Chapter 43 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
A Feat of Herculean Strength
Let us now glance at the spot occupied by the Blackbird. The fires lighted on the banks threw at first so strong a light that nothing could escape the eyes of the Indians, and a sentinel placed near each fire was charged to observe carefully all that passed on the island. Seated and leaning against the trunk of a tree, his broken shoulder bound up with strips of leather, the Blackbird only showed on his face an expression of satisfied ferocity; as for the suffering he was undergoing, he would have thought it unworthy of him to betray the least indication of it. His ardent eye was fixed continually on the spot where were the three men, whom he pictured to himself as full of anguish.
But as the fog grew thicker, first the opposite bank and then the island itself, became totally invisible. The Indian chief felt that it was necessary to redouble his surveillance. He ordered one man to cross the river, and another to walk along the bank, and exhorted every one to watchfulness.
“Go,” said he, “and tell those of my warriors who are ordered to watch these Christians—whose skins and scalps shall serve as ornaments to our horses—that they must each have four ears, to replace the eyes that the fog has rendered useless. Tell them that their vigilance will merit their chief’s gratitude; but that if they allow sleep to deaden their senses, the hatchet of the Blackbird will send them to sleep in the land of spirits.”
The two messengers set off, and soon returned to tell the chief that he might rest satisfied that attention would be paid to his orders. Indeed, stimulated at once by their own hatred of the whites, and by the hope of a recompense—fearing if sleep surprised them, not so much the threatened punishment as the idea of awaking in the hunting-grounds of the land of spirits, bearing on their foreheads the mark of shame which accompanies the sentinel who gives way to sleep—the sentinels had redoubled their vigilance. There are few sounds that can escape the marvellous ears of an Indian, but on this occasion the fog made it difficult to hear as well as to see, and the strictest attention was necessary. With closed eyes and open ears, and standing up to chase away the heaviness that the silence of nature caused them to feel, the Indian warriors stood motionless near their fires, throwing on on from time to time some fagots to keep them ablaze.
Some time passed thus, during which the only sound heard was that of a distant fall in the river.
The Blackbird remained on the left bank, and the night air, as it inflamed his wounds, only excited his hatred the more. His face covered with hideous paint, and contracted by the pain—of which he disdained to make complaint—and his brilliant eyes, made him resemble one of the sanguinary idols of barbarous times. Little by little, however, in spite of himself, his eyes were weighed down by sleep, and an invincible drowsiness took possession of his spirit. Before long his sleep became so profound, that he did not hear the dry branches crackle under a moccasin, as an Indian of his tribe advanced towards him.
Straight and motionless as a bamboo stem, an Indian runner covered with blood and panting for breath, waited for some time until the chief, before whom he stood, should open his eyes and interrogate him. As the latter showed no signs of awaking, the runner resolved to announce his presence, and in a hollow, guttural voice, said—
“When the Blackbird shall open his eyes, he will hear from my mouth words which will chase sleep far from him.”
The chief opened his eyes at the voice, and shook off his drowsiness with a violent effort. Ashamed at having been surprised asleep, he muttered:
“The Blackbird has lost much blood; he has lost so much that the next sun will not dry it on the ground, and his body is more feeble than his will.”
“Man is made thus,” rejoined the messenger, sententiously.
The Blackbird continued without noticing the reflection:
“It is some very important message doubtless, since the Spotted Cat has chosen the fleetest of his runners to carry it?”
“The Spotted Cat will send no more messengers,” replied the Indian. “The lance of a white man has pierced his breast, and the chief now hunts with his fathers in the land of spirits.”
“What matter! he died a conqueror? he saw, before he died, the white dogs dispersed over the plain?”
“He died conquered; and the Apaches had to fly after losing their chief and fifty of their renowned warriors.”
In spite of his wound, and of the empire that an Indian should exercise over himself, the Blackbird started up at these words. However, he restrained himself, and replied gravely, though with trembling lips—
“Who, then, sends you to me, messenger of ill?”
“The warriors, who want a chief to repair their defeat. The Blackbird was but the chief of a tribe, he is now the chief of a whole people.”
Satisfied pride shone in the eye of the Indian, at his augmented authority.
“If the rifles of the north had been joined to ours, the whites of the south would have been conquered.” But as he recalled to mind the insulting manner in which the two hunters had rejected his proposal, his eyes darted forth flames of hatred, and pointing to his wound, he said, “What can a wounded chief do? His limbs refuse to carry him, and he can scarcely sit on his horse.”
“We can tie him on; a chief is at once a head and an arm—if the arm be powerless the head will act, and the sight of their chief’s blood will animate our warriors. The council fire was lighted anew after the defeat, and the warriors wait for the Blackbird to make his voice heard; his battle-horse is ready—let us go!”
“No,” replied the Blackbird, “my warriors encompass, on each bank, the white hunters whom I wished to have for allies; now they are enemies; the ball of one of them has rendered useless for six moons, the arm that was so strong in combat; and were I offered the command of ten nations, I would refuse it, to await here the hour when the blood that I thirst for shall flow before my eyes.”
The chief then recounted briefly the captivity of Gayferos, his deliverance by the Canadian, the rejection of his proposals and the vow of vengeance he had made.
The messenger listened gravely; he felt all the importance of making a new attack on the gold-seekers, at the moment when, delighted at their victory, they believed themselves safe, and he proposed to the Blackbird to leave some one behind in his place to watch the island; but the Blackbird was immovable.
“Well!” said the runner, “before long the sun will begin to rise; I shall wait until daylight to report to the Apaches that the Blackbird prefers his personal vengeance to the honour of the entire nation. By deferring my departure, I shall have retarded the moment when our warriors will have to regret the loss of the bravest among them.”
“So be it,” said the chief, in a grave tone, although much pleased by this adroit flattery, “but a messenger has need of repose after a battle followed by a long journey. Meanwhile, I would listen to the account of the combat in which the Spotted Cat lost his life.”
The messenger sat down near the fire, with crossed legs, and with one elbow on his knee and his head leaning on his hand, after a few minutes’ rest, gave a circumstantial account of the attack on the white camp—omitting no fact which might awaken the hatred of the Blackbird against the Mexican invaders.
This over, he laid down and slept, or seemed to sleep. But the tumultuous and contrary passions which struggled in the heart of the Blackbird—ambition on the one hand, and thirst for vengeance on the other—kept him awake without effort. In about an hour the runner half rose, and pushing back the cloak of skin which he had drawn over his head he perceived the Blackbird still sitting in the same attitude.
“The silence of the night has spoken to me,” said he, “and I thought that a renowned chief like the Blackbird might, before the rising sun, have his enemies in his power and hear their death-song.”
“My warriors cannot walk on the water as on the warpath,” replied he; “the men of the north do not resemble those of the south, whose rifles are like reeds in their hands.”
“The blood that the Blackbird has lost deceives his intellect and obscures his vision; if he shall permit it, I shall act for him, and to-morrow his vengeance will be complete.”
“Do as you like; from whatever side vengeance comes, it will be agreeable to me.”
“Enough. I shall soon bring here the three hunters, and him whose scalp they could not save.”
So saying the messenger rose and was soon hidden by the fog from the eyes of the Blackbird.
On the island more generous emotions were felt. From the eyes of its occupants sleep had also fled—for if there be a moment in life, when the hearts of the bravest may fail them, it is when danger is terrible and inevitable, and when not even the last consolation of selling life dearly is possible to them. Watched by enemies whom they could not see, the hunters could not satisfy their rage by making their foes fall beneath their bullets as they had done the evening before. Besides, both Bois-Rose and Pepé knew too well the implacable obstinacy of the Indians to suppose that the Blackbird would permit his warriors to reply to their attacks; a soldier’s death would have seemed too easy to him.
Oppressed by these sad thoughts, the three hunters spoke no more, but resigned themselves to their fate, rather than abandon the unlucky stranger by attempting to escape.
Fabian was as determined to die as the others. The habitual sadness of his spirit robbed death of its terrors, but still the ardour of his mind would have caused him to prefer a quicker death, weapon in hand, to the slow and ignominious one reserved for them. He was the first to break silence. The profound tranquillity that reigned on the banks was to the experienced eyes of the Canadian and Pepé only a certain indication of the invincible resolution of their enemies; but to Fabian it appeared reassuring—a blessing by which they ought to profit.
“All sleeps now around us,” said he, “not only the Indians on the banks, but all that has life in the woods and in the desert—the river itself seems to be running slower! See! the reflections of the fires die away! would it not be the time to attempt a descent on the bank?”
“The Indians sleep!” interrupted Pepé, bitterly, “yes, like the water which seems stagnant, but none the less pursues its course. You could not take three steps in the river before the Indians would rush after you as you have often seen wolves rush after a stag. Have you nothing better to propose, Bois-Rose?”
“No,” replied he as his hand sought that of Fabian, while with the other he pointed to the sick man, tossing restlessly on his couch of pain.
“But, in default of all other chance,” said Fabian, “we should at least have that of dying with honour, side by side as we would wish. If we are victorious, we can then return to the aid of this unfortunate man. If we fall, God himself, when we appear before him, cannot reproach us with the sacrifice of his life, since we risked our own for the common good.”
“No,” replied Bois-Rose; “but let us still hope in that God, who re-united us by a miracle; what does not happen to-day, may to-morrow; we have time before us before our provisions fail. To attempt to take the bank now, would be to march to certain death. To die would be nothing, and we always hold that last resource in our own hands; but we might perhaps be made prisoners, and then I shudder to think of what would be our fate. Oh! my beloved Fabian, these Indians in their determination to take us alive give me at least the happiness of being yet a few days beside you.”
Silence again resumed its reign; but as Bois-Rose thought of the terrible dénouement he clutched convulsively at some of the trunks of the dead trees, and under his powerful grasp the islet trembled as though about to be torn from its base.
“Ah! the wretches! the demons!” cried Pepé, with a sudden explosion of rage. “Look yonder!”
A red light was piercing gradually through the veil of vapour which hung over the river, and seemed to advance and grow larger; but, strange to say, the fire floated on the water, and, intense as was the fog, the mass of flames dissipated it as the sun disperses the clouds. The three hunters had barely time to be astonished at this apparition, before they guessed its cause. A long course of life in the desert and its dangers had imparted to the Canadian a firmness which Pepé had not attained; therefore, instead of giving way to surprise, he remained perfectly calm. He knew that this was the only way to surmount any difficulty.
“Yes,” said he, “I understand what it is as well as if the Indians had told me. You spoke once of foxes smoked out of their holes; now they want to burn us in ours.”
The globe of fire which floated on the river advanced with alarming rapidity, and confirmed the words of Bois-Rose. Already amidst the water, reddened by the flame, the twigs of the willows were becoming distinct.
“It is a fire-ship,” cried Pepé, “with which they want to set fire to our island.”
“So much the better,” cried Fabian; “better to fight against the fire than wait quietly for death.”
“Yes,” said Bois-Rose; “but fire is a terrible adversary and it fights for these demons.”
The besieged could oppose nothing to the advancing flames; and they would soon devour the little island, leaving to its inmates no other chance of escape but by throwing themselves into the water—where the Indians could either kill them by rifle-shots, or take them alive, as they pleased.
Such had been the idea of the Indian messenger. By his order, the Apaches had cut down a tree with its leaves on, and a thick mass of wet grass interlaced in its branches formed a sort of foundation, on which they placed the branches of a pine tree; and after setting fire to this construction, they had sent it floating down the stream. As it approached, the crackling of the wood could be heard; and out of the black smoke which mixed with the fog arose a bright, clear flame.
Not far from the bank they could distinguish the form of an Indian. Pepé could not resist a sudden temptation. “Yon demon,” cried he, “shall at least not live to exult over our death.”
So saying, he fired and the plume of the Indian was seen to go down.
“Sad and tardy vengeance,” remarked Bois-Rose; and as if, indeed, the Apaches disdained the efforts of a vanquished foe, the shore preserved its gloomy solitude, and not a single howl accompanied the last groans of the warrior.
“Never mind,” cried Pepé, stamping his foot in his impotent fury; “I shall die more calmly, the greater number of those demons I have sent before me.” And he looked round for some other victim.
Meanwhile Bois-Rose was calmly reconnoitring the burning mass, which, if it touched the island, would set fire to the dried trees which composed it.
“Well,” cried Pepé, whose rage blinded his judgment, “it is useless to look at the fire; have you any method of making it deviate from its course?”
“Perhaps,” replied the Canadian. Pepé began to whistle with an affected indifference.
“I see something that proves to me that the reasonings of the Indians are not always infallible; and if it were not that we shall receive a shower of balls, to force us to stay hidden while the islet takes fire, I should care as little for that burning raft as for a fire-fly in the air.”
In constructing the floating fire, the Indians had calculated its thickness, so that the wet grass might be dried by the fire and become kindled about the time when it should touch the island. But the grass had been soaked in the water, and this had retarded its combustion; besides the large branches had not had time to inflame; it was only the smaller boughs and the leaves that were burning. This had not escaped the quick eye of the Canadian, who, advancing with a long stick in his hand, resolved to push it underwater; but just as he was about to risk this attempt, what he had predicted took place. A shower of balls and arrows flew towards them; though these shots seemed rather intended to terrify than to kill them.
“They are determined,” said Bois-Rose, “only to take us alive!”
The fire almost touched the island, a few minutes and it would be alight, when with the rapidity of lightning, Bois-Rose glided into the water and disappeared. Shouts rose from each side of the river, when the Indians, as well as Fabian and Pepé, saw the floating mass tremble under his powerful grasp. The fire blazed up brightly for a moment, then the water hissed and the mass of flame was extinguished in foam, until darkness and fog once more spread their sombre covering over the river. The blackened tree, turned from its course, passed by the island, while, amidst the howls of the Indians Bois-Rose rejoined his friends. The whole island shook under his efforts to get back upon it.
“Howl at your ease,” cried he, “you have not captured as yet; but,” he added, in a more serious tone, “shall we be always as lucky?”
Indeed, although this danger was surmounted, how many remained to be conquered! Who could foresee what new stratagems the Indians might employ against them? These reflections damped their first feeling of triumph. All at once Pepé started up, crying out as he did so:
“Bois-Rose, Fabian, we are saved!”
“Saved!” said Bois-Rose, “what do you mean?”
“Did you not remark how a few hours ago the whole islet trembled under our hands when we tore away some branches to fortify ourselves with, and how you yourself made it shake just now? well, I thought once of making a raft, but now I believe we three can uproot the whole island and set it floating. The fog is thick, the night dark and to-morrow—”
“We shall be far from here!” cried Bois-Rose. “To work! to work! we have no time to spare, for the rising wind indicates the approach of morning, and the river does not run more than three knots an hour.”
“So much the better, the movement will be less visible.”
The brave Canadian grasped the hands of his comrades as he rose to his feet.
“What are you going to do?” said Fabian, “cannot we three uproot the island, as Pepé said?”
“Doubtless, Fabian, but we risk breaking, it in pieces, and our safety depends upon keeping it together. It is, perhaps, some large branch or root which holds it in its place. Many years must have elapsed since these trees were first driven here, and the water has probably rendered this branch or root very rotten—that is what I wish to find out.”
At that moment the doleful screech of an owl interrupted them, and those plaintive cries troubling the silence of night, just as they were about to entertain some hope, sounded ominous in the ears of Pepé.
“Ah!” said he, sadly, all his superstition reviving, “the voice of the owl at this moment seems to me to announce no good fortune to us.”
“The imitation is perfect, I allow,” said Bois-Rose, “but you must not be thus deceived. It is an Indian sentinel who calls to his companions either to warn them to be watchful, or what is more like their diabolical spirit, to remind us that they are watching us. It is a kind of death-song with which they wish to regale us.”
As he spoke, the same sound was repeated from the opposite bank with different modulations, confirming his words, but it sounded none the less terrible as it revealed all the perils and ambushes hidden by the darkness of the night.
“I have a great mind to call to them to roar more like tigers that they are.”
“Do not; it would only enable them to know our exact position.”
So saying, the Canadian entered the water with extreme care, while his comrades followed his movements with anxious eyes.
“Well,” said Pepé, when Bois-Rose came to the surface to take breath, “are we firmly fixed?”
“All is well, I think,” replied Bois-Rose, “I see at present but one thing that keeps the islet at anchor. Have patience a while.”
“Take care not to get too far under,” said Fabian, “or you may be caught in the roots and branches.”
“Have no fear, child; a whale may sooner remain fixed to a fishing-boat which it can toss twenty feet into the air, than I under an islet that I could break to pieces with a blow.”
The river closed again over his head, and a tolerably long space of time elapsed during which the presence of Bois-Rose was indicated only by the eddies formed round the islet, which now tottered on its foundation. His comrades felt that the giant was making a powerful effort, and Fabian’s heart sank as he thought that he might be struggling with death; when a crash was heard under their feet, like that of a ship’s timbers striking against a rock, and Bois-Rose reappeared above the surface, his hair streaming with water. With one bound he regained the island, which began to move slowly down the river. An enormous root, some depth in the water, had given way to the vigorous strength of the colossus, and the islet was set free.
“God be praised!” cried he, “the last obstacle is vanquished and we are afloat.” As he spoke the island could be perceived advancing down stream, slowly it is true, but surely.
“Now,” continued he, “our life rests in the hands of God. If the island floats down the middle of the stream we shall soon, thanks to the fog, be out of sight or reach of the Indians. Oh! my God,” added he, fervently, “a few hours more of darkness and your creatures will be saved.”