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OWINDIA:

_A TRUE TALE OF THE MACKENZIE RIVER INDIANS_,

NORTH-WEST AMERICA.


By Charlotte Selina Bompas




THE STORY OF OWINDIA.



A pretty open spot on the bank of the Great Mackenzie River was the
place where Owindia first saw light. One of the universal pine
forests formed the back ground, while low shrubs and willows, with a
pleasant, green carpet of mossy grass, were the immediate
surroundings of the camp.

The banks of the Mackenzie often rise to a height of sixty feet
above the river. This was the case in the spot where Michel the
Hunter had pitched his tent, or "lodge" as it is called. A number of
other Indians were camped near, led thither by the fish which is so
abundant in our Northern rivers, and which proves a seldom failing
resource when the moose or reindeer go off their usual track. The
woods also skirting the river furnish large supplies of rabbits,
which even the Indian children are taught to snare. Beavers too are
most numerous in this district, and are excellent food, while their
furs are an important article of trade with the Hudson Bay Company;
bringing to the poor Indian his much prized luxury of tea or tobacco,
a warm blanket or ammunition. As the Spring comes on the women of the
camps will be busy making "sirop" from the birch trees, and dressing
the skins of moose or deer which their husbands have killed in the
chase. There are also the canoes to be made or repaired for use
whenever the eight months' fetters of ice shall give way.

Thus we see the Indian camps offer a pleasant spectacle of a
contented and busy people; and if they lack the refinement and
luxuries of more civilized communities, they have at all events this
advantage,--they have never learnt to need them.

Michel, the Indian, was a well-skilled, practised hunter. Given a
windy day, a good depth of snow, and one or two moose tracks on its
fair surface, and there was not much chance of the noble beast's
escape from Michel's swift tread and steady aim. Such is the
excitement of moose-hunting; and such the intense acuteness of the
moose-deer's sense of smell and hearing, that an Indian hunter will
often strip himself of every bit of clothing, and creep stealthily
along on his snow-shoes, lest by the slightest sound he should betray
his presence, and allow his prey to escape. And Michel was as skilled
a trapper as he was hunter; from the plump little musk-rat which he
caught by the river brink to the valuable marten, sable, beaver,
otter, skunk, &c., &c., he knew the ways and habits of each one; he
would set his steel trap with as true an intuition as if he had
received notice of the coming of his prey. Many a silver fox had
found himself outdone in sharpness and cunning by Michel; many a lynx
or wild cat had fought for dear life, and may-be, made _one_
escape from Michel's snares, leaving perhaps one of its paws in token
of its fierce struggle, yet had perished after all, being allured in
some opposite direction by tempting bait, or irresistible scent laid
by the same skilful hand. In bear hunting also Michel was an adept,
and he lacked not opportunity for this sport on the banks of the
Mackenzie. Many a time would he and, perhaps, one other Indian glide
down the river in his swift canoe, and suddenly the keen observant
eyes would detect a bear walking stealthily along by the side of the
stream! In an instant the two men would exchange signals, paddles
would be lifted, and, every movement stilled, the men slowly and
'cannily' would make for shore. In spite of all, however, Bruin has
heard them, he slakes his thirst no longer in the swift-running river
nor feasts luxuriously on the berries growing by the shore. The woods
are close at hand, and with a couple of huge strides he reaches them,
and is making with increasing speed for his lair; but Michel is his
match for stealth and swiftness, and when one sense fails, another is
summoned to his assistance. The eye can no longer see the prey, but
the ear can yet detect here and there a broken twig revealing the
exact track it has taken. With gun carried low, and treading on in
breathless silence and attention, the hunters follow, and soon a shot
is heard, succeeded by another, and then a shout which proclaims poor
Bruin's death. Alas, that gun which has done such good service for
his family, which was purchased by many a month's labour, and
carefully chosen with an Indian's observant eye: what misery and
crime was it not to effect even in that very spot where now the
little group of Indians dwelt happy and peaceful, little dreaming of
the deed of violence which would soon drive them panic-stricken from
their homes!

A very marked feature in the character of the Indian is jealousy.
How far the white man may be answerable, if not for the first impulse
of this, at all events for its development, it were perhaps better
not to inquire. The schoolboy is often first taught jealousy by the
undisguised partiality for his more attractive or highly gifted
companion, evinced by his teachers; the Indians are at present in
most respects but children, and they are keenly sensitive to the
treatment they receive from those, who, in spite of many benefits
bestowed, they cannot but look upon as invaders of their soil, and
intruders upon some of their prerogatives. In our Mission work we
find this passion of jealousy often coming into play. It is most
difficult to persuade the parents to trust us with their children,
not because they doubt our care of them, but for fear of their
children's affections being alienated from their own people. It is
sometimes hard for the same reason to get the parents to bring their
children to Holy Baptism: "You will give my boy another name, and he
will not be 'like mine' any more."

And Michel the Hunter was but an average type of the Indian
character; of a fiery, ardent nature, and unschooled affections, he
never forgot a wrong done him in early youth by a white man. His
sweetheart was taken from him, cruelly, heartlessly, mercilessly,
during his absence, without note or sign or warning, while he was
working with all energy to make a home for the little black-eyed
maiden, who had promised to be his bride. If Michel could but once
have seen the betrayer to have given vent to his feelings of scorn,
rage, and indignation! To have asked him, as he longed to ask him, if
this was his Christian faith, his boasted white man's creed! To have
asked if in those thousand miles he had traversed to reach the red
man's home, there were no girls suited to his mind, save only the one
betrothed to Indian Michel! He would have asked, too, if it were not
enough to invade his country, build houses, plant his barley and
potatoes, and lay claim to his moose-deer and bear, his furs and
peltries, but he must needs touch, with profane hands, his home
treasures, and meddle with that which "even an Indian" holds sacred?
It might, perchance, have been better for Michel if he could have
spoken out and unburdened himself of his deep sense of wrong and
injury, which from henceforth lay like a hot iron in his heart. The
Italian proverb says, "It is better to swear than to brood;" and
whether this be true or not, it is certain that having to swallow his
resentment, and endure his agony in silence, embittered Michel's
spirit, and made him the jealous, sensitive, taciturn man he
afterwards became. And among many other consequences of his youth's
tragedy was an unconquerable horror of the white man; not but that,
after a time, he would work for a white man, and trade with him, so
long as he need not look upon him. He would send even his wife (for
Michel took unto him a wife after some years) to Fort Simpson with
his furs to trade, rather than trust himself in the neighbourhood of
the "Tene Manula" (white man). Once, it was said, that Michel had
even so far overcome his repugnance as to pitch his camp in the
neighbourhood of Fort Simpson. He was a husband and a father then,
and there were a number of Indians encamped in the same locality. It
might be hoped that under these circumstances the past would be
forgotten, and that the man would bury his resentment, and extend a
friendly hand to those, not a few, among the white men who wished him
well; but jealousy is the "rage of a man." In the middle of the night
Michel roused his wife and little ones, declaring that the white man
was coming to do them some mischief. Bearing his canoe upon his head
he soon launched it off, and in his mad haste to be away he even left
a number of his chattels behind.

Only once more did Michel appear at the Fort, and that on a
memorable occasion which neither he nor any who then beheld him will
be likely to forget.

It was on a dark, cold night in the winter of 1880, that a dog-sleigh,
laden with furs for the Company, appeared at Fort Simpson,
and having discharged his load at the fur store, the sleigh-driver,
who was none other than Accomba, the wife of Indian Michel, proceeded
to the small "Indian house," as it is called, to spend the rest of
the night among her own people. She was a pleasing-looking young
woman, with bright expressive eyes, and a rather melancholy cast of
countenance. She was completely enveloped in a large green blanket,
from the folds of which peeped over her shoulder an infant of a few
months old, warm and comfortable in its moss-bag. A blessed
institution is that of the moss-bag to the Indian infant; and
scarcely less so to the mother herself. Yet, indeed, it requires no
small amount of patience, skill, and labour before this Northern
luxury can be made ready for its tiny occupant. Through a good part
of the long winter nights has the mother worked at the fine bead-work
which must adorn the whole front of the moss-bag. By a strange
intuitive skill she has traced the flowers and leaves and delicate
little tendrils, the whole presenting a marvellously artistic
appearance, both in form and in well-combined colours. Then must the
moss be fetched to completely line the bag, and to form both bed and
wrapping for the little one. For miles into the woods will the Indian
women hike to pick the soft moss which is only to be met with in
certain localities. They will hang it out on bush and shrub to dry
for weeks before it is wanted, and then trudge back again to bring it
home, in cloths or blankets swung on their often already-burdened
shoulders. Then comes the picking and cleaning process, and thawing
the now frozen moss before their camp fires. Every leaf and twig must
be removed, that nothing may hurt the little baby limbs. And now all
is prepared; the sweet downy substance is spread out as pillow for
the baby head, and both couch and covering for the rest of the body.
Then the bag is laced up tight, making its small tenant as warm and
cozy as possible; only the little face appears--the bonnie, saucy
Indian baby face, singularly fair for the first few months of life,
with the black bead-like eyes, and soft silken hair, thick even in
babyhood.

Accomba threw off her blanket, and swinging round her baby, she
seated herself on the floor by the side of the roaring fire, on which
the friendly Indians heaped billet after billet of fine dry wood,
till the whole room was lighted up by the bright and cheerful blaze.
It was not long before a number of other Indians entered,--most
unceremoniously, as Indians are wont to do, and seated themselves in
all parts of the room, for they had heard the sound of sleigh bells,
and were at once curious to know the business of the new arrival. A
universal hand-shaking took place, for all were friendly, being
mostly of the same tribe, and more or less closely all connected.
Pipes were then lighted alike by men and women, and a kettle of tea
was soon singing on the fire. Accomba draws out from the recesses of
her dog sleigh one or two huge ribs of dried meat, black and
unsavoury to look at, but forming very good food for all that.

This is portioned out among the assembled company; a bladder of
grease is added, and seized with avidity by one of the party; a
portion of this was then melted down and eaten with the dried meat;
while the steaming tea, sipped out of small tin cups, and taken
without sugar or milk, was the "loving cup" of that dark-visaged
company. And far into the morning hours they sat sipping their
favourite beverage, and discussing the last tidings from the woods.
Every item of news is interesting, whether from hunter's camp, or
trapper's wigwam. There are births, marriages, and deaths, to be
pondered over and commented upon; the Indian has his chief, to whom
he owes deference and vows allegiance; he has his party badge, both
in religion and politics; what wonder then that even the long winter
night of the North, seemed far too short for all the important knotty
points which had to be discussed and settled!

"You have had good times at the little Lake," said Peter, a brother
of Michel's, who was deliberately chewing a piece of dried meat held
tight between his teeth, while with his pocketknife he severed its
connection with the piece in his hand, to the imminent peril of his
nose.

"I wish I were a freedman: I should soon be off to the Lake myself!
I am sick of working for the Company. I did not mind it when they set
me to haul meat from the hunters, or to trap furs for them, but now
they make me saw wood, or help the blacksmith at his dirty forge:
what has a 'Tene Jua' to do with such things as these?"

"And I am sick of starving!" said another. "This is the third winter
that _something_ has failed us,--first the rabbits, then the
fish ran short; and now we hear that the deer are gone into a new
track, and there is not a sign of one for ten miles round the Fort.
And the meat is so low" added the last speaker, "that the 'big
Master' says he has but fifty pounds of dried meat in the store, and
if Indians don't come in by Sunday, we are to be sent off to hunt for
ourselves and the wives and children are to go to Little Lake where
they may live on fish."

"We have plenty of fish, it is true," said Accomba; "we dried a good
number last Fall, besides having one net in the lake all the winter;
but I would not leave the Company, Peter, if I were you,--you are
better off here, man, in spite of your'starving times!' You _do_ get
your game every day, come what may, and a taste of flour every week, and
a little barley and potatoes. I call that living like a 'big master.'"

"I had rather be a free man and hunt for myself," put in another
speaker; "the meat does not taste half so good when another hand than
your own has killed it; and as for flour and barley and potatoes,
well, our forefathers got on well enough without them before the
white man came into our country, I suppose we should learn to do
without them again? For my part, I like a roe cake as well as any
white man's bread."

"But the times are harder than they used to be for the Tene Jua
(Indian men) in the woods," said Accomba with a sigh; "the deer and
the moose go off the track more than they used to do; it is only at
Fort Rae, on the Big Lake, that meat never seems to fail; for us poor
Mackenzie River people there is hardly a winter that we are far from
starvation."

"But you can always pick up something at the Forts:" replied a
former speaker; "the masters are not such bad men if we are really
starving, and then there is the Mission: we are not often turned away
from the Mission without a taste of something."

"All very good for you," said Michel's wife; "who like the white man
and know how to take him, but my man will have nothing to say to him.
The very sight of a pale face makes him feel bad, and sends him into
one of his fits of rage and madness. Oh, it has been dreadful,
dreadful," continued the poor woman, while her voice melted into a
truly Indian wail, "for my children I kept alive, or else I would
have thrown myself into the river many a time last year."

"Bah," said Peter, who being the brother of Michel, would, with true
Indian pertinacity, take part with him whatever were his offences;
and, moreover, looking with his native instinct upon woman as the
"creature" of society, whose duty it was to endure uncomplaining,
whatever her masters laid upon her. "Bah; you women are always
grumbling and bewailing yourselves; for my part, if I have to starve
a little, Kulu (the meat) is all the sweeter when it comes. I suppose
Michel has killed enough to give you many a merry night, seated round
the camp fire with some good fat ribs or a moose nose, and a fine
kettle of tea; then you wrap yourself in your blanket, or light your
pipe and feel like a 'big master.'"

