The Crew of the Water Wagtail by R. M. Ballantyne (types of ebook readers .TXT) 📕

came forward and saluted him in the European manner which he had already taught to many of the red men, namely, with a shake of the hand.

A great palaver followed in the wigwam of the chief, Bearpaw, in the course of which many things were talked about; but we confine our record to that part of the talk which bears specially on our tale.

“The men must die,” said Bearpaw sternly. “What you tell me about their harsh treatment of their chief and his son and friend only proves them to be the more deserving of death. My two young braves who visited them on the island were treated like dogs by some of them, and Little Beaver they have slain. It is just that they should die.”

“But my three friends here,” returned Hendrick, “treated your braves well, and they had no knowledge or part in the killing of Little Beaver. Perhaps the palefaces did not kill him. Do they admit that they did?”

“How can we tell what they admit? We know not their language, nor they ours. But there is no need to palaver. Did not Strongbow and his braves find the dead body of Little Beaver bruised and broken? Did they not see his black dog in the paleface camp, and has not Rising Sun disappeared like the early frost before the sun? Doubtless she is now in the camp with those palefaces who have escaped us, but whom we will yet hunt down and kill.”

“Bearpaw is right,” said Hendrick, “murderers deserve to die. But Bearpaw is also just; he will let the men of the sea speak in their own defence now that I am here to interpret?”

“Bearpaw is just,” returned the chief. “He will hear what the palefaces have got to say. One of the young men will take you to their prison.”

He signed as he spoke to a young Indian, who instantly left the tent, followed by Hendrick and his friends.

Passing right through the village the party reached a precipice, on the face of which was what appeared to be the entrance to a cavern. Two Indians stood in front of it on guard. A voice was heard within, which struck familiarly yet strangely on Paul and the captain’s ears. And little wonder, for it was the voice of Grummidge engaged in the unaccustomed act of prayer! The young Indian paused, and, with a solemn look, pointed upwards, as if to intimate that he understood the situation, and would not interrupt. Those whom he led also paused and listened—as did the sentinels, though they understood no word of what was said.

Poor Grummidge had evidently been brought very low, for his once manly voice was weak and his tones were desponding. Never before, perhaps, was prayer offered in a more familiar or less perfunctory manner.

“O Lord,” he said, “do get us out o’ this here scrape somehow! We don’t deserve it, though we are awful sinners, for we’ve done nothin’ as I knows on to hurt them savages. We can’t speak to them an’ they can’t speak to us, an’ there’s nobody to help us. Won’t you do it, Lord?”

“Sure it’s no manner o’ use goin’ on like that, Grummidge,” said another voice. “You’ve done it more than wance a’ready, an’ there’s no answer. Very likely we’ve bin too wicked intirely to deserve an answer at all.”

“Speak for yourself Squill,” growled a voice that was evidently that of Little Stubbs. “I don’t think I’ve been as wicked as you would make out, nor half as wicked as yourself! Anyhow, I’m goin’ to die game, if it comes to that. We can only die once, an’ it’ll soon be over.”

“Ochone!” groaned Squill, “av it wasn’t for the short allowance they’ve putt us on, an’ the bad walkin’ every day, an’ all day, I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’ve scarce got strength enough left to sneeze, an’ as to my legs, och! quills they are instid of Squill’s.”

“For shame, man,” remonstrated Grummidge, “to be makin’ your bad jokes at a time like this.”

The tone of the conversation now led the young Indian to infer that interruption might not be inappropriate, so he turned round the corner of rock that hid the interior from view, and led his party in front of the captives. They were seated on the ground with their backs against the wall, and their arms tied behind them.

The aspect of the unfortunate prisoners was indeed forlorn. It would have been ludicrous had it not been intensely pitiful. So woe-begone and worn were their faces that their friends might have been excused had they failed to recognise them, but even in the depths of his misery and state of semi-starvation it was impossible to mistake the expressive visage of poor Squill, whose legs were indeed reduced to something not unsuggestive of “quills,” to say nothing of the rest of his body.

But all the other prisoners, Grummidge, Stubbs, Blazer, Taylor, and Garnet, were equally reduced and miserable, for the harsh treatment and prolonged journeying through forest and swamp, over hill and dale, on insufficient food, had not only brought them to the verge of the grave, but had killed outright one or two others of the crew who had started with them.

The visitors, owing to their position with their backs to the light of the cave’s mouth, could not be recognised by the prisoners, who regarded them with listless apathy until Captain Trench spoke, swallowing with difficulty a lump of some sort that nearly choked him.

“Hallo! shipmates! how goes it? Glad to have found ye, lads.”

“Och!” exclaimed Squill, starting up, as did all his companions; but no other sound was uttered for a few seconds. Then a deep “thank God” escaped from Grummidge, and Little Stubbs tried to cheer, but with small success; while one or two, sitting down again, laid their thin faces in their hands and wept.

Reader, it were vain to attempt a description of the scene that followed, for the prisoners were not only overwhelmed with joy at a meeting so unexpected, but were raised suddenly from the depths of despair to the heights of confident hope, for they did not doubt that the appearance of their mates as friends of the Indians was equivalent to their deliverance. Even when told that their deliverance was by no means a certainty, their joy was only moderated, and their hope but slightly reduced.

“But tell me,” said Paul, as they all sat down together in the cave, while the Indians stood by and looked silently on, “what is the truth about this Indian who was murdered, and the dog and the woman?”

“The Indian was never murdered,” said Grummidge stoutly. “He had evidently fallen over the precipice. We found him dead and we buried him. His dog came to us at last and made friends with us, though it ran away the day the settlement was attacked. As to the woman, we never saw or heard of any woman at all till this hour!”

When Bearpaw was told how the matter actually stood, he frowned and said sternly—

“The palefaces lie. If they never saw Rising Sun, why did she not come back to us and tell what had happened? She was not a little child. She was strong and active, like the young deer. She could spear fish and snare rabbits as well as our young men. Why did she not return? Where is she? Either she is dead and the palefaces have killed her, or they have her still among them. Not only shall the palefaces answer for her with their lives, but the Bethucks will go on the war-path to the coast and sweep the paleface settlement into the sea!”

It was of no avail that Hendrick pleaded the cause of the prisoners earnestly, and set forth eloquently all that could be said in their favour, especially urging that some of them had been kind to the two Indians who first visited the white men. Rising Sun had been a favourite with the chief; she was dead—and so the palefaces must die!