Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (2 page)

 
          
           
Then the people drew a long breath, and muttered to one another:—

 
          
           
"He will never do it, yet he is a brave lad for his years."

 
          
           
"Only a shift to get off with a whole skin, I warrant you. These varlets
are as cunning as foxes," added Becky, sourly.

 
          
           
The parson alone believed and hoped, though weeks and months went by, and his
children did not come.

 
          
           
Meantime, Reuben and Eunice were far away in an Indian camp, resting as best
they could, after the long journey that followed that dreadful night. Their
captors were not cruel to them, for Reuben was a stout fellow, and, thanks to
Onawandah, could hold his own with the boys who would have tormented him if he
had been feeble or cowardly. Eunice also was a hardy creature for her years,
and when her first fright and fatigue were over, made
herself
useful in many ways among the squaws, who did not let the pretty child suffer
greatly; though she was neglected, because they knew no better.

 
          
           
Life in a wigwam was not a life of ease, and fortunately the children were
accustomed to simple habits and the hardships that all endured in those early
times. But they mourned for home till their young faces were pathetic with the
longing, and their pillows of dry leaves were often wet with tears in the
night. Their clothes grew ragged, their hair unkempt, their faces tanned by sun
and wind. Scanty food and exposure to all weathers tried the strength of their
bodies, and uncertainty as to their fate saddened their spirits; yet they bore
up bravely, and said their prayers faithfully, feeling sure that God would
bring them home to father in His own good time.

 
          
           
One day, when Reuben was snaring birds in the wood,—for the Indians had no fear
of such young children venturing to escape,—he heard the cry of a quail, and
followed it deeper and deeper into the forest, till it ceased, and, with a
sudden rustle, Onawandah rose up from the brakes, his finger on his lips to
prevent any exclamation that might betray him to other ears and eyes.

 
          
           
"I come for you and little Laroka" (the name he gave Eunice, meaning
"Wild Rose"). "I take you home. Not know me yet. Go and
wait."

 
          
           
He spoke low and fast; but the joy in his face told how glad he was to find the
boy after his long search, and Reuben clung to him, trying not to disgrace
himself by crying like a girl, in his surprise and delight.

 
          
           
Lying hidden in the tall brakes they talked in whispers, while one told of the
capture,
and the other of a plan of escape; for, though a
friendly tribe, these Indians were not Onawandah's people, and they must not
suspect that he knew the children, else they might be separated at once.

 
          
           
"Little squaw betray me. You watch her. Tell her not to cry out, not speak
me any time. When I say come, we go—fast—in the night. Not ready yet."

 
          
           
These were the orders Reuben received, and, when he could compose himself, he
went back to the wigwams, leaving his friend in the wood, while he told the
good news to Eunice, and prepared her for the part she must play.

 
          
           
Fear had taught her self-control, and the poor child stood the test well,
working off her relief and rapture by pounding corn on the stone mortar till
her little hands were blistered, and her arms ached for hours afterward.

 
          
           
Not till the next day did Onawandah make his appearance, and then he came
limping into the village, weary, lame, and half starved, after his long
wandering in the wilderness. He was kindly welcomed, and his story believed;
for he told only the first part, and said nothing of his life among the white
men. He hardly glanced at the children when they were pointed out to him by
their captors, and scowled at poor Eunice, who forgot her part in her joy, and
smiled as she met the dark eyes that till now had always looked kindly at her.
A touch from Reuben warned her, and she was glad to hide her confusion by
shaking her long hair over her face, as if afraid of the stranger.

 
          
           
Onawandah took no further notice of them, but seemed to be very lame with the
old wound in his foot, which prevented his being obliged to hunt with the men.
He was resting and slowly gathering strength for the hard task he had set
himself, while he waited for a safe time to save the children. They understood,
but the suspense proved too much for little Eunice, and she pined with
impatience to be gone. She lost appetite and color, and cast such appealing
glances at Onawandah, that he could not seem quite indifferent, and gave her a
soft word now and then, or did such acts of kindness as he could perform
unsuspected. When she lay awake at night thinking of home, a cricket would
chirp outside the wigwam, and a hand slip in a leaf full of berries, or a
bark-cup of fresh water for the feverish little mouth. Sometimes it was only a
caress or a whisper of
encouragement, that
re-assured
the childish heart, and sent her to sleep with a comfortable sense of love and
protection, like a sheltering wing over a motherless bird.

 
          
           
Reuben stood it better, and entered heartily into the excitement of the plot;
for he had grown tall and strong in these trying months, and felt that he must
prove himself a man to sustain and defend his sister. Quietly he put away each
day a bit of dried meat, a handful of parched corn, or a well-sharpened
arrowhead, as provision for the journey; while Onawandah seemed to be amusing
himself with making moccasins and a little vest of deer-skin for an Indian
child about the age of Eunice.

 
          
           
At last, in the early autumn, all the men went off on the war-path, leaving
only boys and women behind. Then Onawandah's eyes began to kindle, and Reuben's
heart to beat fast, for both felt that their time for escape had come.

 
          
           
All was ready, and one moonless night the signal was given. A cricket chirped
shrilly outside the tent where the children slept with one old squaw. A strong
hand cut the skin beside their bed of fir-boughs, and two trembling creatures
crept out to follow the tall shadow that flitted noiselessly before them into
the darkness of the wood. Not a broken twig, a careless step, or a whispered
word betrayed them, and they vanished as swiftly and silently as hunted deer
flying for their lives.

 
          
           
Till dawn they hurried on, Onawandah carrying Eunice, whose strength soon
failed, and Reuben manfully shouldering the hatchet and the pouch of food. At
sunrise they hid in a thicket by a spring and rested, while waiting for the
friendly night to come again. Then they pushed on, and fear gave wings to their
feet, so that by another morning they were far enough away to venture to travel
more slowly and sleep at night.

 
          
           
If the children had learned to love and trust the Indian boy in happier times,
they adored him now, and came to regard him as an earthly Providence; so
faithful, brave, and tender was he,—so forgetful of himself, so bent on saving
them. He never seemed to sleep, ate the poorest morsels, or went without any
food when provision failed; let no danger daunt him, no hardship wring
complaint from him, but went on through the wild forest, led by guides
invisible to them, till they began to hope that home was near.

 
          
           
Twice he saved their lives. Once, when he went in search of food, leaving
Reuben to guard his sister, the children, being very hungry, ignorantly ate
some poisonous berries which looked like wild cherries, and were deliciously
sweet. The boy generously gave most of them to Eunice, and soon was
terror-stricken to see her grow pale, and cold, and deathly ill. Not knowing
what to do, he could only rub her hands and call wildly for Onawandah.

 
          
           
The name echoed through the silent wood, and, though far away, the keen ear of
the Indian heard it, his fleet feet brought him back in time, and his knowledge
of wild roots and herbs made it possible to save the child when no other help
was at hand.

 
          
           
"Make fire. Keep warm. I soon come," he said, after hearing the story
and examining Eunice, who could only lift her eyes to him, full of childish
confidence and patience.

 
          
           
Then he was off again, scouring the woods like a hound on the scent, searching
everywhere for the precious little herb that would counteract the poison. Any
one watching him would have thought him crazy, as he rushed hither and thither,
tearing up the leaves, creeping on his hands and knees that it might not escape
him, and when he found it, springing up with a cry that startled the birds, and
carried hope to poor Reuben, who was trying to forget his own pain in his
anxiety for Eunice, whom he thought dying.

 
          
           
"Eat, eat, while I make drink. All safe now," cried Onawandah, as he
came leaping toward them with his hands full of green leaves, and his dark face
shining with joy.

 
          
           
The boy was soon relieved, but for hours they hung over the girl, who suffered
sadly, till she grew unconscious and lay as if dead. Reuben's courage failed
then, and he cried bitterly, thinking how hard it would be to leave the dear
little creature under the pines and go home alone to father. Even Onawandah
lost hope for a while, and sat like a bronze statue of despair, with his eyes
fixed on his Wild Rose, who seemed fading away too soon.

 
          
           
Suddenly he rose, stretched his arms to the west, where the sun was setting
splendidly, and in his own musical language prayed to the Great Spirit. The
Christian boy fell upon his knees, feeling that the only help was in the Father
who saw and heard them even in the wilderness. Both were comforted, and when
they turned to Eunice there was a faint tinge of color on the pale cheeks, as
if the evening red kissed her; the look of pain was gone, and she slept
quietly, without the moans that had made their hearts ache before.

 
          
           
"He hears! he hears!" cried Onawandah, and for the first time Reuben
saw tears in his keen eyes, as the Indian boy turned his face to the sky, full
of a gratitude that no words were sweet enough to tell.

 
          
           
All night Eunice lay peacefully sleeping, and the moon lighted Onawandah's
lonely watch, for Reuben was worn out with suspense, and slept beside his
sister.

 
          
           
In the morning she was safe, and great was the rejoicing; but for two days the
little invalid was not allowed to continue the journey, much as they longed to
hurry on. It was a pretty sight, the bed of hemlock boughs spread under a green
tent of woven branches, and on the pillow of moss the pale child watching the
flicker of sunshine through the leaves, listening to the babble of a brook close
by, or sleeping tranquilly, lulled by the murmur of the pines. Patient, loving,
and grateful, it was a pleasure to serve her, and both the lads were faithful
nurses. Onawandah cooked birds for her to eat, and made a pleasant drink of the
wild-raspberry leaves to quench her thirst. Reuben snared rabbits, that she
might have nourishing food, and longed to shoot a deer for provision, that she
might not suffer hunger again on their journey. This boyish desire led him
deeper into the wood than it was wise for him to go alone, for it was near
nightfall, and wild creatures haunted the forest in those days. The fire, which
Onawandah kept constantly burning, guarded their little camp where Eunice lay;
but Reuben, with no weapon but his bow and hunting knife, was beyond this
protection when he at last gave up his vain hunt and turned homeward. Suddenly,
the sound of stealthy steps startled him, but he could see nothing through the
dusk at first, and hurried on, fearing that some treacherous Indian was
following him. Then he remembered his sister, and resolved not to betray her
resting-place if he could help it, for he had learned courage of Onawandah, and
longed to be as brave and generous as his dusky hero.

 
          
           
So he paused to watch and wait, and soon saw the gleam of two fiery eyes, not
behind, but above him, in a tree. Then he knew that it was an "Indian
devil," as they called a species of fierce animal that lurked in the
thickets and sprang on its prey like a small tiger.

 
          
           
"If I could only kill it alone, how proud Onawandah would be of me,"
thought Reuben, burning for the good opinion of his friend.

 
          
           
It would have been wiser to hurry on and give the beast no time to spring; but
the boy was over bold, and, fitting an arrow to the string, aimed at the bright
eye-ball and let fly. A sharp snarl showed that some harm was done, and, rather
daunted by the savage sound, Reuben raced away, meaning to come back next day
for the prize he hoped he had secured.