Chapter Ten
A Friend in Need
“Look here, my love,” said plump little Mr Gambart to his plump little wife, bustling into the parlour with an open letter in his hand, “isn’t this vexatious! Just listen—it’s from McLeod:—
“‘My dear Gambart,—I take the opportunity of Jonas Bellew leaving me to write a line in reply to your last, which was brought on to me by the Indian. You will be sorry to learn that the Betsy of Plymouth, in which all my goods were embarked, is lying here a total wreck, and the goods have been washed out of her—not a bale or cask saved! But, worse than that, poor Roderick has been badly injured in getting ashore, and now lies here unable to move. Many of the poor fellows who composed the crew have been lost, and those saved are in a sad condition. I was sorry to hear of Loch Dhu being sold, but now that my fortunes have been so utterly and literally wrecked it is perhaps as well as it is. I’m sorry, however, that you bought Barker’s Mill for me. In the circumstances I will find it difficult to repay you for a long time to come.’
“Now,” said Gambart, “isn’t this vexing? I thought it would please him so much, for of course he knows that I would never press him for the money.”
“Did you tell him,” asked Mrs Gambart, “that in the event of his not wanting the mill you would gladly take it yourself?”
“No, I didn’t think that necessary.”
“Didn’t I,” continued the little lady, pursing her little mouth, “didn’t I advise you to do so at the time?”
“You certainly did, my dear.”
“And did I not,” continued Mrs Gambart, severely, “advise you, further, not to keep Mr Redding in ignorance as to who was the late owner of Loch Dhu, for fear of mischief coming of it?”
“Yes, my love,” answered Gambart, with ever-increasing humility, “but no mischief has come of it apparently, and I thought—”
“Oh yes,” interrupted his lady, “I know you thought. You always think when you shouldn’t, and you never think when you should.”
In his heart the little man repelled this accusation, but thought it best in the circumstances to hold his tongue. After a moment or two the lady went on:—
“Besides, you don’t know that no mischief has come of it. Take my advice now. Write immediately to Mr McLeod, telling him that you only ventured to buy the mill for him because you were very anxious to secure it for yourself in the event of his not wanting it, and add that in the selling of Loch Dhu you concealed from Mr Redding the name of the former owner because of an absurd fancy in your own mind which it is not worth while to mention.”
“Won’t that be a sort of humiliating confession?” urged the little man timidly.
To this the little woman replied that it was better to make a sort of humiliating confession than to admit the full extent of his unreasoning stupidity; and the surveyor, half agreeing with her in his own mind, immediately went to his study, wrote the epistle as directed, and sent it off express by an Indian.
Meanwhile the party at the wreck found themselves in the unpleasant condition of having nothing fresh to eat. As we have said, the trapper had left them, knowing that the fur-traders and the Indians were quite capable of looking after their wants. But soon afterwards the Indians went away down the gulf to hunt seals, and none of the McLeods being able to speak their language, they could not, or would not, be got to understand that one of them was wanted to remain and hunt for the sick man. As McLeod had still some provisions on hand, with a gun and ammunition besides his boat, he did not much mind the departure of the red men at the time. As time wore on, however, and their fresh provisions failed, he became anxious, and wished that he had not so angrily declined the aid offered by the fur-traders. Neither father nor son had the slightest taste for field sports, so that when they saw the track of an animal they found it almost impossible to follow it up with success, and when, by good fortune, they chanced to discover a “partridge” or a squirrel they invariably missed it! This incapacity and a scarcity of game had at last reduced them to extremities.
“Kenneth,” said his father one morning, as they walked up and down beside the hut in which Flora sat talking to Roderick, “we must give up our vain attempts at hunting, for it is quite plain that you and I are incapable of improvement. After that splendid shot of yours, in which you only blew a bunch of feathers out of a bird that was not more than four yards from the end of your gun—”
“That,” interrupted Kenneth, “was the very cause of my missing. Had it been a little further off I should certainly have killed it. But, father, you seem to forget the squirrel’s tail, which is the only trophy you have to show of your prowess after blazing away right and left for two weeks!”
“No, I don’t forget it, lad,” returned his father, “it is because of these sad truths that I have now determined to give it up and send you with the boat for supplies to Jenkins Creek. Of course Ian cannot send to us, having no boat, and Rooney or the Indian would take too long a time to scramble through the tangled woods of this rugged part of the coast, besides which, all they could carry on their backs would not last more than a few days, and as long as Ian does not hear from us he will naturally think that all is going on well. It will take you six days to go and come, but, what with the little that remains of our fresh meat and a chance partridge or two, we shall be able to keep Roderick going till you return. He’s getting stronger now, and as for Flo and me, we can get along famously with salt pork and biscuit for so short a time.”
“But why should I not go rather to the Cliff Fort?” asked Kenneth. “The store there is a public one, and our buying food from the fur-traders will lay us under no obligation to Mr Redding, whom, excuse me, I think you have judged too hastily.”
“It matters not how I have judged him,” retorted McLeod sternly. “There is no occasion to go near him at all. As I have said—”
He stopped abruptly, for at that moment an Indian was seen approaching.
He was a powerfully-built fellow, with a handsome figure and face, though the latter was very dark, and he walked with a stoop and an awkward slouching gait. He wore his long black hair in straight elfin locks; those in front having been cut across the forehead just above the eyebrows, as being the simplest method of clearing the way for vision. He was clad in a very dirty soiled hunting-shirt and leggings of leather, with moccasins of the same, and carried a long gun on his shoulder. McLeod also observed, with much satisfaction, that several partridges hung by their necks from the belt which encircled his waist.
Of course the meeting that ensued was conducted in pantomime, with a few useless remarks in English from Kenneth, who appeared to entertain an idea which is not uncommon among sailors, namely, that a man who knows nothing whatever of the language is more likely to understand bad than good English! “Where you come from?” he asked, after shaking hands with the Indian and giving him the salutation, “watchee?” (what cheer), which he understood, and returned.
A shake of the head was the reply.
“Where you go—go?” said Kenneth, in the hope apparently that emphasis might awaken intelligence.
Again the Indian shook his head.
“What’s the use of asking him?” said McLeod senior. “See, here is a language that is understood by all men.”
He pulled a powder flask from his pocket, and, shaking it at the ear of the savage, offered it to him, at the same time pointing to the partridges and to his own open mouth.
This pantomime was evidently comprehensible, for the man at once threw the birds at McLeod’s feet, and, taking the flask, emptied its contents into his own powder-horn.
“Good,” said McLeod, picking up the birds. “Now, Kenneth, if we can prevail on this redskin to remain by us it won’t be necessary to send you to Jenkins Creek.”
As he spoke, Flora issued from the opening of the tarpaulin tent, exclaiming— “Father, I’ve just—”
On seeing the red man she stopped and gazed at him with much interest. The native returned the gaze, and for one moment a gleam of admiration lighted up his swarthy countenance, but it passed like a flash of light and left that stoical look of impassibility so common to the men of the American wilderness.
“What were you about to say, Flo?” asked her father.
“That I’ve just learned a piece of good news from Roderick. He seemed inclined to talk about the wreck this morning. Seeing him so much better, I gave him encouragement, and he has just told me that before leaving England he had taken the advice of a friend and insured the whole of our goods that were shipped in the Betsy.”
“That’s good news indeed, Flo; better than I deserve after my unbelieving remarks about the efficacy of prayer. And here is good news for you of another kind,” he added, holding up one of the partridges, “fresh meat for Roderick, and a hunter who looks as if he could keep us well supplied if we can only prevail on him to stay with us. Try what you can do, Flo; if he has a spark of gallantry in him he will be sure to understand what you say to him; but it must be in the language of signs, Flo, for he evidently understands no English.”
Thus appealed to, Flora advanced to the Indian, and, taking him somewhat timidly by the sleeve, led him to the opening of the tent and pointed to the sick man; then to the clean-scraped bones of the last rabbit he had eaten, after which she pointed to the game just purchased, touched the Indian’s gun, and, making a sweep with her hand towards the forest looked him full in the face.
The Indian allowed the faintest possible smile to curl his lips for a moment and then with a slight inclination of his head, but without uttering a word, turned abruptly and went off at a long swinging pace into the woods.
“’Pon my word, Flo,” said McLeod, “your pantomime has been most effective, but I have doubts as to whether he understands you to have invited him to be our hunter, or commanded him to go about his business.”
“I think we’ve seen the last of him,” said Kenneth, somewhat gloomily.
“He will return,” said Flora, with decision.
“Well, time will show,” rejoined McLeod, “meanwhile we will delay the trip to Jenkins Creek for a day, and I’ll go have a talk with Roderick about that lucky insurance business.”
Time did settle the matter of the Indian’s intentions almost sooner than had been expected, for that same evening he returned with a further supply of fresh meat and laid it down at Flora’s feet. Nothing, however, would prevail on him to remain and sup with the party. Having received a small supply of powder and shot in payment, he at once turned away and re-entered his native wilderness.
Thus day by day for about a week the silent man made his appearance every evening with fresh supplies, and, we might almost say, disappeared after delivering them. One day Kenneth determined to offer to accompany him on his next appearance. Accordingly he prepared his gun, rolled up his blanket and strapped it on his shoulders, and when the Indian arrived in the evening as usual, he presented himself equipped for the chase.
The Indian expressed some surprise in his looks, and at first seemed to object to Kenneth’s companionship, but at length gave in and they entered the forest together.
It seemed at first as if the red man wished to test the physical powers of his white brother, for he led him over hill and dale, through swamp and brake, during the greater part of that night. Fortunately there was bright moonlight. But Kenneth was stout of frame and enduring in spirit; he proved to be quite a match for the redskin.
At last they encamped under a tall pine, and, after a hearty supper, sat staring at each other and smoking in silence until sleep induced them to lie down. Next morning by daybreak Kenneth was roused by his companion, who, after a hasty meal, led him another long march through a wild but beautiful country, where several partridges and rabbits were shot by the Indian, and a great many more were missed by Kenneth, much to the amusement of his companion.
Towards evening the red man turned his steps in the direction of the tarpaulin tent.
Chapter Eleven
An Adventure and a Surprise
That evening the elder McLeod and Flora had adventure which nearly cost them their lives.
As the sun began to descend, Roderick, who was recovering fast under the influence of good-cheer and good nursing, begged Flora to go out and walk with her father, as she had not left his side all day.
She consented, and sauntered with her father in the direction of the seashore.
Now it so happened that a brown bear, of a species which is still to be found on the uninhabited parts of the Labrador coast, had selected that hour and that locality for his own evening promenade! At a certain part of the slight track which had been formed by the McLeods in their visits to the shore, the bushes were very thick, and here, on rounding a bend in the track, they met the bear face to face. Had there been some little space between them, the animal would probably have turned and fled; but, being taken by surprise, he stood fast.
McLeod and his daughter stood aghast on seeing the monster. The former was unarmed, with the exception of a small hunting-knife and a stout walking-stick. In the first rush of his feelings he suddenly flung his stick at the bear, and with so true an aim, that the heavy head struck it exactly on the point of its nose. Nothing could have been more unfortunate, for the creature’s rage was at once excited. With a savage growl he rose on his hind legs in the attitude of attack.
“Quick! run back, Flo, I’ll check him here,” cried McLeod, drawing the little hunting-knife.
But poor Flora was incapable of running. White with terror she stood gazing at the bear as if fascinated. Her father, seeing this, stepped in front of her with that overwhelming rush of determination which is sometimes felt by courageous men when under the influence of despair, for he felt that with such a weapon he might as well have assailed an elephant.
At that moment the well-known voice of Kenneth was heard to utter a tremendous shout close at hand. Almost at the same instant a sharp crack was heard, and the bear fell at McLeod’s feet, shot through the heart.
We need scarcely say that it was a ball from the gun of the Indian which had thus opportunely put an end to the bear’s career, and still less need we remark that profuse and earnest were the thanks bestowed on him by the whole party.
“We must christen you Sharpeye after this lucky shot,” said Kenneth, when the excitement had subsided. “Now, Sharpeye,” he added, taking his red friend by the arm, “you must stay and sup with us to-night. Come along, whether you understand me or not, I’ll take no denial.”
If the Indian did not understand the language of his friends he evidently understood their pantomime, for he made no further objection to remain, but accompanied them to the camp, and sat silently smoking at their fire, which was kindled in front of the tent door, so that the sick man might enjoy the blaze as well as the companionship.
While thus engaged they were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of another Indian, who advanced quietly into the circle of light, and sat down.
“A messenger, no doubt,” said McLeod, after the first salutation.
A messenger he indeed proved to be, for after casting a furtive look, not unmingled with surprise and suspicion, at his brother redskin, he opened a small bag which hung at his girdle, and delivered to McLeod senior a very dirty-looking letter.
“Ha! from Gambart,” he exclaimed, reading the inscription. “Let us see what— Hallo! Sharpeye, where are you off to?”
This question was called forth in consequence of the red man rising quietly and throwing his gun on his shoulder. Instead of replying, however, he turned abruptly and walked off into the woods.
“The most unaccountable man I ever knew,” exclaimed Kenneth. “I shouldn’t wonder if this messenger and he are implacable foes, and can’t bear to sit at the same fire together.”
The remark which Kenneth began half in jest, was finished in earnest, for he had not done speaking when the messenger also arose and glided into the woods.
“Get the gun ready,” said McLeod, unfolding the letter, “there’s no saying what these fellows may do when their blood’s up.”
Kenneth obeyed, while his father read the letter, which, as the reader has no doubt guessed was that written by Gambart at his imperious little wife’s command.
“I was sure there must be some satisfactory explanation of the matter,” said Flora, when her father had finished reading.
“So was I,” said Kenneth, examining the priming of his gun.
The elder McLeod felt and looked uncomfortable. “What is it all about?” asked Roderick, from the tent.
“Oh, nothing particular,” answered his father, “except that there have been some mistakes and foolish concealments in connection with a certain Reginald Redding, whom I fear I have been rather hasty in judging.”
“Well, that needn’t trouble you,” returned Roderick, “for you’ve only to explain the mistakes and confess your haste.”
“Hm! I suppose I must,” said McLeod, “and I rather think that Flora will—”
A deep blush and an imploring look from Flora stopped him.
Just then a rustle was heard among the leaves outside the circle of the camp-fire’s light, and Kenneth cocked his gun as Sharpeye stalked forward and sat solemnly down by the fire.
“I hope you haven’t killed him, Sharpeye,” said Kenneth, looking with some anxiety at the Indian’s girdle, as though he expected to see a fresh and bloody scalp hanging there.
Of course the Indian gave no answer, but the minds of all were immediately relieved by seeing the messenger return and sit down as he had done before, after which he opened his bag, and, drawing out another letter, handed it to McLeod.
“What! another letter? Why did you not deliver it with the first? Forgot, I suppose—eh! What have we here? It’s from—I do believe, it’s from Reginald Redding. The Indian must have called at the Cliff Fort in passing, but however he got it, here it is, so I’ll read it:—
“‘Dear Sir,’ (Hm, rather friendly, considering),—‘After leaving you on the occasion of our last unsatisfactory meeting,’ (I should think it was), ‘it occurred to me that such indignation on your part,’ (not to mention his own!) ‘must have been the result of some mistake or misapprehension. After some reflection I recalled to mind that on the night I first met you, and learned that the name of your property in Partridge Bay was Loch Dhu, the sudden entrance of the messenger with the sad and startling news of the wreck prevented my telling you that I had become the purchaser of that property, and that, strange though it may seem to you, I did not up to that moment know the name of the person from whom I had bought it. This ignorance was owing to a fancy of my friend, Mr Gambart, to conceal the name from me—a fancy which I am still unable to account for, but which doubtless can be explained by himself. If this “silence” on my part is, as I think probable, the cause of your supposing that I intentionally “deceived” you, I trust that you will find this explanation sufficient to show that you have been labouring under a mistake.’ (No doubt I was.) ‘If, on the other hand, I am wrong in this conjecture, I trust that you will do me the justice to point out the so-called deception of which I am supposed to be guilty, in order that I may clear myself from a false imputation.’”
“Well, father, that clears up the matter sufficiently, doesn’t it?” said Kenneth.
“It does, unquestionably,” replied McLeod, “especially when coupled with the letter from Gambart, which has so strangely reached us at the same time with that of Redding. Well well, after all, things looked bad to me at first. I’m sorry, however, that I gave way to temper when we met, for the explanation might have come at that time; but the hot-headed young fellow gave way to temper too!”
McLeod said this in the tone of a man who, while admitting his fault, looks about for palliating circumstances.
“However,” he continued, rising and folding the letter, “I must write at once to let him know that his explanation is satisfactory, and that—that—”
“That you apologise for your haste,” said Flora, with a laugh.
“Certainly not,” replied McLeod stoutly. “I forgive him for getting angry with me, but I am not called on to ask forgiveness for being indignant with a man whom I supposed I had good reason to believe was a deceiver.”
“It is not necessary to ask forgiveness when no offence was meant,” said Sharpeye, in good English, as he suddenly rose, and, advancing to the elder McLeod, held out his hand.
McLeod gazed at the Indian for a moment in silent amazement.
“I fear,” continued Sharpeye, with a smile, “that I have to ask your forgiveness for having ventured really to practise deception on you.”
He removed a dark wig as he spoke, and revealed to the astonished gaze of the McLeods the light curly hair of Reginald Redding!
“Miraculous apparition!” exclaimed McLeod, grasping the proffered hand, “can I venture to believe my eyes?”
He glanced, as if for sympathy, to the spot where Flora had been seated; but Flora, for reasons best known to herself, had quietly retired to the interior of the tarpaulin tent and was just then absorbed in her duties as nurse to the invalid.