A Little Girl in Old Detroit - Amanda Minnie Douglas (children's ebooks online txt) 📗

will be quiet," she made answer.

They spread the blanket about and seated her in the middle. One man took his place behind her, one in front, and each had two ends of the blanket to frustrate any desperate move. Then another stood up to the paddle and steered the canoe swiftly along the stream, which was an arm of a greater river emptying into the lake.

What could they want of her? Jeanne mused. Perhaps a ransom, she had heard such tales, though it was oftener after a battle that a prisoner was released by a ransom. She did not know in what direction they were taking her, everything was strange though she had been on many of the small streams about Detroit. Now the way was narrow, overhung with gloomy trees, here and there a white beech shining out in a ghostly fashion. The sun dropped down and darkness gathered, broken by the shrill cry of a wild cat or the prolonged howl of a wolf. Here they started a nest of waterfowl that made a great clatter, but they glided swiftly by. It grew darker and darker but they went silently with only a low grunt from one of the Indians now and then.

Presently they reached the main stream. This was much larger, with the shores farther off and clearer, though weird enough in the darkness. Stars were coming out. Jeanne watched them in the deep magnificent blue, golden, white, greenish and with crimson tints. Was the world beyond the stars as beautiful as this? But she knew no one there. She wondered a little about her mother--was she in that bright sphere? There was another Mother--

"O Mother of God," she cried in her soul, "have pity upon me! I put myself in thy care. Guard me from evil! Restore me to my home!"

For it seemed, amid these rough savages, she sorely needed a mother's tender care. And she thought now there had been no loving woman in her life save Pani. Madame Bellestre had petted her, but she had lost her out of her life so soon. There had been the schoolmaster, that she could still think of with affection for all his queer fatherly interest and kindness; there was M. Loisel; and oh, Monsieur St. Armand, who was coming back in the early summer, and had some plans to lay before her. Even M. De Ber had been kindly and friendly, but Madame had never approved her. Poor Madame Campeau had come to love her, but often in her wandering moments she called her Berthe.

The quiet, the lapping of the waves, and perhaps a little fatigue overcame her at length. She dropped back against the Indian's knee, and her soft breath rose and fell peacefully. He drew the blanket up over her.

"Ugh! ugh!" he ejaculated, but she heard it not. "The tide is good, we shall make the Point before dawn."

The others nodded. They lighted their pipes, and presently the Indian at the paddle changed with one of his comrades and they stole on and on, both wind and tide in their favor. Several times their charge stirred but did not wake. Youth and health had overcome even anxiety.

There was dawn in the eastern sky. Jeanne roused.

"Oh, where am I?" she cried in piercing accents; and endeavored to spring up.

"Thou art safe enough and naught has harmed thee," was the reply. "Keep quiet, that is all."

"Oh, where do you mean to take me? I am stiff and cold. Oh, let me change a little!"

She straightened herself and pulled the blanket over her. The same stolid faces that had refused any satisfaction last night met her gaze again in blankness.

There was a broad, open space of water, no longer the river. She glanced about. A sudden arrow of gold gleamed swiftly across it--then another, and it was a sea of flame with dancing crimson lights.

"It is the lake," she said. "Lake Huron." She had been up the picturesque shores of the St. Clair river.

The Indian nodded.

"You are going north?" A great terror overwhelmed her like a sudden revelation.

The answer was a solemn nod.

"Some one has hired you to do this."

Not a muscle in any stolid face moved.

"If I guess rightly will you tell me?"

There was a refusal in the shake of the head.

Jeanne Angelot at that moment could have leaped from the boat. Yet she knew it would be of no avail. A chill went through every pulse and turned it to the ice of apprehension.

The canoe made a turn and ran up an inlet. A great clump of trees hid a wigwam until they were in sight of it There was a smoke issuing from the rude chimney, and a savory smell permeated the air. Two squaws had been squatted before the blaze of the stone-built fireplace. They both rose and came down the narrow strip of beach. They were short, the older one had a squat, ungainly figure of great breadth for the height, and a most forbidding face. The other was much younger.

Jeanne did not understand the language, but from a few words she guessed it was Huron. It seemed at first as if there was fierce upbraiding from some cause, but it settled satisfactorily it would seem. She was helped out of the canoe. Oh, how good it was to stand free on the ground again!

The Indian who appeared to be the leader of the party took her arm and led her up to the inclosure, the back of which seemed rocks, one piled upon another. The wigwam was set against them. The rude shelter outside was the kitchen department, evidently. A huge kettle had been lifted from the coals and was still steaming. A bark platter was piled high with deliciously browned fish, and in spite of her terror and distrust she felt that she was hungry.

"If I might have some water," she asked hesitatingly,--"a drink and some to bathe my face and hands?"

The drink was offered her in a gourd cup. Then the younger woman led her within the wigwam. There was a rough earthen bowl filled with water, a bit of looking-glass framed in birch bark, a bed, and some rounds of logs for seats. Around hung articles of clothing, both native made and bought from the traders.

"I understand Chippewa," announced Jeanne looking inquiringly at the woman.

She put her finger on her lip. Then she said, almost breathlessly, "We are not to talk to the French demoiselle."

"But tell me, am I to stay here?"

She gave a negative shake of the head.

"Am I to go--farther north?"

An affirmative nod this time.

"Wanee! Wanee!" was called sharply from without.

Jeanne sank on her knees.

"O Holy Mother of Christ, have pity on me and save me!" she cried. For the vague suspicion that had haunted her since waking, crystallized into a certainty. Part of a rosary came to her:--


"Heart of Jesus, refuge of sinners;
Heart of Jesus, fortitude of the just;
Heart of Jesus, comfort the afflicted."


Then she rose and made a brief toilet. She shook out her long hair, passing her damp hands over it, and it fell in curls again. She straightened her dress, but she still felt chill in the cool morning air. There was a cape of gull's feathers, hanging by the flap of the wigwam, and she reached it down making a sign to the woman asking permission.

She nodded assentingly.

It felt good and warm. Jeanne's breakfast was spread on a board resting on two stones. The squaw had made coffee out of some parched and ground grains, and it had a comforting flavor. The plate of fish was set before her and cakes of honey bread, and her coffee poured in a gourd bowl. The birds were singing overhead, and she could hear the lap of the tide in the lake, a soft tone of monotony. The beauty of it all penetrated her very soul. Even the group around the great kettle, dipping in their wooden spoons and gravely chatting, the younger woman smiling and one might almost imagine teasing them, had a picturesque aspect, and softened the thought of what might happen to-morrow.

They lolled on the turf and smoked pipes afterward. Jeanne paced up and down within sight of their glances that she knew were fixed upon her in spite of the half-closed lids. It was so good to be free in the fragrant air, to stretch her cramped limbs and feel the soft short grass under her feet. Dozens of wild plans flashed through her brain. But she knew escape was impossible, and she wondered what was to be the next move. Were they awaiting the trader, Louis Marsac?

Plainly they were not. When they were rested and had eaten again and had drunk a thick liquid made of roots and barks and honey, they rose and went toward the canoe, as if discussing some matter. They parleyed with the elder woman, who brought out two blankets and a pine needle cushion, which they threw in the boat, then a bottle of water from the spring, a gourd cup and some provisions.

"Come," the leader said, not unkindly. "Thou hast had a rest. We must be on our journey."

Pleading would be in vain, she recognized that. The women could not befriend her even if they would. So she allowed herself to be helped into the canoe, and the men pushed off amid the rather vociferous jargon of the women. She was made much more comfortable than before, though so seated that either brave could reach out his long arm and snatch her from any untoward resolve.

She looked down into the shining waters. Did she really care to try them? The hope of youth is unbounded and its trust in the future sublime. She did not want to die. Life was a glad, sweet thing to her, even if full of vague dreams, and she hoped somehow to be delivered from this danger, to find a friend raised up for her. Stories of miracles and wonderful rescues floated through her mind. Surely God would not let her fall a prey to this man she both feared and hated. She could feel his one hot, vicious kiss upon her lips even yet.

The woods calmed and soothed her with their grays and greens, and the infrequent birches, tall and slim, with circles of white still about them. Great tree boles stood up like hosts of silent Indian warriors, ready to pounce down on one. They hugged the shore closely, sometimes it was translucent green, and one could almost catch the darting fishes with one's hand. Then the dense shade rendered it black, and it seemed bottomless.

So gliding along, keeping well out of the reach of other craft, the hours growing more tiresome to Jeanne, they passed the Point Aux Barques and steered across Saginaw bay. Once they had stopped for a little rest and a tramp along the shore. Then another evening dropped down upon them, another night, and Jeanne slept from a sort of exhaustion.

The next forenoon they landed at one of the islands, where a trading vessel of considerable size and fair equipment lay at anchor. A man on deck with a glass had been sighting them. She had not noted him particularly, in fact she was weary and disheartened with her journey and her fears. But they made a sudden turn and