a lovely lake, dotted with islets of varied shape and size, with the pale moon reflected almost unbroken in its glassy waters.”
“What else do you see?” asked Lumley.
“I see around and beyond a prospect of boundless woodland, of plain, mound, hill, lake, and river, extending with a grand sweep that suggests ideas which can only be defined by the word Immensity. I see altogether a scene the like of which I never looked upon before—a scene of beauty, peacefulness, and grandeur which gladdens the eye to behold and fills the heart with gratitude to its Maker.”
“You say well, Max,” returned my friend, “and it seems to me that we may regard this Lake Wichikagan which we now look upon as our inheritance in the wilderness, and that the spot on which we now sit shall be, for some time at least, our future home.”
Chapter Nine.
A Bright Apparition—Followed by Rumours of War
While we were thus feasting and chatting on the green sward of the region which seemed destined to be our future home, an object suddenly appeared among the bushes, near the edge of the circle of light cast by our camp-fire.
This object was by no means a frightful one, yet it caused a sensation in the camp which could hardly have been intensified if we had suddenly discovered a buffalo with the nose of an elephant and the tail of a rattlesnake. For one moment we were all struck dumb; then we all sprang to our feet, but we did not seize our firearms—oh no!—for there, half concealed by the bushes, and gazing at us in timid wonder, stood a pretty young girl, with a skin much fairer than usually falls to the lot of Indian women, and with light brown hair as well as bright blue eyes. In all other respects—in costume, and humble bearing—she resembled the women of the soil.
I would not willingly inflict on the reader too much of my private feelings and opinions, but perhaps I may be excused for saying that I fell over head and ears in love with this creature at once! I make no apology for being thus candid. On the contrary, I am prepared rather to plume myself on the quick perception which enabled me not only to observe the beauty of the girl’s countenance, but, what is of far more importance, the inherent goodness which welled from her loving eyes. Yes, reader, call me an ass if you will, but I unblushingly repeat that I fell—tumbled—plunged headlong in love with her. So did every other man in the camp! There is this to be said in excuse for us, that we had not seen any members of the fair sex for many months, and that the sight of this brilliant specimen naturally aroused many pleasant recollections of cousins, sisters, nieces, aunts, mothers, grandmothers—well, perhaps I am going too far; though, after all, the tender, loving-kindness in this girl’s eyes might well have suggested grandmothers!
Before any of us could recover the use of our limbs, Big Otter had glided rapidly towards the girl. Grasping her by the hand, he led her towards Lumley, and introduced her as his sister’s daughter, Waboose.
The red-man was evidently proud as well as fond of his fair niece, and equally clear did it become in a short time that the girl was as fond and proud of him.
“Your relative is very fair,” said Lumley. “She might almost have been the daughter of a white man.”
“She is the daughter of a white man.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; her father was a white hunter who left his people and came to dwell with us and married my sister. He was much loved and respected by us. He lived and hunted and went on the war-path with us for many years—then he was killed.”
“In war?” I asked, beginning to feel sympathetic regard for the father of one who had stirred my heart to—but, I forget. It is not my intention to bore the reader with my personal feelings.
“No,” answered the Indian. “He perished in attempting to save his wife from a dangerous rapid. He brought her to the bank close to the head of a great waterfall, and many hands were stretched out to grasp her. She was saved, but the strength of the brave pale-face was gone, and we knew it not. Before we could lay hold of his hand the current swept him away and carried him over the falls.”
“How sad!” said Lumley. “What was the name of this white man?”
“He told us that his name was Weeum—but,” said the Indian, turning abruptly to Waboose, whose countenance betrayed feelings which were obviously aroused by other matters than this reference to her lost father, “my child has news of some sort. Let her speak.”
Thus permitted, Waboose opened her lips for the first time—disclosing a double row of bright little teeth in the act—and said that she had been sent by her mother in search of Maqua and his son, as she had reason to believe that the camp was in danger of being attacked by Dogrib Indians.
On hearing this, Maqua and Mozwa rose, picked up their weapons, and without a word of explanation entered the bushes swiftly and disappeared.
Big Otter looked after them for a moment or two in grave silence.
“You had better follow them,” suggested Lumley. “If you should require help, send a swift messenger back and we will come to you.”
The Indian received this with a quiet inclination of the head, but made no reply. Then, taking his niece by the hand, he led her into the bushes where his relatives had entered and, like them, disappeared.
“It seems like a dream,” said I to Lumley, as we all sat down again to our steaks and marrow-bones.
“What seems like a dream, Max—the grub?”
“No, the girl.”
“Truly, yes. And a very pleasant dream too. Almost as good as this bone.”
“Oh! you unsentimental, unsympathetic monster. Does not the sight of a pretty young creature like that remind you of home, and all the sweet refining influences shed around it by woman?”
“I cannot say that it does—hand me another; no, not a little thing like that, a big one full of marrow, so—. You see, old boy, a band of beads round the head, a sky-blue cloth bodice, a skirt of green flannel reaching only to the knees, cloth leggings ornamented with porcupine quills and moccasined feet, do not naturally suggest my respected mother or sisters.”
For the first time in our acquaintance I felt somewhat disgusted with my friend’s levity, and made no rejoinder. He looked at me quickly, with slightly raised eyebrows, and gave a little laugh.
With a strong effort I crushed down my feelings, and said in a tone of forced gaiety:—
“Well, well, things strike people in strangely different lights. I thought not of the girl’s costume but her countenance.”
“Come, then, Max,” returned my friend, with that considerate good nature which attracted men so powerfully to him, “I admit that the girl’s face might well suggest the thought of dearer faces in distant lands—and especially her eyes, so different from the piercing black orbs of Indian squaws. Did you note the—the softness, I was going to say truthfulness, of her strangely blue eyes?”
Did I note them! The question seemed to me so ridiculous that I laughed, by way of reply.
I observed that Lumley cast on me for the second time a sharp inquiring glance, then he said:—
“But I say, Max, we must have our arms looked to, and be ready for a sudden call. You know that I don’t love fighting. Especially at the commencement of our sojourn would I avoid mixing myself up with Indians’ quarrels; but if our guide comes back saying that their camp is in danger, we must help him. It would never do, you know, to leave women and children to the mercy of ruthless savages.”
“Leave woman and children!” I exclaimed vehemently, thinking of only one woman at the moment, “I should think not!”
The tone of indignation in which I said this caused my friend to laugh outright.
“Well, well,” he said, in a low tone, “it’s a curious complaint, and not easily cured.”
What he meant was at the time a mystery to me. I have since come to understand.
“I suppose you’ll all agree with me, lads,” said Lumley to the men who sat eating their supper on the opposite side of the fire, and raising his voice, for we had hitherto been conversing in a low tone, “if Big Otter’s friends need help we’ll be ready to give it?”
Of course a hearty assent was given, and several of the men, having finished supper, rose to examine their weapons.
The guns used by travellers in the Great Nor’-west in those days were long single-barrels with flint-locks, the powder in which was very apt to get wet through priming-pans and touch-holes, so that frequent inspection was absolutely necessary.
As our party consisted of twelve men, including ourselves, and each was armed—Lumley and myself with double-barrelled fowling-pieces—we were able, if need be, to fire a volley of fourteen shots. Besides this, my chief and I carried revolvers, which weapons had only just been introduced into that part of the country. We were therefore prepared to lend effective aid to any whom we thought it right to succour.
Scarcely had our arrangements been made when the lithe agile form of Mozwa glided into the camp and stood before Lumley. The lad tried hard to look calm, grave, and collected, as became a young Indian brave, but the perspiration on his brow and his labouring chest told that he had been running far at the utmost speed, while a wild glitter in his dark eye betrayed strong emotion. Pointing in the direction whence he had come, he uttered the name—“Big Otter.”
“All right. I understand you,” said Lumley, springing up. “Now, boys, sharp’s the word; we will go to the help of our guide. But two of you must stay behind to guard our camp. Do you, Donald Bane and James Dougall, remain and keep a bright look-out.”
“Is it to stop here, we are?” asked Bane, with a mutinous look.
“Yes,” exclaimed our leader so sharply that the mutinous look faded.
“An’ are we to be left behind,” growled Dougall, “when there’s fightin’ to be done?”
“I have no time for words, Dougall,” said Lumley in a low voice, “but if you don’t at once set about preparation to defend the camp, I’ll give you some fighting to do that you won’t relish.”
Dougall had no difficulty in understanding his leader’s meaning. He and his friend at once set about the required preparations.
“Now then, Mozwa,” said Lumley.
The young Indian, who had remained erect and apparently unobservant, with his arms crossed on his still heaving chest, turned at once and went off at a swift trot, followed by all our party with the exception of the ill-pleased Highlanders, who, in their eagerness for the fray, did not perceive that theirs might be a post of the greatest danger, as it certainly was one of trust.
“Tonald,” said Dougall, sitting down and lighting his pipe after we were gone, “I wass vera near givin’ Muster Lumley a cood threshin’.”
“Hum! it’s well ye didn’t try, Shames.”
“An’ what for no?”
“Because he’s more nor a match for ye.”
“I don’t know that Tonald. I’m as stout a man as he is, whatever.”
“Oo ay, so ye are, Shames; but ye’re no a match for him. He’s been to school among thae Englishers, an’ can use his fists, let me tell you.”
At this Dougall held up a clenched hand, hard and knuckly from honest toil, that was nearly as big as a small ham. Regarding it with much complacency he said, slowly:—
“An’ don’t you think, Tonald, that I could use my fist too?”
“Maybe you could, in a kind o’ way,” returned the other, also filling his pipe and sitting down; “but I’ll tell ye what Muster Lumley would do to you, Shames, if ye offered to fight him. He would dance round you like a cooper round a cask; then, first of all, he would flatten your nose—which is flat enough already, whatever—wi’ wan hand, an’ he’d drive in your stummick wi’ the other. Then he would give you one between the two eyes an’ raise a bridge there to make up for the wan he’d destroyed on your nose, an’ before you had time to sneeze he would put a rainbow under your left eye. Or ever you had time to wink he would put another under your right eye, and if that didn’t settle you he would give you a finishin’ dig in the ribs, Shames, trip up your heels, an’ lay you on the ground, where I make no doubt you would lie an’ meditate whether it wass worth while to rise up for more.”
“All that would be verra unpleasant, Tonald,” said Dougall, with a humorous glance from the corners of his small grey eyes, “but I duffer with ye in opeenion.”
“You would duffer in opeenion with the Apostle Paul if he wass here,” said the other, rising, as his pipe was by that time well alight, and resuming his work, “but we’ll better obey Muster Lumley’s orders than argufy about him.”
“I’ll agree with you there, Tonald, just to convince you that I don’t always duffer,” said the argumentative Highlander, rising to assist his not less argumentative friend.
The two men pursued their labour in silence, and in the course of an hour or so had piled all the baggage in a circle in the middle of the open lawn, so as to form a little fortress, into which they might spring and keep almost any number of savages at bay for some time; because savages, unlike most white men, have no belief in that “glory” which consists in rushing on certain death, in order to form a bridge of dead bodies over which comrades may march to victory. Each savage is, for the most part, keenly alive to the importance of guarding his own life, so that a band of savages seldom makes a rush where certain death awaits the leaders. Hence our two Highlanders felt quite confident of being able to hold their little fort with two guns each and a large supply of ammunition.
Meanwhile Mozwa continued his rapid trot through wood and brake; over swamp, and plain, and grassy mound. Being all of us by that time strong in wind and limb, we followed him without difficulty.
“Lads, be careful,” said Lumley, as we went along, “that no shot is fired, whatever happens, until I give the word. You see, Max,” he continued in a lower tone, “nothing but the sternest necessity will induce me to shed human blood. I am here to open up trade with the natives, not to fight them, or mix myself up in their quarrels. At the same time it would be bad policy to stand aloof while the tribes we have come to benefit, and of which our guide is a member, are assailed by enemies. We must try what we can do to make peace, and risk something in the attempt.”
Arrived at the Indian camp, we found a band of braves just on the point of leaving it, although by that time it was quite dark. The tribe—or rather that portion of it which was encamped in leathern wigwams, on one of the grassy mounds with which the country abounded—consisted of some hundred families, and the women and children were moving about in great excitement, while the warriors were preparing to leave. I was struck, however, by the calm and dignified bearing of one white-haired patriarch, who stood in the opening of his wigwam, talking to a number of the elder men and women who crowded round him. He was the old chief of the tribe; and, being no longer able to go on the war-path, remained with the aged men and the youths, whose duty it was to guard the camp.
“My children,” he said, as we came up, “fear not. The Great Spirit is with us, for our cause is just. He has sent Big Otter back to us in good time, and, see, has He not also sent white men to help us?”
The war-party was detained on our arrival until we should hold a palaver with the old chief and principal braves. We soon ascertained that the cause of disagreement between the two tribes, and of the declaration of war, was a mere trifle, strongly resembling in that respect the causes of most wars among civilised nations! A brave of the one tribe had insultingly remarked that a warrior of the other tribe had claimed the carcase of a moose-deer which had been mortally wounded, and tracked, and slain by him, the insulter. The insulted one vowed that he shot the deer dead—he would scorn to wound a deer at all—and had left it in hiding until he could obtain assistance to fetch the meat. Young hotheads on both sides fomented the quarrel until older heads were forced to take the matter up; they became sympathetically inflamed, and, finally, war to the knife was declared. No blood had yet been shed, but it was understood by Big Otter’s friends—who were really the injured party—that their foes had sent away their women and children, preparatory to a descent on them.
“Now, Salamander,” said Lumley, who, although he had considerably increased his knowledge of the Indian language by conversing with the guide during our voyage, preferred to speak through an interpreter when he had anything important to say, “tell the old chief that this war-party must not go forth. Tell him that the great white chief who guides the affairs of the traders, has sent me to trade furs in this region, and that I will not permit fighting.”
This was such a bold—almost presumptuous, way of putting the matter that the old red chief looked at the young white chief in surprise; but as there was neither bluster nor presumption in the calm countenance of Lumley—only firmness coupled with extreme good humour—he felt somewhat disconcerted.
“How will my white brother prevent war?” asked the old chief, whose name was Muskrat.
“By packing up my goods, and going elsewhere,” replied Lumley directly, without an instant’s hesitation, in the Indian tongue.
At this, there was an elongation of the faces of the men who heard it, and something like a soft groan from the squaws who listened in the background.
“That would be a sad calamity,” said old Muskrat, “and I have no wish to fight; but how will the young white chief prevent our foes from attacking us?”
“Tell him, Salamander, that I will do so by going to see them.”
“My young braves will be happy to go out under the guidance of so strong a warrior,” returned Muskrat, quite delighted with the proposal.
“Nay, old chief, you mistake me, I will take no braves with me.”
“No matter,” returned Muskrat; “doubtless the white men and their guns will be more than a match for our red foes.”
“Still you misunderstand,” said Lumley. “I am no warrior, but a man of peace. I shall go without guns or knives—and alone, except that I will ask young Mozwa to guide me.”
“Alone! unarmed!” murmured the old man, in astonishment almost too great for expression. “What can one do against a hundred with weapons?”
“You shall see,” said Lumley, with a light laugh as he turned to me.
“Now, Max, don’t speak or remonstrate, like a good fellow; we have no time to discuss, only to act. I find that Muskrat’s foes speak the same dialect as himself, so that an interpreter is needless. I carry two revolvers in the breast of my coat. You have a clasp-knife in your pocket; make me a present of it, will you? Thanks. Now, have our men in readiness for instant action. Don’t let them go to rest, but let them eat as much, and as long, as they choose. Keep the old chief and his men amused with long yarns about what we mean to do in these regions, and don’t let any one follow me. Keep your mind easy. If I don’t return in three hours, you may set off to look for me, though it will I fear be of no use by that time; and, stay, if you should hear a pistol-shot, run out with all our men towards it. Now, Mozwa, lead on to the enemy’s camp.”
The young Indian, who was evidently proud of the trust reposed in him, and cared nothing for danger, stalked into the forest with the look and bearing of a dauntless warrior.
