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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.'"

Peter's picture of comfort and enjoyment pleased the Indians, and
they laughed heartily and testified their approval, all but poor
Accomba. She hung her head, and sadly fondled the baby at her breast.
"You may laugh, boys," she said at length, "and you know what
starving is as well as I do, though you are pretty well off now; it
is not for myself I speak, I can bear that kind of thing as well as
other women, but it comes hard for the children. Before Se Tene, my
man, killed his last moose, we were starving for nearly two moons; a
little dried fish and a rat or two, and now and then a rabbit, was we
got: even the fish failed for some time, and there was hardly a duck
or partridge to be seen. We had to eat two of the dogs at last, but,
poor things, they had little flesh on their bones."

"Eh! eh! e--h!" exclaimed the Indians, who however undemonstrative
under ordinary circumstances, can be full of sympathy where they can
realize the affecting points of a story.

"And the children," asked one of the party, "I suppose the
neighbours helped you a little with them?"

"One of my cousins took little Tetsi for a while," replied the poor
woman, "and did what she could for him, but they were all short of
game as we were, only their men went off after the deer, and plenty,
of them got to the lakes for duck; but Michel,--"

"Well, what did he do? I suppose he was off with his gun the first
of any of them?" said Peter. "I'll venture there shall not be a moose
or deer within twenty miles, but Michel the Hunter shall smell him
out."

"Yes, he went at last," sighed Accomba; "but my man has had one of
his ugly fits upon him for all the winter; he would not hunt anywhere
near the Fort, for fear of meeting a white face; and he vowed I was
making friends with them, and bidding them welcome to the camp, and
so he was afraid to leave it; and then at last, when I begged him to
go and get food for his children, he swore at me and called me a bad
name, and took up his gun to shoot me."

"Oh, I suppose he only said that in sport," said another of the
party; and yet it was plain that Accomba's story had produced a great
sensation among her auditors.

"_In sport!_" exclaimed Accomba, now fairly roused to excitement by the
apparent incredulity of her listeners; "_In sport_, say you? No, no,
Michel knows well what he _says_, though sometimes I think he is hardly
responsible for his actions; but look you, boys, my husband vowed to
shoot me once, and I stayed his arm and fell on my knees and tried to
rouse him to pity; but I will do so no more, and if he threatens me
again I will let him accomplish his fell purpose, and not a cry or sound
shall ever escape my lips. But you, Tetsi," continued the poor woman,
who was now fairly sobbing, "you are his brother, you might speak to him
and try to bring him to reason; and if I die, you must take care of my
poor children,--promise me that, Tetsi and Antoine, they are your own
flesh and blood, do not let them starve. 'Niotsi Cho,' the Great Spirit
will give it you back again."

There was a great silence among the Indians when Accomba had
finished speaking. An Indian has great discernment, and not only can
soon discover where the pathos of a story lies, but he will read as
by intuition how much of it is true or false. Moreover, Michel's
character was well known among them all, and his eccentricities had
often excited their wonder and sometimes their censure. The poor
woman's story appealed to each one of them: most of all did it appeal
to the heart of Sarcelle her brother, who was another occupant of the
room that evening.

"It is shocking, it is monstrous." exclaimed he at full length. "My
sister, you shall come with me. I will work for you, I will hunt for
you and your children. Michel shall not threaten you again, he is a
'Nakani' man; he does not know what he says or what he does, he is a
bad 'Nakani.'"

"I think some one has made medicine on him," said another; "he is
possessed, and will get worse till the spell is off him."

This medicine making among the Northern Indians is one of the most
firmly rooted of all their superstitions. The term is by no means
well chosen or descriptive of the strange ungodly rite; it is in
reality a charm or spell which one man is supposed to lay upon
another. It is employed for various purposes and by different means
of operations. You will hear of one man'making medicine' to
ascertain what time the Company's boats may be expected, or when
certain sledges of meat may come to the Fort. Another man is sick and
the medicine-man is summoned, and a drum is beaten during the night
with solemn monotonous 'tum, tum, tum', and certain confidential
communications take place between the Doctor and his patient, during
which the sick man is supposed to divulge every secret he may
possess, and on the perfect sincerity of his revelation must depend
his recovery.

The accompaniments of this strange scene vary according to
circumstances. In some cases a basin of blood of some animal is made
use of; in most instances a knife or dagger plays an important part.
I have seen one of these, which, by-the-by, is most difficult to
obtain, and can only be seen by special favour. It is made of bone or
ivory, beautifully carved and notched at the edges, with various dots
or devices upon it, and all, both dots and notches, arranged in
groups of sevens! After some hours the spell may be supposed to work,
the sick man feels better, the excitement of the medicine-man
increases, all looks promising; yet at this moment should a white
face enter the house or tent, still more, should he venture to touch
either doctor or patient, the spell would be instantly broken, and
the whole process must be commenced anew.

The spell has been wrought upon a poor Cree Woman at Ile la C. She
is perfectly convinced as to who did her the injury, and also that it
was her hands which it was intended should suffer. Accordingly each
Spring, for some years past, her hands are rendered powerless by a
foul-looking, scaly eruption, which comes over them. Indians have
been known to climb an almost inaccessible rock, and stripping
themselves of every vestige of clothing, to lie there without food or
drink, singing and invoking the wonder-worker until the revelation of
some secret root was made known, by which their design for good or
evil might be accomplished!

A Cree Indian, a man of sound education, related once the following
story:--"I was suffering in the year 18----from great distress of
body, and after seeing a doctor and feeling no better, I began to
think I must be the victim of some medicine-man. I thought over my
adventures of the last year or two, to discover if there were any who
had reason to wish me evil. Yes, there was one man, a Swampy Indian.
I had quarrelled with him, and then we had had words; and I spoke,
well, I spoke bitterly (which I ought not to have done, for he was
the injured man) and he vowed to revenge himself upon me. This was
some years since, however, and I had never given him a thought since
the time of our quarrel, but now I was certain a spell was over me,
and he must have wrought it,--I knew of no other enemy, and I was
determined to overcome it or die. So I saddled my horse and rode
across country for thirty miles till I reached the dwelling of the
Swampy. The man was outside, and started when he saw me, which
convinced me more than ever that I was on the right scent. I put up
my horse and followed my man into the house whither he had retreated;
and wasting no time, came to the point at once. Drawing my revolver
and pointing it to his heart, 'Villain,' I exclaimed, 'you have made
medicine on me: tell me your secret or I shall shoot you dead.' I
never saw a more cowed and more wretched-looking being than my man
became. I expected at least some resistance to my command; but he
offered none; for without attempting to stir or even look me in the
face, he smiled a ghastly smile, and muttered, 'It has done its work
then--well, I am glad! Look in your horse-saddle, and never provoke
me more.' I hesitated for a moment whether to loosen my hold upon the
man, and to believe so improbable a story; but on the whole I deemed
it better to do so. He had fulfilled his threat of revenge, and had
caused me months of suffering in body and mind; he knew me well
enough to be sure that I was in earnest when I told him that his life
would be forfeited if the spell were not removed. So I released my
hold and quitted the house. On cutting open my saddle I discovered
that the whole original lining had been removed and replaced by an
immense number of baneful roots and herbs, which I burnt on the spot.
How this evil deed had been effected I could not even surmise, but so
it was, and from that hour I was a different man--my mind recovered
its equilibrium, I was no longer affected by pain and distress of
body, or haunted by nightly visions. Those who smile at the
medicine-man, and are sceptical as to his power, may keep to their
own opinions; I believe that the Almighty has imbued many of His
creatures, both animate and inanimate, with a subtle power for good
or evil, and that it is given to some men to evoke that power and to
bring about results which it is impossible for the uninitiated to
foresee or to avert!"

But we have wandered too far from Accomba and her sad history. We
must now transport the reader to that portion of the shores of the
Mackenzie which was described at the opening of our story. The scene
indeed should be laid a few miles lower down the river than that at
first described, but the aspect and condition of things is but little
altered. A number of camps are there, pitched within some ten,
twenty, and thirty yards of each other. The dark brown, smoke-tinted
leather tents or lodges, have a certain air of comfort and
peacefulness about them, which is in no wise diminished, by the smoke
curling up from the aperture at the top, or the voices of children
running in and out from the tent door. These are the tents of
Mackenzie River Indians, speaking the Slave tongue, and mostly known
by name to the Company's officers at the neighbouring forts or
trading posts, known also to the Bishop and Clergy at the Mission
stations, who have often visited these Indians and held services for
them at their camps, or at the little English churches at Fort
Simpson, Fort Norman, etc. etc., and those little dark-eyed children
are, with but few exceptions, baptized Christians. Many of them have
attended the Mission Schools for the few weeks in Spring or Fall,
when their parents congregate round the forts; they can con over
portions of their Syllabic Prayer-books, and find their place in the
little Hymn books, for "O come, all ye faithful," "Alleluia! sing to
Jesus;" and "Glory to thee, my God, this night," while such anthems
as "I will arise," and others are as familiar to the Slave Indians as
to our English children. Yes, it is a Christian community we are
looking at; and yet, sad to say, it is in one of those homes that the
dark deed was committed which left five little ones motherless, and
spread terror and confusion among the whole camp.

It was a lovely morning in May, 1880. The ice upon the Mackenzie
River had but lately given way, having broken up with one tremendous
crash. Huge blocks were first hurled some distance down the river,
then piled up one above another until they reached the summit of the
bank fifty or sixty feet high, and being deposited there in huge
unsightly masses, were left to thaw away drop by drop, a process
which it would take some five or six weeks to accomplish. Some of the
men had lately returned from a bear hunt, being, however,
disappointed of their prey--a matter of less consideration than
usual, for Bruin, being but lately roused from his long winter sleep,
was in a less prime condition than he would be a few weeks later.
Michel, the hunter, had one of his "ugly fits" upon him;--this was
known throughout the camps. The women only shrugged their shoulders,
and kept clear of his lodge. The men paid him but little attention,
even when he skulked in for awhile after dark to smoke his pipe by
their camp fire. But on this morning neither Michel nor his wife had
been seen outside their camp; only one or two of the children had
turned out at a late hour and looked wistfully about, as if longing
for someone to give them food and other attention.

Suddenly, from within the lodge