Chapter II: At Work (2)

At night the waggons were packed together with two men always on guard, so the emigrants thought themselves safe from surprise. The two hunters by no means shared in the feeling of security, but they were both very well mounted, and although perfectly ready to take their share in fighting if there was a chance of successful resistance, had determined that they would not throw away their lives if attacked by an overwhelming force. The last thing at night, therefore, they always brought in their horses and picketed them close to the waggons, sleeping outside in order, as they said, to escape the crying of children and the hubbub of talk among the emigrant families.

One morning, as soon as the camp was in motion, Winnie Price had gone down with the youngest of her charges, Bobby, a boy of three, to the pool, fifty yards from where the waggons were gathered, to give him his morning's wash. She had just finished, had dressed Bobby, and was herself washing, when she heard a terrible yell, and saw a band of wild horsemen sweeping down upon the caravan. She saw at once that she could not get back in time, and snatching up Bobby, and stooping so as to be concealed by the bank of the stream, she ran along till she reached a large clump of bushes, into which she dived.

A tremendous din was going on; rifles were cracking, men shouting, women screaming, and Indians yelling. It lasted but a few minutes, and then everything became quiet save the triumphant yells of the Indians. Winnie felt sure that the attack had succeeded, and that the whites had been murdered, for had not that been the case the firing would have continued. Holding the frightened child closely to her, and silencing him by telling him that if he cried, or made a noise, the Indians would find him, she sat there for hours. Once she thought she heard Indians talking at the pool above, but, with that exception, all was quiet. Bobby passed the greater part of the time in sleep, and in the afternoon, laying him down, she crawled cautiously until she neared the edge of the bushes, and then looked out through the leafy screen towards the waggons. She made out a number of dark figures on horseback, and as she watched them saw them a few minutes later gather and ride off in a body, driving before them the bullocks of the waggons.

Half-an-hour later she ventured to stand up and peer out between the leaves. There was no sign of life or movement about the waggons; numbers of figures lay stretched about around them, but the Indians had all left. Some, however, might still be in the neighbourhood, and returning to Bobby, she waited until the sun set. Bobby was wide awake now, and clamorous for food; had she been alone, Winnie would have suffered anything rather than go up to that terrible scene of slaughter, but she felt that for Bobby's sake it was absolutely necessary to try to obtain something to eat.

"Now Bobby," she said, "you sit here at the edge of the bushes; I will go up and try and get you something to eat; but you must be very good and quiet until I come back, because there are wicked Indians about, and they might hurt you if you were to go there."

It needed very strong persuasion to induce Bobby to remain alone, but at last he agreed to do so on her promising to run all the way there and back.

It was a terrible scene for a young girl; round the waggons the bodies of men, women, and children lay scattered thickly, all gashed with tomahawks, and scalped. Several Indians, too, had fallen, though Winnie did not know it, for their bodies had been buried by their friends. Shutting her eyes as much as possible to avoid the sight, Winnie moved straight through up to the waggons. The contents lay about in confusion; everything of the slightest value to the Indians had been taken—flour sacks had been opened, and the contents carried off done up in smaller packets to be carried on the horses behind the Indians.

Articles of wearing apparel lay scattered about, and cases of preserved meat forced open; but their contents left as worthless. Winnie gave an exclamation of satisfaction as she saw a tin of biscuits laying among the wreck. She took this and two empty bottles, and with them hurried back towards the bushes. She met Bobby coming to meet her.

"All right, Bobby, here are some nice biscuits," she said, and taking him to the pool they sat down and made a meal. Then she emptied the contents of the box into her apron and tied it up in front of her so as to leave her hands free; then she filled the bottles with water, and tearing a strip off the bottom of her dress, tied one end to each of their necks and slung-them in front of her.

"Now Bobby," she said, "we must walk."

"Where is dada and mammy," the child said, "me want dem."

"They cannot come now, dear, you must come with me;" but Bobby rebelled and began to howl. "Bobby," Winnie said, "you don't want the wicked Indians to catch you, do you? If you make a noise they are sure to come. We must keep very quiet and walk a long way to get away from them."

Bobby was again frightened into quiet, and taking Winnie's hand started off. She had made up her mind to retrace her steps. It had been a long march on the previous day, but she felt that there was far more chance of meeting a caravan behind them, than of overtaking that in front. Winnie walked until it became quite dark. Bobby was cross and fractious, and in a very short time she had to carry him on her back. It at last became too dark for her to follow the track further, and she lay down with the child to wait until the moon rose, which it would do, she knew, about midnight.

She was unable to sleep, and as soon as the moon was up she got the sleeping child on to her back, lifted her dress up, and drew it tightly round him so as to keep him in that position, and then journeyed on until day began to break, when she took shelter in some low bushes. From time to time she looked out, and presently saw a party of Indians riding along a crest, looking down into the cleft along which the track run. After this she abandoned all idea of making her way forward by daylight, and passed the time, until it became dark, in telling stories to Bobby, and in sleeping whenever he did so. When it became dark she again set out, keeping the track as well as she was able, Bobby sometimes walking by her side, sometimes sleeping on her back.

After three hours' walking she came to a rise where the wheels had no longer sunk in the ground, and was obliged to wait until the moon rose again; but even with this assistance she found it very difficult to follow the track. As before, she lay hid during the day. She had, she knew, thirty-five miles in all to travel, and her progress had been very slow from the necessity of stopping continually to kneel down and examine the grass. The next night, in spite of her care, she missed the track. She knew that her safest plan would be to wait until morning, when she would be able to find it without difficulty, but the supply of water was already running very low, although she had stinted Bobby to the utmost, and had contented herself with merely moistening her own lips. She knew by the stars that she had each night seen before her the direction she should take, and guiding herself by them pressed steadily on. Fortunately one of the hunters had one evening pointed out the North Star to her, and had told her how to find it by following the line of the pointers wherever they might be, and keeping this steadily over her left shoulder, she walked on.

Two days later a large caravan arrived at the Express Station. They found there, in addition to the two men in charge, two hunters—the one a man of forty, the other a young fellow of two or three and twenty, who told them that they were the sole survivors of the train that had preceded them.

"We were a small party," the elder of the two said—"four waggons, with fifteen guns in all. The men of the teams were obstinate fellows, who did not believe in Indians, and did not take any precautions. Just as we were coupling up the bullocks to make our start for the next station, a party of about a hundred Indians came down on us. There were two men out on guard, but they gave us no warning. I expect some of the Indians must have crept up and tomahawked them; the band were not a hundred yards away when we saw them. Josh and I had our horses handy, and jumped into our saddles. We saw that it was all over at once, but we stopped for a minute or two, but it were no use—half the men were cut down before they had time to get their rifles out of the waggons, and Josh and I, seeing as we should only throw our lives away without doing no good, rode for it. It was not in Indian nature to chase two men, and they well mounted, far, when there were scalps and booty to be had; so although five or six did set out after us they gave it up as soon as they found our ponies was as good as theirs. So we rode on here to wait until you came up."

"And you think they are all killed?" the leader of the caravan asked.

"Sure of it," the hunter said. "They came down so suddenly; there was no time for anyone to bolt."

As the caravan contained twenty waggons, and could muster sixty rifles, it considered itself strong enough to beat off any party of Indians they might meet. Its leader, too, was an experienced scout, and everything was arranged both on the march and in camp in readiness for resistance. Five or six mounted men rode a mile out on each flank, and many of the younger men wished for nothing better than that the Indians should attack them, and that they should have an opportunity for taking revenge for the massacre they had heard of.

The next morning the caravan pursued its journey, the two hunters accompanying it. They took their place with the scouting party to the left of the line of the march. They had ridden two hours, when Josh, the younger hunter, reined in his horse suddenly.

"Look there," he said, pointing to a rise in the distance, "what is that?"

A figure was seen passing along over a crest. The hunters looked at it with astonishment.

"It's a woman," Josh exclaimed, "she seems to have something on her back, she is a white sure enough by her dress. Come on, lads!"

They galloped forward; twice, as they approached, they saw the figure fall, and then rise to her feet again, and stagger forward. She did not seem to perceive them, but went blindly on. When they were within a hundred yards of her, Josh exclaimed, "By gosh, Bill, it's Winnie. Thank Heaven she was not wiped out. Winnie!" he shouted, at the top of his voice; but she still kept on, apparently without hearing. The men reined in their horses to a walk. They were old hands on the prairies, and knew what it meant; the girl had lost her way, and her senses had gone. The two hunters, who knew her, dismounted and walked up to her. Her eyes were dull and glazed, her lips black and swollen, she tottered rather than walked. One hand grasped the skirt of her dress, which was wrapped round her shoulders, and above which a little head drooped backwards.

"Winnie," Josh said in a low tone. The girl looked towards them. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then she reeled, and would have fallen had not the men caught her. The others now came up. Some water was poured upon her lips, and a few drops made their way down her throat. Then similar attention was given to the child. He was also insensible, but came round before long, for his sufferings had been less severe than hers, for while for three days she had been altogether without water, the last drops in the bottle had been used for soaking his biscuit, and it was only on the previous day that the supply had altogether given out.

Josh lifted her in his arms, and mounting his horse rode off at full speed to the caravan, while Bill carried the child before him. For weeks, while the caravan made its way across the plains, Winnie lay in one of the waggons between life and death. She was tenderly cared for by the women, and at last the fever abated; but it was not until the train began to descend the slopes of the Sierra Nevada that she was able to walk by the side of the waggons with Bobby, long before restored to perfect health. When they descended into the plains of California Winnie and Bobby were adopted by a childless couple, who were wise enough to settle on a small farm, instead of going to the diggings.

Five years later she had a home of her own, for the young hunter did well at the gold mines, and as soon as he had earned enough to purchase a farm, settled down, and when she became old enough asked her to share it with him.

Christmas Eve with Bruin.

_BY FRANCES CLARE,_

AUTHOR OF "A CHILD'S PILGRIMAGE," "A STORE OF STORIES," &c.

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IT was Christmas Eve, long, long ago, and the good folks of Nancy were fast asleep in their beds, dreaming doubtless of the coming festival of the morrow. And very peaceful was the sleep of the citizens of this old French town, for they knew that the gates of their city were closed, and that it was securely guarded against the foe.

But outside the fast-shut portals stood one who could not sleep, although he was very weary, and hungry, and footsore, for he had no place wherein to rest.

This sleepless one was a little lad, an Italian musician, with a wistful face, and dark, earnest eyes—eyes which were full of tears, as well indeed they might be, for Carlo Caffarelli had hoped to reach Nancy before its gates were shut.

He had hoped to earn a Christmas cake, and a night's lodging, by his skilful lute-playing and his sweet singing.

But alas, he had arrived too late.

And as he looked wistfully up to the starry sky, he exclaimed, "Oh, I wish that I could spend to-morrow in Heaven, with father, mother, and darling Domenica. Oh, how I wish that last Christmas Eve could come again!"

Ah, no wonder the little wanderer thought sorrowfully of that Christmas Eve, for then he had come down from the mountains with his father, Sebastian, the shepherd, and they twain had played sweet, simple music in the classic streets of Rome; then he had bought for his little sister, his pretty, dear Domenica, a picture of the Manger of Bethlehem. Now, father, mother, and little sister slept side by side in a cypress-shaded graveyard, for the ruthless fever had wrecked his home, not sparing even one of his loved ones.

Therefore it was that he stood, a wanderer and an exile, houseless and homeless, in a foreign land, on the blessed Christmas Eve.

All at once he recalled the last words of his dying mother.

"Carlo," she had said, "my own little Carlo, you are poor, and you will be very lonely; dangers and difficulties will surround you, but never forget, my beloved, never forget that God is the Helper of the helpless."

Comforted by the remembrance of these words, Carlo knelt down on the frosty ground, and prayed that His Heavenly Father would help him, or take him to those loved ones for whom he grieved.

But there came no immediate response to his petition; all was outwardly the same after he had prayed as it had been before. The starry heavens did not open, no burning, fiery chariot appeared as it did to the Prophet in days of old to bear him upward, and yet the lonely lad's prayer was both heard and answered.

Before kneeling down to pray, Carlo placed his beloved lute at some little distance from him on the ground, and when he rose from his knees, and went to take up his lute again, he perceived the mouth of a large hole or pit, which was surrounded by a low wooden palisading.

The wind had risen, and poor, thinly-clad Carlo, who was very cold, thought that it would be warmer down in the pit than it was on the surface of the earth; so he slung his lute round his neck, climbed over the railing, and slid gently down into the pit.

The first thing he did on reaching the bottom was to look around him, in order to see in what kind of lodgings he was going to pass the remainder of his Christmas Eve; and, by the faint, silvery light of the moon, he saw a large straw-covered den, or hole, at the far end of which lay some kind of animal—a big dog, seemingly, for it was rough-looking, and curled up into the semblance of a huge ball.

"What is that, I wonder?" said Carlo to himself. "It looks like a big dog. Can I have fallen into a dog kennel? What strange folks these citizens of Nancy must be! In Italy we do not shut our dogs out, we keep them inside to guard our homes, but they seem to keep theirs outside. I suppose they think the dogs will keep strangers away; they haven't kept me away, though. I wonder if it's safe to stay here. I hope the creature isn't savage."

But it was warm and sheltered there, in the straw, and poor Carlo's limbs were so tired, and his eyeballs ached so for want of rest, that his heavy eyelids drooped over his weary eyes, and he curled himself up in a corner and slept.

And lo, in his dreams, all his household treasures were restored to him. He was at home in his mountain village once again. The clear wood fire was burning on the hearth; his mother was baking cakes, his father was telling him beautiful tales, his little sister was playing with her dog—"this" was Carlo's happy Christmastide dream.

And in his sleep the little wanderer smiled.

But the happiest dreams must come to an end, as well as the happiest days, and after a time Carlo awoke.

And he saw that the big dog was also awake, for it had come from its corner and was sitting up not far from Carlo.

"Poor old fellow!" said the boy, holding out his hand. But the animal did not in any way respond, nor did it growl, as a savage dog might have done. Carlo peered through the dim light, and wondered more and more what it could be. Presently, it reared itself on its hind legs and looked at Carlo. And, as it did so, the little musician saw that the strange animal was "a bear!" Yes, actually a brown bear, with a shaggy coat and small, deep-set, blinking eyes.

"O dear!" he cried. "What shall I do? Pray, pray, come and help me!"

But nobody came, for nobody heard his cries.

The citizens of Nancy were fast asleep in their warm, soft beds; they were not thinking of the bear pit, which their town, in common with many others in the middle ages, kept outside its gates, and Carlo was left alone with Bruin.

Alone with Bruin! and the Pifferari were playing in the streets of Rome, as the child and his father once had played in the days which were no more.

Alone with Bruin! and in the Eternal City many a lad was singing Pastorals as Carlo once had sung them, with a clear, unfaltering, lark-like voice.

Alone with Bruin! and great fear took possession of the poor boy's mind, for the bear began to approach him—cunningly and stealthily; surely, though slowly.

In an agony of terror he began to move backward step by step, until he stood close against the wall of the well-like pit, and there was no more space in which to stir.

But with a great effort he fastened his gaze steadily on Bruin, who, in his turn, kept his evil-looking little eyes fixed on Carlo, as if to say, "You won't run away from me, my lad. I am Ursus, the public bear of Nancy, and I can hug, as well as climb poles, and one, only one of 'my' hugs means—death."

Great drops of perspiration stood on Carlo's brow, and as he pressed himself against the grey stone wall he felt with his feet for a piece of bread, or a bone, or something with which he might mollify his foe, or, at least, gain some respite from the death which seemed to await him.

And while he was doing this, Bruin gave a low, deep-chested growl, which made the little musician start as the thunder of cannon could not have done.

For to him that growl said "Die," and his trembling arms hung helpless by his side, and his head drooped forward on his breast.

For although a brave heart beat within that young bosom, the boy could not endure the sight of the animal coming towards him, its fore-paws extended in order to draw him into its embrace—that terrible embrace from which he could never hope to be set free except by death.

But as, in his despair, he closed his eyes, he thought once more of his mother's words, "God arms the helpless," and as he murmured a prayer there suddenly flashed across his mind the recollection of having seen a performing bear dance clumsily to the sound of a rough instrument played by its master. His lute! It had often purchased him a meal and a night's lodging—would it help him now? Once mare hope sprang up in his heart, and taking the lute in his trembling fingers, he played, in the darkness of that gloomy place, more sweetly than he had ever done in the fresh air and the bright sunlight, for his whole soul was in his music.

Bruin's angry growls ceased, and he gazed with astonishment on the unwelcome intruder who was producing these strange sounds. Presently, he came forward again, and once more Carlo's heart beat loud and fast, but at that moment he espied a large piece of cake close to his foot. He took it up and threw it to the farthest end of the den. The bear stopped, looked after the cake, then at Carlo, who had begun to play again; then Bruin ambled to the other side of the den and sniffed at the cake, but did not eat it, and then, to Carlo's unspeakable delight, it curled itself round and seemed to go to sleep again. Now, the truth was that Mr. Bruin had had a very hearty meal that day, and had been, besides, so plentifully supplied with cakes, and bread, and honey by the holiday-makers, that, I think, he really felt too lazy to do any harm to the poor lad who had so unwittingly come to disturb his slumbers.

Though safe for the moment, Carlo felt that all danger was not yet over, but that he must watch unceasingly until morning.

Just think for a moment what a weary watch was that of the boy musician. Think how he watched for the stars to disappear, think how he welcomed the daylight—he to whom it had always before come too soon. And now how long it seemed in coming!

But when he looked upwards, and saw that at last it was light, he found that weakness and terror had made his voice almost inaudible, for although he cried "Help! help! good people, help!" as loud as he could, his voice sounded low and feeble even to himself, and no one heard him, no one came.

So once more he took up his lute and played, hoping that its melody might reach farther than his voice could do. And as it happened, the Captain of the Guard, who was strolling round the top of the bear pit, heard the sound, and stopped in amazement to listen.

"This is strange," he muttered to himself. "I have heard of many prodigies, but never of a musical bear." And as he spoke, the officer leant over the low palisading, and bent his head downwards to listen.

And all at once the music ceased, and a plaintive cry for aid arose, and the Captain leant still farther forward and peered down into the den.

And lo! at the bottom he saw Bruin, and cowering in a corner was a form which seemed to be that of a little lad.

Then he hasted away, and summoned some of the guard.

"Hasten, Guilbert and Rauf," he cried. "Hasten, my men; a child, if I mistake not, is down in yonder bear pit, and we must try to bring him up alive."

So the good-natured soldiers hurried, and in a very short time Carlo was drawn by means of ropes up from the pit, and the good people of Nancy came in crowds to see the boy who had lodged on Christmas Eve with Ursus, the public bear, and whom Ursus, strange to say, had not hurt in any way.

And Carlo had a beautiful Christmas Day after all, for the worthy Messire Desmoulins the Mayor of Nancy, took him into his house, and made much of him.

And the little exile felt no longer a wanderer and a stranger when he sat in the Mayor's parlour, by the great stone hearth, on which an immense "Souche de Nöel," or Yuletide log, blazed cheerily, and he played sweet melodies on his lute, and ate rich sugared dainties which Marie Desmoulins, the Mayor's bright-faced little daughter, gave him. And, later on, when Christmas Day was over, when Carlo rested his wearied limbs once more on a bed, a soft, white bed, he thought of his midnight watch with Bruin, and also of the kindness which these citizens of Nancy had shown him, and felt far happier than he had ever expected to be.

There is little more to tell of Carlo.

Only this.

When the King heard of Carlo's marvellous escape, he sent for him to his Court, and the little musician pleased him greatly, and became one of the royal choristers.

But his good fortune did not stop here. As years passed on he advanced more and more in life, and when he grew to be a man, and became Choirmaster, he married pretty Marie, the daughter of the kind Mayor of Nancy, and he never forgot Him to whom he prayed, and who helped him in his extremity.

And in time to come he had children of his own—little boys and girls, who never wearied, on wintry nights or summer afternoons, of hearing how their father had spent Christmas Eve with Bruin.

Pea Blossom.

_BY ALICE CORKRAN,_

AUTHOR OF "DOWN THE SNOW STAIRS," "MRS. WISHING TO BE,"
"MARGERY MERTON'S GIRLHOOD," "MEG'S FRIEND," &c.

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