Buried in the Snow (5 page)

“I think not, my child: they have had enough this time; still, it would be prudent to remain at our post. Two or three, at least will die from the wounds received. But stop! What is that? Do you hear anything?”

Jacques grasped his axe convulsively, and listened. “It is the wolves,” said he; “they howl still; but it is as though they had attacked one another.”

“That is it,” replied the old man. “Thank God, we are now safe. The stronger, no doubt, have fallen upon the weaker: they are feasting upon the flesh of their comrades. You can leave your post, my son; we need fear them no longer.”

The boy sprang from the table, and throwing his arms around the old man’s neck, exclaimed: “God be thanked, that He has protected us from death: that was the most fearful hour we have yet passed in the chalet, grandfather!”

“I trembled for you, my boy,” replied the old man; “now I dare confess it; but God heard my fervent prayers. To him be all the praise and glory. Oh! my child, I shudder when I think what a fate might have been ours.”

A long time they stood in a close embrace, each returning thanks for the signal mercy shown them in this hour of sore need.

The necessary preparations were now made to protect themselves against a second attack: by the time they were completed, evening had come, and, tired in body and mind, the exhausted old man and his brave grandson sought and found rest, and sweet refreshing sleep, until another day awakened them to new sorrows and joys, new hopes and cares.

CHAPTER VII.

THE BITTER CUP.

N
OTWITHSTANDING Jacques’s thankfulness for his deliverance from a horrible death, he awoke upon the following morning feeling more than usually depressed: their imprisonment seemed to him more irksome than ever, for he knew that now it was not only necessary to remain within the chalet, but that they could no longer admit the pure, fresh air into their little room: door and window must be suffered to remain blocked up with snow, and neither he nor his grandfather could refresh their weary eyes with the light of the sun or the blue heavens. Without this protecting wall of snow, their situation would have been in the highest degree critical.

Before the visit of the wolves, the boy had in imagination drawn a cheerful and almost pleasant picture of the way they would pass their time in the little chalet; but now there remained to them only the same cheerless monotony, and no relief from the darkness which hemmed them in. All the hopes from which he had derived comfort, courage, and endurance, had been crushed at one blow. Then, too, their scanty store of provisions was gradually diminishing, and they were beginning to feel the want of more nourishing food; their diet consisted of the goat’s milk and a piece of hard bread, varied occasionally with a potato, seasoned with a little salt.

The boy’s grandfather sought to cheer and comfort him in his despondency, and reconcile him to his hard fate. At last Jacques found employment, that for a few days at least diverted the current of his thought. To guard against a second attack from the wolves, they were obliged to keep the trap carefully closed, and by so doing they could have no fire, as the smoke had no other outlet to escape. The boy found in the stall an old iron pipe, which he determined to make use of. Cutting a circular aperture in the trap large enough to admit the pipe, after much thought, contrivance, and labor, he fitted it as desired in the hole, securing it firmly with pieces of wood. And now the feasibility of the contrivance was to be tested.

A fire was kindled upon the hearth, and the poor captives saw with pleasure that it blazed cheerfully, without their being annoyed as before by the stifling smoke. This arrangement added greatly to their comfort, being both safe and convenient.

Their next employment was to barricade the window effectually, their weakest assailable point: this was done by means of poles and boards from the crib and manger.

Jacques and his grandfather preserved their little store of oil in a large stone jug, which stood in a corner of the kitchen: one day the lad accidentally overset it, which caused them both for the moment considerable alarm; fortunately there was no oil lost. To protect themselves against such a misfortune in the future, they concluded to make a hole in the ground in which to place the vessel, where it would be secure. Hardly had Jacques given the first blow of the axe, when his grandfather hurriedly called to him to desist, at the same time taking the axe out of the boy’s hand, beginning himself to make the cavity, and using extreme caution in so doing.

“Why are you so careful, grandfather?” said Jacques; “it seems almost as though you feared you would break something concealed in the earth.”

“You have guessed aright, my child,” replied the old man. “I expect to find in this spot what may prove to us an invaluable treasure. See, see, Jacques! I have not deceived myself—a jar; and filled, I doubt not, with sweet preserves.”

“Did you know, grandfather, that it was buried there?” inquired the surprised lad.

“Certainly, I ought to know, for I placed it there myself,” smilingly replied the old man. “Years ago I buried here four or five jars which remained over our summer’s store. I have not thought of them since; but with your first blow of the axe the remembrance returned. See, my boy, here are the other jars.” They were carefully placed in the great oaken cupboard, being reserved for time of need.

Jacques insisted that his grandfather should taste of the preserves at once, to restore his appetite and strength, which had been failing for some time, and the lad had felt on this account, for days past, much solicitude.

“Today winter has commenced,” said the old man, upon the morning of the 21st of December, as Jacques was making the fire upon the hearth.

“Just commenced!” said the lad. “I thought winter had come weeks since.”

“Snow and ice have come, my lad; but not winter. It does not properly set in until the 21st. Today the sun has reached his lowest point. For us this is the shortest day. Ninety days, and spring, bright, beautiful spring, will come to cheer us with its sprouts and blossoms, its warm sunbeams, and mild, fragrant breezes—the spring which shall open to us the door of our chalet, and restore us to liberty, to our relatives and friends. Ninety days, Jacques, and we will descend the old well-known paths to our beloved home in the valley.”

“Ninety days! That is a long, long time, grandfather,” replied the boy. “Would to God they were passed!”

“They will pass away, as have the early days of our captivity; and the more quickly, the more courageously we look them in the face,” answered the grandfather. “We must try to shorten the time by some kind of employment. To be sure, we are obliged to sit in darkness, but we know even the blind can employ their time usefully.”

Jacques eagerly seized this suggestion, and tried to weave his straw bands in the darkness. At first it appeared as though he would never be able to do it; but after some time, the work became easier, and he soon found the sense of touch replaced, in a certain degree, that of sight. He exerted himself diligently and perseveringly, so that before long he could plait as quickly and neatly as by the light of the lamp. And thus he lamented less the want of light, which had induced weariness and tiresome inactivity.

And now the Christmas festival had come. For the poor captives the holy day was not one of joy, but of sorrow. With inexpressible longings did they think of home, and in fancy they mingled with the dearly loved group. Would they ever see them again? Would they ever enjoy with them the Christmas feast? Should they ever walk with them to the house of God, to give thanks for His most precious gift to poor, sinful, suffering man? Or sing praises to the holy child Jesus? Jacques and his grandfather spent the day in meditation and prayer.

The poor old man had not been well for some days, complaining of intense pain in his limbs. Jacques noticed, with much solicitude, that his feet were much swollen, particularly the one he had injured. His heart sank, as the thought for the first time presented itself that his grandfather might die before their time of deliverance would come. The same thought seemed to have burdened the mind of the old man. He had been all day unusually silent and thoughtful; toward evening he roused himself from his abstraction.

“ ‘Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me?’” said he. “Have we a right to murmur or complain, my son, when we think of the blessed Saviour, who voluntarily, for the salvation of poor sinners, left the glory of heaven, and came down to earth, where he drained the bitter cup of sorrow? What are our sufferings compared with his? We have a shelter and a refuge. God’s own Son had nowhere to lay His head. We, perchance, are forgotten of men. Jesus, the holy, innocent Lamb of God, was by men persecuted, mocked, yea, even put to death, the cruel death of the cross. We have no right to be impatient, my son, or sorrowful. Let us pray, that we may be able from our hearts to say, ‘O Lord, for Thy sake, I will cheerfully suffer whatsoever shall come on me with Thy permission. If it be Thy will that I should be in darkness, be Thou blessed; and if it be Thy will that I should be in light, be Thou again blessed. If Thou vouchsafe
[2]
to comfort me, be Thou blessed; and if Thou wilt have me afflicted, be Thou blessed also.’”

“I will try and not murmur or complain, grandfather,” replied the boy. “I will bear cheerfully all that God sends upon us, if only he spare me the bitterest cup of sorrow.”

“And what is that, my child?”

“If you should be seriously sick, grandfather: I could not bear to see you suffer.”

“My dear Jacques, as bitter as this cup may appear, you must be prepared to put it to your lips: I am old, my poor body is weak, held fast by many fears, racked with many cares, worn with many labors. Wherefore shall I fear to enter into my father’s kingdom, and see his glory and enter into His kingdom where there is no more sin and sorrow? The days of this life though filled with evil have also been filled with great joy and beauty. Only one wish I have: to see you, my son, restored to your father, before I go hence. But, should God will it otherwise, and take me to himself, before we return to our home in the valley I still have confidence in you, my boy, that you will bear my death without giving way to despair. What help am I to you, my child? I am nothing but a burden—a chain which you ever drag about with you, which only your filial love for me enables you to bear. You are the one that has labored; I have only advised. Why dread an event that sooner or later must happen? And wherefore grieve before the time? I am not so weak that there is no longer room for hope. Your love and watchful care for me, and the blessing of God upon them, can prolong my life until the spring; and I may yet see the fresh, green woods and valley.”

Jacques was but little comforted by these persuasive words, and still wept, continuing the entire day sorrowful and depressed. The old man saw that the sad theme must be discontinued, and the boy’s thoughts diverted, if possible.

“Jacques,” said he, in cheerful tones, “something has occurred to me that I think will be to our advantage. Suppose we try to make some cheese from our goat’s milk? Have you ever thought of it?”

His grandfather could not have devised anything better. So soon as the lad had employment, he forgot for the time all else, and with the ardor of youth exclaimed:

“That is a splendid idea, grandfather: tomorrow I will try what I can do.”

Upon the following day he went briskly to work: he succeeded almost beyond his expectations, the cheese looking so tempting as to delight the boy greatly; but, when Jacques brought it to his grandfather for his approval, all his fears and cares returned, for the old man was lying down, feeling too weak and exhausted to rise. It was with some difficulty that he quieted the lad, and he endeavored to appear, for his sake, better than he really was. He felt that his strength was failing day by day, and that there was less and less probability of his living until the spring.

In the midst of these cares and fears came the first of January, “New Year’s Day.” Jacques’s grandfather exerted himself to cheer the lad; amusing him with games, and striving in many other ways to make him forget the impending trouble. He tried to make it a festive day for the poor boy, and suggested that they should indulge more than ordinarily in such good cheer as lay within their reach. The cheese which Jacques had made must be cut, potatoes also, roasted in the ashes, were to be added to the feast, together with a small quantity of their wine. Nor was Blanchette forgotten: she had a double ration of salt, and Jacques selected the sweetest hay for her holiday dinner, and a fresh, clean bed of straw, making her glad with a triple allowance of caresses; and so passed the day, which had threatened nothing but sorrow, quite happily for our poor prisoners.

But not many more such days were they to pass; and the old man felt that the boy’s fears must be again aroused, and that what he wished yet to attend to must be done without delay. The following day his grandfather told Jacques to bring to his bedside pen and paper, and write down a few words which he would dictate. The words were as follows:

“In the name of God, Amen!

“It is more than probable that I may be taken from my friends before I can state to them my wishes. I have no special directions to give regarding my trifling property. But I wish to give to my dear grandson, Jacques Lopraz, here present, some proof of my love and gratitude for all his care and devotion; and therefore I beg my heirs that they give to him (should it not be in my power) my watch; my rifle; my Bible, which belonged to my father; and my seal, upon which my initials are engraved.

“These slight tokens of my love will be valuable to him for the sake of the true love which we bear for each other, and which death itself cannot weaken.

“Such is my will.

“Signed at the Chalet of Azindes, the

2
nd
of January, 18—.

“
Louis Lopraz
.”

Jacques wept as he wrote, and at the close fell sobbing at the side of the old man.

“Be calm, my dear child, be calm,” whispered he in gentle tones. “What our God sends must be borne without murmuring, in quiet submission. If I am separated from you, my love will remain the same.”

Jacques endeavored to repress his grief, and in some degree recovered his composure. For several days longer the old man lived, comforting the poor lad with his presence, until he hoped with all confidence of youth that the evil day would not come, that his grandfather would recover, and regain his lost strength. The kind God would not cause him such grief and pain. He, in his infinite love and compassion, would suffer him to live until spring—would let him look once more upon the dear home in the valley.

With such hopes the boy sustained himself, and buoyed up his sinking heart, while he prayed fervently that God, for the dear Saviour’s sake, might fulfill his ardent desires.

The days passed away slowly: it had now been a long time since any noise from without had penetrated their seclusion: their chalet appeared to be completely buried under the snow that had fallen lately in great quantities. The iron pipe which Jacques had placed in the chimney still answered the purpose, and was the sole link that connected them with the outer world—a few flakes of snow occasionally falling through it into their chalet. These white messengers of winter were the only indications of life that reached the captives in their dark grave.

Should the clock have stopped, they would not have known had it been morning, midday, or evening. It was solely by means of the faint glimmer of light which they saw from the top of the small iron pipe that they could distinguish day from night. On the other hand, they suffered very little from cold in their silent cave; and were able daily to renew the fresh air without risking their safety. Jacques thought if only his grandfather’s life was spared, and their provisions held out, all might yet be well.