 | CHAPTER XV. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
His looks are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes
Beam with the wisdom of collected ages.
In green, unbroken years he sees, 'tis said,
The generations pass like antumn fruits,
Garner'd, consumed, and springing fresh to life,
Again to perish_____
Hillhouse.
No further disturbance took place that night, and the
men set about filling up the trenches in the morning
steadily as if nothing had happened. They talked a little
of the extraordinary occurrence, but more was thought
than said. Le Bourdon observed, however, that Pigeonswing
went earlier than usual to the hunt, and that he
made his preparations as if he expected to be absent more
than the customary time.
As there were just one hundred feet of ditch to fill with
dirt, the task was completed, and that quite thoroughly,
long ere the close of the day. The pounding down of
than the mere tumbling of the earth back into its former
bed; but even this portion of the work was sufficiently
attended to. When all was done, the corporal himself, a
very critical sort of person in what he called `garrisons,'
was fain to allow that it was as “pretty a piece of palisading”
as he had ever laid eyes on. The `garrison'
wanted only one thing, now, to render it a formidable
post — and that was water. No spring or well existing
within its narrow limits, however, he procured two or three
empty barrels, portions of le Bourdon's effects, placed them
within the works, and had them filled with sweet water.
By emptying this water two or three times a week, and
refilling the barrels, it was thought that a sufficient provision
of that great necessary would be made and kept up.
Luckily the corporal's `garrison' did not drink, and the
want was so much the more easily supplied for the moment.
In truth, the chienté was now converted into a place of
some strength, when it is considered that artillery had
never yet penetrated to those wilds. More than half the
savages of the west fought with arrows and spears in that
day, as most still do when the great prairies are reached.
A rifleman so posted as to have his body in a great measure
covered by the trunk of a burr oak tree, would be reasonably
secure against the missives of an Indian, and, using
his own fatal instrument of death, under a sense of personal
security, he would become a formidable opponent to
dislodge. Nor was the smallness of the work any objection
to its security. A single well-armed man might suffice
to defend twenty-five feet of palisades, when he would
have been insufficient to make good his position with twice
the extent. Then le Bourdon had cut loops on three
sides of the hut itself, in order to fire at the bears, and
sometimes at the deer, which had often approached the
building in its days of solitude and quiet, using the window
on the fourth side for the same purpose. In a word, a
sense of increased security was felt by the whole party
when this work was completed, though one arrangement
was still wanting to render it perfect. By separating
the real garrison from the nominal garrison during the
night, there always existed the danger of surprise; and
devised a plan to obviate this last-named difficulty. His
expedient was very simple, and had somewhat of barrack-life
about it.
Corporal Flint raised a low platform along one side of
the chienté, by placing there logs of pine that were squared
on one of their sides. Above, at the height of a man's
head, a roof of bark was reared on poles, and prairie
grass, aided by skins, formed very comfortable barrack-beds
beneath. As the men were expected to lie with their
heads to the wall of the hut, and their feet outwards, there
was ample space for twice their number. Thither, then,
were all the homely provisions for the night transported;
and, when Margery closed the door of the chienté, after
returning the bee-hunter's cordial good night, it was with
no further apprehension for the winding of the mysterious
horn.
The first night that succeeded the new arrangement
passed without any disturbance. Pigeonswing did not return,
as usual, at sunset, and a little uneasiness was felt
on his account; but, as he made his appearance quite early
in the morning, this source of concern ceased. Nor did
the Chippewa come in empty-handed; he had killed
not only a buck, but he had knocked over a bear in his
rambles, besides taking a mess of famously fine trout from
a brawling stream at no great distance. The fish were
eaten for breakfast, and immediately after that meal was
ended, a party started to bring in the venison and bear's
meat, under the lead of the Chippewa. This party consisted
of the corporal, Gershom, the bee-hunter, and
Pigeonswing himself. When it left the garrison, the
females were spinning beneath the shade of the oaks, and
the missionary was discoursing with Peter on the subject
of the customs of the latter's people, in the hope of deriving
facts to illustrate his theory of the ten lost tribes.
The buck was found, suspended from a tree as usual,
at the distance of only a mile from the `garrison', as the
corporal now uniformly called `Castle Meal.' Here the
party divided; Flint and Gershom shouldering the venison,
and Pigeonswing leading the bee-hunter still further from
home in quest of Bruin. As the two last moved through
occurred that it may help along the incidents of our legend
to record.
“You made a long hunt of it yesterday, Pigeonswing,”
observed le Bourdon, as soon as he found himself alone
with his old ally. “Why didn't you come in at night accordin'
to custom.”
“Too much see—too much do. Dat good reason, eh?”
was the answer.
“Your do was to kill one buck and one bear, no such
great matter after all; and your see could not much alter
the case, since seeing a whole regiment of the creatures
couldn't frighten a man like you.”
“No said frighten,” returned the Chippewa sharply.
“Squaw frighten, not warrior.”
“I ask your pardon, Pigeonswing, for supposing such a
thing possible; though you will remember I did not think
it very likely to be the fact with you. I will give you one
piece of advice, however, Chippewa, which is this—do not
be ready to jump down every man's throat who may happen
to think it possible that you might be a little skeary
when enemies are plenty. It is the man who feels himself
strongest in such matters, that is the least likely to
take offence at any loose remark of this nature. Your
fiery devils go off sometimes at half-cock, because they
have a secret whisperer within that tells 'em the charge is
true. That's all I've to say just now, Chippewa.”
“Don't know—don't hear (understand) what you say.
No frighten, tell you—dat 'nuff.”
“No need of being like a steel-trap, Injin—I understand,
if you don't. Now, I own I am skeary when there is reason
for it, and all I can say in my own favour is, that I
don't begin to run before the danger is in sight.” Here
the bee-hunter paused, and walked some distance in silence.
When he did resume the discourse, it was to add —
“Though I must confess a man may hear danger as well
as see it. That horn has troubled me more than I should
like to own to Dorothy and pretty Blossom.”
“Bess alway let squaw know most den, sometime she
help as well as warrior. Bourdon, you right—ought to feel
afeard of dat horn.”
“Ha! Do you then know anything about it, Pigeonswing,
that you give this opinion?”
“Hear him juss like rest. Got ear, why not hear, eh?”
“Ay, but your manner of speaking just now said more
than this. Perhaps you blew the horn yourself, Chippewa?”
“Didn't touch him,” returned the Indian coldly. “Want
to sleep—don't want to blow trumpet.”
“Whom do you then suspect? Is it Peter?”
“No—don't touch him nudder. Lay down by me dere
when horn blow.”
“I'm glad to hear this from you, Pigeonswing, for, to
own the truth, I've had my misgivings about that onaccountable
Injin, and I did think he might have been up,
and have got hold of the horn.”
“No touch him at all. Fast 'sleep when horn blow.
What make Peter come in openin', eh? You know?”
“I know no more than he has himself told me. By his
account there is to be a great council of red men on the
prairie, a few miles from this spot; he is waiting for the
appointed day to come, in order to go and make one of the
chiefs that will be there. Is not this true, Chippewa?”
“Yes, dat true—what dat council smoke round fire for,
eh? You know?”
“No, I do not, and would be right glad to have you tell
me, Pigeonswing. Perhaps the tribes mean to have a
meetin' to determine in their own minds which side they
ought to take in this war.”
“Not dat nudder. Know well 'nough which side take.
Got message and wampum from Canada fadder, and most
all Injin up this-a-way look for Yankee scalp. Not dat
nudder.”
“Then I have no notion what is at the bottom of this
council. Peter seems to expect great things from it; that
I can see by his way of talking and looking whenever he
speaks of it.”
“Peter want to see him very much. Smoke at great
many sich council fire.”
“Do you intend to be present at this council on Prairie
Round?” asked the bee-hunter, innocently enough. Pigeonswing
turned to look at his companion, in a way that
mysterious Indian's wiles. Then, suddenly aware of the
importance of not betraying all he himself knew, until the
proper moment had arrived, he bent his eyes forward
again, continuing onward and answering somewhat evasively.
“Don't know,” he replied. “Hunter nebber tell. Chief
want venison, and he must hunt. Just like squaw in pale-face
wigwam—work, work—sweep, sweep—cook, cook—
never know when work done. So hunter hunt—hunt—
hunt.”
“And for that matter, Chippewa, just like squaw in the
red man's village, too. Hoe, hoe—dig, dig—carry, carry
—so that she never knows when she may sit down to rest.”
“Yes,” returned Pigeonswing, coolly nodding his assent
as he moved steadily forward. “Dat do right way wid
squaw — juss what he good for—juss what he made for—
work for warrior and cook his dinner. Pale-face make too
much of squaw.”
“Not accordin' to your account of their manner of getting
along, Injin. If the work of our squaws is never
done, we can hardly make too much of them. Where does
Peter keep his squaw?”
“Don't know,” answered the Chippewa. “Nobody know.
Don't know where his tribe even.”
“This is very extraor'nary, considering the influence
the man seems to enjoy. How is it that he has so completely
got the ears of all the red men, far and near?”
To this question Pigeonswing gave no answer. His own
mind was so far under Peter's control that he did not
choose to tell more than might be prudent. He was fully
aware of the mysterious chief's principal design, that of
destroying the white race altogether, and of restoring the
red men to their ancient rights, but several reasons prevented
his entering into the plot heart and hand. In the
first place, he was friendly to the “Yankees,” from whom
he, personally, had received many favours and no wrongs;
then, the tribe, or half-tribe, to which he belonged had
been employed, more or less, by the agents of the American
government as runners, and in other capacities, ever
since the peace of '83; and, lastly, he himself had been
acquired his English, but a habit of thinking of the Americans
as his friends. It might also be added that Pigeonswing,
though far less gifted by nature than the mysterious
Peter, had formed a truer estimate of the power of the
`Yankees,' and did not believe they were to be annihilated
so easily. How it happened that this Indian had come to
a conclusion so much safer than that of Peter's, a man of
twice his capacity, is more than we can explain; though
it was probably owing to the accidental circumstances of
his more intimate associations with the whites.
The bee-hunter was by nature a man of observation, a
faculty that his habits had both increased and stimulated.
Had it not been for the manner in which he was submitting
to the influence of Margery, he would long before have
seen that in the deportment of the Chippewa which would
have awakened his distrust; not that Margery in any way
endeavoured to blind him to what was passing before his
face, but that he was fast getting to have eyes only for her.
By this time she filled not only his waking, but many of his
sleeping thoughts; and when she was not actually before
him, charming him with her beauty, enlivening him with her
artless gaiety, and inspiring him with her innocent humour,
he fancied she was there, imagination, perhaps, heightening
all those advantages which we have enumerated. When
a man is thoroughly in love, he is quite apt to be fit for very
little else but to urge his suit. Such, in a certain way,
proved to be the case with le Bourdon, who allowed things
to pass unheeded directly before his eyes, that previously
to his acquaintance with Margery would not only have
been observed, but which would have most probably led to
some practical results. The conduct of Pigeonswing was
among the circumstances that were thus overlooked by our
hero. In point of fact, Peter was slowly but surely working
on the mind of the Chippewa, changing all his opinions
radically, and teaching him to regard every pale-face as an
enemy. The task, in this instance, was not easy; for Pigeonswing,
in addition to his general propensities in favour
of the `Yankees,' the result of mere accident, had conceived
a real personal regard for le Bourdon, and was very
slow to admit any views that tended to his injury. The
twenty times was he on the point of warning his friend of
the danger which impended over the whole party, when a
sense of good faith towards Peter, who held his word to
the contrary, prevented his so doing. This conflict of
feeling was now constantly active in the breast of the
young savage.
Pigeonswing had another source of uneasiness, to which
his companions were entirely strangers. While hunting,
his keen eyes had detected the presence of warriors in the
openings. It is true he had not seen even one, but he
knew that the signs he had discovered could not deceive
him. Not only were warriors at hand, but warriors in
considerable numbers. He had found one deserted lair,
from which its late occupants could not have departed
many hours when it came under his own notice. By
means of that attentive sagacity which forms no small portion
of the education of an American Indian, Pigeonswing
was enabled to ascertain that this party, of itself, numbered
seventeen, all of whom were men and warriors. The first
fact was easily enough to be seen, perhaps, there being
just seventeen different impressions left in the grass; but
that all these persons were armed men, was learned by
Pigeonswing through evidence that would have been overlooked
by most persons. By the length of the lairs he
was satisfied none but men of full stature had been there;
and he even examined sufficiently close to make out the
proofs that all but four of these men carried fire-arms.
Strange as it may seem to those who do not know how keen
the senses become when whetted by the apprehensions
and wants of savage life, Pigeonswing was enabled to
discover signs which showed that the excepted were provided
with bows, and arrows, and spears.
When the bee-hunter and his companion came in sight
of the carcase of the bear, which they did shortly after
the last remark which we have given in the dialogue recorded,
the former exclaimed with a little surprise—
“How's this, Chippewa! You have killed this beast
with your bow! Did you not hunt with the rifle yesterday?”
“Bad fire rifle off now-a-days,” answered Pigeonswing,
sententiously. “Make noise—noise no good.”
“Noise!” repeated the perfectly unsuspecting bee-hunter.
“Little good or little harm can noise do in these
openings, where there is neither mountains to give back
an echo, or ear to be startled. The crack of my rifle has
rung through these groves a hundred times and no harm
come of it.”
“Forget war-time now. Bess nebber fire, less can't help
him. Pottawattamie hear great way off.”
“Oh! That's it, is it! You're afraid our old friends
the Pottawattamies may find us out, and come to thank us
for all that happened down at the river's mouth. Well,”
continued le Bourdon, laughing, “if they wish another
whiskey-spring, I have a small jug left, safely hid against
a wet day; a very few drops will answer to make a tolerable
spring. You red-skins don't know everything, Pigeonswing,
though you are so keen and quick-witted on a trail.”
“Bess not tell Pottawattamie any more 'bout spring,”
answered the Chippewa, gravely; for by this time he regarded
the state of things in the openings to be so serious
as to feel little disposition to mirth. “Why you don't go
home, eh? Why don't med'cine-man go home, too? Bess
for pale-face to be wid pale-face when red man go on war-path.
Colour bess keep wid colour.”
“I see you want to be rid of us, Pigeonswing; but the
parson has no thought of quitting this part of the world
until he has convinced all the red-skins that they are
Jews.”
“What he mean, ch?” demanded the Chippewa, with
more curiosity than it was usual for an Indian warrior to
betray. “What sort of man Jew, eh? Why call red man
Jew?”
“I know very little more about it than you do yourself,
Pigeonswing; but such as my poor knowledge is, you're
welcome to it. You've heard of the Bible, I dare say?”
“Sartain—med'cine-man read him Sunday. Good book
to read, some t'ink.”
“Yes it's all that, and a great companion have I found
my Bible, when I've been alone with the bees out here in
the openings. It tells us of our God, Chippewa; and
offend. It's a great loss to you red-skins not to have such
a book among you.”
“Med'cine-man bring him—don't do much good, yet;
some day, p'r'aps, do better. How dat make red man
Jew?”
“Why this is a new idea to me, though Parson Amen
seems fully possessed with it. I suppose you know what
a Jew is?”
“Don't know anyt'ing 'bout him. Sort o' nigger, eh?”
“No, no, Pigeonswing, you're wide of the mark this
time. But, that we may understand each other, we'll begin
at the beginning like, which will let you into the whole
history of the pale-face religion. As we've had a smart
walk, however, and here is the bear's meat safe and sound,
just as you left it, let us sit down a bit on this trunk of a
tree, while I give you our tradition from beginning to end,
as it might be. In the first place, Chippewa, the earth
was made without creatures of any sort to live on it—not
so much as a squirrel or a woodchuck.”
“Poor country to hunt in, dat,” observed the Chippewa,
quietly, while le Bourdon was wiping his forehead after
removing his cap. “Ojebways stay in it very little time.”
“This, according to our belief, was before any Ojebway
lived. At length, God made a man, out of clay, and
fashioned him, as we see men fashioned, and living all
around us.”
“Yes,” answered the Chippewa, nodding his head in
assent. “Den Manitou put plenty blood in him — dat
make red warrior. Bible good book, if tell dat tradition.”
“The Bible says nothing about any colours; but we
suppose the man first made to have been a pale-face. At
any rate, the pale-faces have got possession of the best parts
of the earth, as it might be, and I think they mean to keep
them. First come, first served, you know. The pale-faces
are many, and are strong.”
“Stop!” exclaimed Pigeonswing, in a way that was very
unusual for an Indian to interrupt another when speaking;
“want to ask question — How many pale-face you t'ink is
dere? Ebber count him?”
`Count them! — Why, Chippewa, you might as well
saw me cut down the tree I last discovered, and saw the
movement of the little animals, and may judge what success
tongue, or eye, would have in counting them; now, just as
true would it be to suppose that any man could count the
pale-faces on this earth.”
“Don't want count all,” answered Pigeonswing. “Want to know how many dis side of great salt lake.”
“That's another matter, and more easily come at. I
understand you, now, Chippewa; you wish to know how
many of us there are in the country we call America?”
“Juss so,” returned Pigeonswing, nodding in assent.
“Dat juss it—juss what Injin want to know.”
“Well, we do have a count of our own people, from time
to time, and I suppose come about as near to the truth as
men can come in such a matter. There must be about
eight millions of us altogether; that is, old and young, big
and little, male and female.”
“How many warrior you got? — don't want hear about
squaw and pappoose.”
“No, I see you're warlike this morning, and want to see
how we are likely to come out of this struggle with your
Great Canada Father. Counting all round, I think we
might muster hard on upon a million of fighting-men—
good, bad, and indifferent; that is to say, there must be a
million of us of proper age to go into the wars.”
Pigeonswing made no answer for near a minute. Both
he and the bee-hunter had come to a halt alongside of the
bear's meat, and the latter was beginning to prepare his
own portion of the load for transportation, while his companion
stood thus motionless, lost in thought. Suddenly,
Pigeonswing recovered his recollection, and resumed the
conversation, by saying—
“What million mean, Bourdon? How many time so'ger
at Detroit, and so'ger on lakes?”
“A million is more than the leaves on all the trees in
these openings” — le Bourdon's notions were a little exaggerated,
perhaps, but this was what he said — “yes, more
than the leaves on all these oaks, far and near. A million
is a countless number, and I suppose would make a row of
lake, if not further.”
It is probable that the bee-hunter, himself, had no very
clear notion of the distance of which he spoke, or of the
number of men it would actually require to fill the space
he mentioned; but his answer sufficed deeply to impress
the imagination of the Indian, who now helped le Bourdon
to secure his load to his back, in silence, receiving the
same service in return. When the meat of the bear was
securely bestowed, each resumed his rifle, and the friends
commenced their march in, towards the chienté; conversing,
as they went, on the matter which still occupied their
minds. When the bee-hunter again took up the history of
the creation, it was to speak of our common mother.
“You will remember, Chippewa,” he said, “that I told
you nothing on the subject of any woman. What I have
told you, as yet, consarned only the first man, who was made
out of clay, into whom God breathed the breath of life.”
“Dat good—make warrior fuss. Juss right. When
breat' in him, fit to take scalp, eh?”
“Why, as to that, it is not easy to see whom he was to
scalp, seeing that he was quite alone in the world, until it
pleased his Creator to give him a woman for a companion.”
“Tell 'bout dat,” returned Pigeonswing, with interest—
“tell how he got squaw.”
“Accordin' to the Bible, God caused this man to fall into
a deep sleep, when he took one of his ribs, and out of that,
he made a squaw for him. Then he put them both to live
together, in a most beautiful garden, in which all things
excellent and pleasant was to be found—some such place
as these openings, I reckon.”
“Any bee dere?” asked the Indian, quite innocently.
“Plenty honey, eh?”
“That will I answer for! It could hardly be otherwise,
when it was the intention to make the first man and first
woman perfectly happy. I dare say, Chippewa, if the truth
was known, it would be found that bees was a sipping at
every flower in that most delightful garden!”
“Why pale-face quit dat garden, eh?—Why come here
to drive poor Injin 'way from game? Tell me dat, Bourdon,
when he so han'some, eh?'
“God turned him out of it, Chippewa—yes, he was
turned out of it, with shame on his face, for having disobeyed
the commandments of his Creator. Having left
the garden, his children have scattered over the face of the
earth.”
“So come here to drive off Injin! Well, dat'e way wid
pale-face! Did ever hear of red man comin' to drive off
pale-face?”
“I have heard of your red warriors often coming to take
our scalps, Chippewa. More or less of this has been done
every year, since our people have landed in America.
More than that they have not done, for we are too many
to be driven very far in, by a few scattering tribes of
Injins.”
“T'ink, den, more pale-face dan Injin, eh?” asked the
Chippewa, with an interest so manifest, that he actually
stopped in his semi-trot, in order to put the question—
“More pale-face warrior dan red men?”
“More! Ay, a thousand times more, Chippewa. Where
you could show one warrior, we could show a thousand!”
Now, this was not strictly true, perhaps, but it answered
the purpose of deeply impressing the Chippewa with the
uselessness of Peter's plans, and, sustained as it was by his
early predilections, it served to keep him on the right side,
in the crisis which was approaching. The discourse continued,
much in the same strain, until the men got in with
their bear's meat, having been preceded some time by the
others, with the venison.
It is a little singular that neither the questions, nor the
manner of Pigeonswing, awakened any distrust in the bee-hunter.
So far from this, the latter regarded all that had
passed as perfectly natural, and as likely to arise in conversation,
in the way of pure speculation, as in any other
manner. Pigeonswing intended to be guarded in what he
said and did, for, as yet, he had not made up his mind
which side he would really espouse, in the event of the
great project coming to a head. He had the desire, natural
to a red man, to avenge the wrongs committed against
his race; but this desire existed in a form a good deal
regard for individuals. It had, nevertheless, strangely occurred
to the savage reasoning of this young warrior, that,
possibly, some arrangement might be effected, by means
of which he should take scalps from the Canadians, while
Peter and his other followers were working their will on
the Americans. In this confused condition, was the mind
of the Chippewa, when he and his companion threw down
their loads, near the place where the provision of game was
usually kept. This was beneath the tree, near the spring
and the cook-house, in order that no inconvenience should
arise from its proximity to the place where the party dwelt
and slept. For a siege, should there be occasion to shut
themselves up within the “garrison,” the men depended
on the pickled pork, and a quantity of dried meat; of the
latter of which, the missionary had brought a considerable
supply in his own canoe. Among these stores, were a few
dozen of buffaloe's, or bison's, tongues, a delicacy that
would honour the best table in the civilized world, though
then so common among the western hunters, as scarce to
be deemed food as good as the common salted pork and
beef of the settlements.
The evening that followed proved to be one of singular
softness and sweetness. The sun went down in a cloudless
sky, and gentle airs from the south-west fanned the
warm cheeks of Margery, as she sat, resting from the
labours of the day, with le Bourdon at her side, speaking
of the pleasures of a residence in such a spot. The youth
was eloquent, for he felt all that he said, and the maiden
was pleased. The young man could expatiate on b es in
a way to arrest any one's attention; and Margery delighted
to hear him relate his adventures with these little creatnres;
his successes, losses, and journeys.
“But are you not often lonely, Bourdon, living here in
the openings, whole summers at a time, without a living
soul to speak to?” demanded Margery, colouring to the
eyes, the instant the question was asked, lest it should subject
her to an imputation against which her modesty revolted,
that of wishing to draw the discourse to a discussion
on the means of preventing this solitude in future.
“I have not been, hitherto,” answered le Bourdon, so
“though I will not answer for the future. Now that I have
so many with me, we may make some of them necessary.
Mind—I say some, not all of my present guests. If I could
have my pick, pretty Margery, the present company would
give me all I can desire, and more too. I should not think
of going to Detroit for that companion, since she is to be
found so much nearer.”
Margery blushed, and looked down—then she raised her
eyes, smiled, and seemed grateful as well as pleased. By
this time she had become accustomed to such remarks, and
she had no difficulty in discovering her lover's wishes,
though he had never been more explicit. The reflections
natural to her situation threw a shade of gentle seriousness
over her countenance, rendering her more charming than
ever, and causing the youth to plunge deeper and deeper
into the meshes that female influence had cast around him.
In all this, however, one of the parties was governed by a
manly sincerity, and the other by girlish artlessness. Diffidence,
one of the most certain attendants of a pure passion,
alone kept le Bourdon from asking Margery to become
his wife; while Margery, herself, sometimes doubted
whether it were possible that any reputable man could
wish to connect himself and his fortunes with a family that
had sunk as low as persons could well sink, in this country,
and not lose their characters altogether. With these
doubts and distrusts, so naturally affecting the mind of
each, these young people were rapidly becoming more and
more enamoured; the bee-hunter betraying his passion in
the close, absorbed attentions that more properly belong
to his sex, while that of Margery was to be seen in sudden
blushes, the thoughtful brow, the timid glance, and a cast
of tenderness that came over her whole manner, and, as it
might be, her whole being.
While our young folk were thus employed, now conversing
cheerfully, now appearing abstracted and lost in
thought, though seated side by side, le Bourdon happened
to look behind him, and saw that Peter was regarding them
with one of those intense, but mysterious expressions of
the countenance, that had, now, more than once attracted
his attention; giving reason, each time, for a feeling in
mingled, even in himself.
At the customary hour, which was always early, in that
party of simple habits, the whole family sought its rest;
the females withdrew within the chienté, while the males
arranged their skins without. Ever since the erection of
the palisades, le Bourdon had been in the habit of calling
Hive within the defences, leaving him at liberty to roam
about inside, at pleasure. Previously to this new arrangement,
the dog had been shut up in his kennel, in order to
prevent his getting on the track of a deer, or in close combat
with some bear, when his master was not present to
profit by his efforts. As the palisades were too high for
his leap, this putting him at liberty within them, answered
the double purpose of giving the mastiff room for healthful
exercise, and of possessing a most vigilant sentinel against
dangers of all sorts. On the present occasion, however,
the dog was missing, and after calling and whistling for
him some time, the bee-hunter was fain to bar the gate,
and leave him on the outside. This done, he sought his
skin, and was soon asleep.
It was midnight, when the bee-hunter felt a hand laid
on his own arm. It was the corporal, making this movement,
in order to awake him. In an instant the young
man was on his feet, with his rifle in his hand.
“Did you not hear it, Bourdon?” demanded the corporal,
in a tone so low as scarce to exceed a whisper.
“Hear what! I've been sleeping, sound as a bee in
winter.”
“The horn!—The horn has been blown twice, and, I
think, we shall soon hear it again.”
“The horn was hanging at the door of the chienté, and
the conch, too. It will be easy to see if they are in their
places.
It was only necessary to walk around the walls of the
hut, to its opposite side, in order to ascertain this fact. Le
Bourdon did so, accompanied by the corporal, and just as
each laid a hand on the instruments, which were suspended
in their proper places, a heavy rush was made against the
gate, as if to try its fastenings. These pushes were repeated
several times, with a violence that menaced the
of only a few paces, the gateway of the palisades and
the door of the chienté being contiguous to each other, and
immediately ascertained that it was the mastiff, endeavouring
to force his way in. The bee-hunter admitted the
dog, which had been trained to suppress his bark, though
this animal was too brave and large to throw away his
breath, when he had better rely on his force. Powerful animals,
of this race, are seldom noisy, it being the province
of the cur, both among dogs and men, to be blustering and
spitting out their venom, at all hours and seasons. Hive,
however, in addition to his natural disposition, had been
taught, from the time he was a pup, not to betray his presence
unnecessarily by a bark; and it was seldom that his
deep throat opened beneath the arches of the oaks. When
it did, it told like the roaring of the lion in the desert.
Hive was no sooner admitted to the `garrison,' than he
manifested just as strong a desire to get out, as, a moment
before, he had manifested to get in. This, le Bourdon
well knew, indicated the presence of some thing, or creature,
that did not properly belong to the vicinity. After
consulting with the corporal, Pigeonswing was called; and
leaving him as a sentinel at the gate, the two others made
a sortie. The corporal was as brave as a lion, and loved
all such movements, though he fully anticipated encountering
savages, while his companion expected an interview
with bears.
As this movement was made at the invitation of the dog,
it was judiciously determined to let him act as pioneer, on
the advance. Previously to quitting the defences, however,
the two adventurers looked closely to their arms.
Each examined the priming, saw that his horn and pouch
were accessible, and loosened his knife in its sheath. The
corporal, moreover, fixed his “baggonet,” as he called the
formidable, glittering instrument that usually embellished
the end of his musket — a musket being the weapon he
chose to carry, while the bee-hunter, himself, was armed
with a long, western rifle.
| CHAPTER XV. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter | |