It was several weeks later. My mother, Dr. Canfield, Duncan Hale, and I were sitting in a room in Boston, awaiting our turn for a promised interview with Lord Percy, who was still with the army. The battle of Bunker Hill had been won by the British; but, in spite of this success, General Washington, who arrived in July to take command of the army, had succeeded in drawing his lines uncomfortably close about the city. We, with thousands of others, had been forcibly driven from our beautiful homes in the country, to make quarters for Washington's soldiers. We had been allowed to take nothing away. From all that was most dear to us—from the luxury of a quiet life of culture; from rooms where hung portraits of hero ancestors; from walks and gardens that had become part of our life; from broad, rich fields and firm-set old mansions, with their wide halls and fine Corinthian architecture;—from all these, one day in late June, my sisters, my mother, and myself, had been driven by a mob-like body of rough, jeering men who called themselves patriot soldiers.
True, we might have remained. Indeed, as we passed down the path from our home, my mother was presented with a second paper, the signing of which would have restored to us all that from which we were being driven. She read a few lines, then, tearing the paper into bits, she threw these in the face of the soldier who stood before her. After this, without a single look backward upon our home—on foot, under the blazing June sun—we had hurried away toward the besieged city of Boston. None hindered us; but many jeered as we passed. We had lost much—much upon which we never again looked—but we felt we had gained in this: we were under the flag of the King.
But that was the past. What of the future? This was the question in the mind of each of us that day in Lord Percy's waiting-room, when a servant appeared, and asked us to follow him.
After receiving us all very graciously, his lordship asked us to be seated. I thought I had seldom seen a handsomer man. He was tall, graceful and youthful; his manners were polished, and his language bore all the marks of the utmost culture. He first addressed himself to my mother. After making some kindly references to my late father, and his services in the King's cause, he passed at once to a discussion of what was to be in the future.
'You cannot be unaware, madame,' he said, 'of the deep and sympathetic interest I take in the welfare of yourself and your family. The noble spirit of self-sacrifice manifested by you in voluntarily giving up your lands and home, I consider quite beyond praise; and it is with feelings of the profoundest regret that I feel myself obliged to say that it is quite beyond my power to offer compensation to you in any degree commensurate with your loss. As to the future of the rebellion, nothing definite can be said; for myself, I believe that the arms of the King will finally triumph; but this cannot be hoped for in the immediate future. You cannot remain here; the danger grows daily. What think you of Canada, madame? Or of Nova Scotia, of those wide, peaceful, loyal provinces of His Majesty to the north of us? Many of our people, as you know, have sailed for England—too many, I fear; others have asked to be sent to Canada.'
My mother did not answer for a time. Finally, she said: 'I like America; I was born here; I have now few friends in England, and I am without means.'
At the mention of Canada, I had seen Duncan Hale's face brighten; but he did not speak. A little later, Lord Percy turned to him.
'Tell us,' he said, 'what is said of Nova Scotia in the geographies? Is it really a habitable land?'
Duncan bowed very low.
'Yes, my lord,' he said, 'it is a country in no degree less fruitful than that in which we live. In addition to what is writ in our books of it, I have learned from traders that the soil is rich, that it is a land of delightful summers, of mighty rivers, and of boundless forests. The wealth of its fisheries and mines cannot be estimated; and best of all, your lordship, it is a land undefiled by the feet of traitors.'
The closing words were spoken in such a manner as to show that Duncan Hale was not one of those who had found it difficult to choose between King and people.
Doctor Canfield, who had so far said little, rose and walked to a large map of America that hung upon the wall.
'This is Nova Scotia,' he said, pointing to a large, irregular peninsula. 'Canada is further west, is it not?'
'THIS IS NOVA SCOTIA.' HE SAID, POINTING TO THE MAP.'THIS IS NOVA SCOTIA.' HE SAID, POINTING TO THE MAP.
'THIS IS NOVA SCOTIA.' HE SAID, POINTING TO THE MAP.'THIS IS NOVA SCOTIA.' HE SAID, POINTING TO THE MAP.
We gathered about the map, a new and peculiar interest attaching to it, owing to the situation in which we were placed.
Duncan Hale explained fully and clearly that all the land on both sides of the water marked Bay of Fundy was called Nova Scotia. This was a single province, which had a Governor who lived in Halifax. 'Canada,' Lord Percy explained later to my mother, 'is known as the Province of Quebec. There are many French there,' he said; 'but in Nova Scotia most of the people are English or Scotch. In Halifax they have had a Parliament for some years now, and from all we have been able to learn the people here'—he swept his hand all over the peninsula and around the Bay of Fundy—'are happy and prosperous in the enjoyment of the liberties of all British subjects.'
After touching on the question of sailing for England, we discussed with Lord Percy more fully the relative merits of Canada and Nova Scotia. Then we went out.
As we passed along, we noticed that the streets were crowded. There were many soldiers in their bright red uniforms, but the great majority of the people were like ourselves—refugees who had come in from the surrounding towns and country for protection from the rebels who were daily becoming more insolent and offensive. We had come almost to the quarters kindly put at our disposal by Lord Percy, when in a crowd of plain countrymen I caught sight of a face which I was quite sure I had seen before. Doctor Canfield went on with my mother and sisters, while Duncan Hale and I turned aside.
A moment later, hearing the voice of the man who had attracted my attention, I was fully convinced that I had hit upon my old fellow-prisoner of the mine at Lexington, David Elton. He shook my hand warmly, told me briefly of his escape, and of his return to his home.
'But when I got back,' he went on, 'I found a great change in the settlement. Some had taken up arms on the side of the people; some had enlisted with the King's men. I and several others could not think it was right to fight on either side. Finally they came an' burned our houses, an' drove off our stock, so we had to flee.'
'What are your plans for the future?' I asked.
'Some o' them here'—he waved his hand over the group of hardy, honest-looking farmers—'have been talkin' o' goin' to—what's the name o' the place?' he said, turning to those who stood behind him.
'Nova Scotia,' several said at once.
'Aye, Nova Scotia. That's it. There's peace there, they say, an' plenty o' better lan' than what we've had here on the hillsides. Most of us have about made up our minds to go there.'
'Well done,' broke in Duncan Hale at this; 'for myself I'd rather be there on two meals a day under the flag of the King than living as a lord here among traitors, rebels and cut-throats.'
At this a few of the crowd hurrahed and pressed closer. They listened attentively for some time, as Duncan told them of the new land in the north to which their minds had already turned. As I looked on this group of rough, plain men eagerly listening to the schoolmaster, as I marked their hard hands and weather-beaten faces, as I heard them cheer the King's name, it came to me that it was not the cultured and refined only who were with the King. The bone and sinew of the country, as well as the brain and learning of it, were united in their loyalty to the cause that was growing dearer to me every day. The siege of Boston dragged slowly and painfully on. Weeks slid into months, and still no decided advantage was gained by either side. There were times when we heard that it would be useless to go to either Canada or Nova Scotia, for these already had been invaded and conquered. All communication by land was cut off, and closer and closer about the city were drawn the lines of the besiegers. English ships kept coming and going, but gradually it began to dawn upon me that Boston must be given up.
The winter was wearing towards spring of the year 1776. The condition of things in Boston was far from comfortable. It was eight months since we had left our home in Cambridge. Almost all who sympathised with the besiegers had left the city, but it was still much overcrowded. The fleet lay in the harbour, but the supply ships from England came less and less regularly. Food began to be scarce and dear. The trade of busy and prosperous Boston languished almost to nothing. A spirit of grumbling discontent seized the soldiers. The heart of the Loyalists sank very low. Drunkenness and disorder, crime and confusion, were spreading.
It was during these dull, heavy days when even my mother's brave spirit had almost deserted her, when even Doctor Canfield found it hard to be cheerful, and when I was feeling particularly depressed, that a new hope suddenly entered my life. For some time my sister Caroline had been endeavouring to turn my mind inward upon myself. An experience quite unlooked for lent her strange and powerful assistance.
She had cautioned me again and again not to expose myself to danger from the enemy. Several shells thrown by the besiegers had been bursting in the city lately, and had done considerable damage.
'Be careful, Roger,' Caroline said to me on leaving home one day for my usual walk about the city: 'How dreadful it would be both for us and yourself if anything should happen to you.'
As I walked I could not help recalling the words, 'How dreadful for yourself if anything should happen to you.'
Did my sister really think I was unprepared for death? I had heard her pray earnestly for me. I noticed that while the rest spoke much of the war and the danger about us she said little of these things. For the future she seemed to have no fear, except her fear for me. Why was this? I was not openly wicked. I was not profane, and yet I was sure my sister had a faith, a peace, a happiness even in our distressing circumstances that I did not possess.
It was at that moment that a great crashing noise fell upon my ears. A shell burst almost at the feet of a man who had been walking but a few yards in front of me. Through the great cloud of dust raised I saw him fall; I heard him shriek out a prayer to God for mercy upon him; and then a few moments later he was dead.
For almost a year I had been familiar with the sight of many wounded and dead. I had known of many being thus suddenly taken off; and yet my own need of preparation never came home to me as at that moment. Had I been a few yards further ahead all would have been over with me. Then my sister's words came back with double meaning.
That night, in the quiet of my small room, I poured out my soul to God in prayer for forgiveness. I made up my mind that whether we finally resolved upon going to England, to Canada, or to Nova Scotia, I would go not in my own strength, but in the strength of God and in dependence upon Christ as my Saviour.
My decision was not made any too soon. The next morning showed that during the night the Americans had strongly fortified themselves on the heights much nearer the city than ever before. Seeing this, a council of war was held by the British officers, and it was decided that Boston must be given up at once.
The following night the whole army, with eleven hundred Loyalists like ourselves, were hurried on board the King's ships that lay in the harbour, and by the time the sun rose we were well down the bay, with our vessels headed for the new land in the north called Nova Scotia.
As the vessels drew away from Boston I was surprised to hear not a single expression of regret. On all of the forty or more vessels there were crowded, in addition to the soldiers, over a thousand men and women who were leaving the land of their birth for a country that was new, strange, and practically unknown. Behind them, on the slopes that rose from the city, through the lifting mist of the morning, many could distinguish the outlines of the farms they had cleared by long and patient toil. The white of their comfortable homes stood out sharply against the grey ground about them and the green forest behind. In the making of these clearings and homes, men and women had grown old; neither the suns of summer nor the storms of winter had turned them aside from their great purpose of living honestly, of passing the result of years of toil on to their children, and then lying down to sleep in the hillside cemeteries with their fathers.
But the plans slowly being matured through the years had been rudely broken in upon. War had come. And now, though they might have remained; though history afforded, as Duncan Hale affirmed, no parallel for their action in leaving as they did; though no sword had been lifted up to drive them hence; though no law but the law of their own consciences bound them, they were sailing away. And while they looked back with interest, I could not see on the many faces about me a single evidence of pain at the going. Many of the men were old, and must begin in the new land, where they had begun here fifty years ago; but, as was fitting in the pioneers of a new way for many thousands of their countrymen who were to follow them during the war and after its close, they looked back that day upon the receding shores of Massachusetts without regrets, and when the homes and farms could no longer be seen on the grey, cold slopes, they turned dry eyes and resolute faces to the sea and the pure March north wind. If the country to which they went would be new, the flag, at least, would be the old one.
As soon as we were well away from Boston, a feeling of buoyancy possessed us. The sun shone brilliantly; this, together with the wide stretch of sparkling sea about us, the shouting from ship to ship, the feeling of freedom after so many weary months of restraint in the besieged city, all tended to render us unexpectedly happy. Social distinctions vanished. One in our loyalty, we resolved to be one in everything. My mother moved about among the farmer women from the country, and at times talked even gaily with them. Elizabeth romped the decks with children of her age from the hillsides, while Duncan Hale and Doctor Canfield, both of whom were on our ship, discussed plans for the future with the men.
On the afternoon of the third day after sailing we entered Halifax harbour. I was standing by Duncan Hale.
'It's all magnificent, magnificent,' I heard him say partly to himself. 'The whole British navy might enter here and manoeuvre.'
Then he hastened away to find Doctor Canfield. When he returned with him the vessel was well within the projecting horns of land that shut the great harbour safely in from the ocean swell. On our left a high bold bluff rose sheer from the water to a great height; on the right the land lay much lower. Directly in front lay the harbour. It ran away to the north for full six or seven miles, by two or three in breadth, and was dotted with the ships that had come in before, and hedged about on every side by the dark magnificent forests—here and there broken by ledges of rock. Doctor Canfield surveyed it all slowly.
'Why, it's a whole inland sea,' he said at length. 'Neither Boston harbour nor any others on the whole New England coast can be compared with this.'
Many others made remarks, all expressing wonder at the magnificence of the harbour and the beauty of the surrounding country. At sight of the Union Jack flying from a tall staff on the top of a great mound some distance in front and to the left, a feeling of proud satisfaction came in upon me. The feeling of my new responsibility seemed to press upon me as it had not done before. The wind blew down over the forests fresh and cool, for it was yet March; here and there broad patches of snow held fast in the hollows.
Our means were very limited; the new land before us was evidently a wilderness. But when I had looked for a moment on the well-known flag waving from the distant hilltop, when from this I allowed my thoughts to run on upward to Him whom I had solemnly pledged myself to serve, no matter where we went or what happened, then for a time in the great happiness that came upon me, I forgot that I was but a boy of not yet seventeen, landing in a strange country with the responsibility of supporting my mother and two sisters resting upon me. God had heard my prayer for the safety of myself and others. I recalled Doctor Canfield's last text, and felt that I could best honour the King by now more reverently fearing God.
It was at this point that I was startled to hear my sister Caroline, who had been standing beside me—looking forward in silence—break out sweetly, but in a low voice, into an old familiar hymn. The spirit of the words gave fitting expression to my own feelings, and forgetting those about me, I joined with her as she sang:—
'O God, our help in ages past,Our hope for years to come,Our shelter from the stormy blast,And our eternal home.'
With the opening of the second verse we were joined by many others. Soon it seemed that every person on the crowded deck was singing. Other ships caught it. Just as we drew to the landing-place the singers reached the last verse, and surely nothing could have been more appropriate than the words:—
'O God, our help in ages past,Our hope for years to come,Be Thou our guard while troubles last,And our eternal home.'
The words had a strangely moving effect upon the people's emotions. Tears that had refused to flow on leaving Boston, now, with many, had their way.
Doctor Canfield, seizing the opportunity presented by the quiet that followed the hymn, stepped forward, and in simple but beautiful language offered up a prayer of thanks for deliverance from the deep, and finally and earnestly commended all to the guidance and the mercy of God for the days to come.
A little later, as great bars of scarlet were shooting up from the west, over the hill on which gaily flew the King's flag—for which we had willingly sacrificed so much—happy in the consciousness of having done right, strong in faith for the future, like our ancient ancestors the Pilgrim Fathers, with both songs and prayers on our lips, we stepped ashore. And from that day—the 30th of March, 1776—though we did not know it, a new nation began to be made, in the 'True North,' on Canadian soil.
The Governor of Nova Scotia welcomed us heartily. The sudden and unexpected arrival of so many soldiers and Loyalists produced some difficulties, but everything possible was done to make us comfortable. For those of the Loyalists who had no means, both food and shelter were provided by the Government. With the assistance of Doctor Canfield, I was able to secure a temporary lodging for my mother and my sisters at a moderate rental. In this we proposed to remain until matters assumed a more settled shape, and we were enabled to resolve upon a course for the future.
Fully two weeks were occupied before all the people were even fairly well provided for. Many had to be content with sheds, barns, and warehouses for homes. Good food was not always easily obtained. Many who had been accustomed only to finely carpeted halls, and to couches of down, were forced to occupy quarters where the floors were of rough planks, and the beds of straw.
But there was no complaining. We resolutely determined to be happy; and we were happy. On the streets, in the quarters I visited, at the market, about the wharves, and on the ships, people moved care-free and light-hearted. Few spoke of the country we had left. There were many entertainments. The Governor, the army officers, the members of the council, and the more wealthy citizens opened their homes freely for our entertainment and comfort, and in a remarkably short time the memory of our sufferings and loss began to fade. To many, the old, happy days of colonial Boston came suddenly back again.
It was one evening when the entire city had passed under the spell of this lighter mood, that I walked with Duncan Hale to the top of the great mound where flew the flag. The warmth of the beautiful spring air was everywhere about us. The grass had sprung green on the hillslopes, the brooks ran full to overflowing, and the dark green of the great forest was taking on a lighter shade. But Duncan's face wore a heavy, apprehensive look.
'I have seen the Governor,' he said in answer to a question, 'and things at present are far from hopeful. The rebels have been winning in New England. Many in this province whom the Government had hoped would be loyal have refused the oath of allegiance to the King. A few have openly declared for the enemy. Two nights ago a cargo of hay being shipped from here to New York for the King's cavalry was burned. Worst of all, reports have come from about the great bay to the north—from the St. John and Miramichi Rivers, that thousands of the Indians, urged by agents from the rebel General Washington, are on the point of rising.'
At the last words I suddenly stopped. The beauties of the spring evening had no more charm for me. 'Can all this be true?' I gasped.
'It is not to be denied, the Governor fears,' Duncan said. 'Halifax may be besieged in less than a month.'
'But cannot something be done?' I cried.
'The Governor has one hope, that the Indians on the St. John may yet be kept loyal. He has asked me to go with others and make the attempt.'
'I shall go also,' I said, 'if the Governor will permit.'
'The Indian is treacherous; there will be danger.'
'I shall go though, Duncan: I must go, if I may be of service. I thought all was now safe.'
'So do many. Few in the city know our real danger. And another thing that is discouraging is this: David Elton and many other farmers, who have been into the country for several miles, say that it is absolutely unfit for cultivation. Rocks, rocks, and only rocks everywhere is their report. Food also is running very low in the city.'
We turned and walked down the slope. Had I been right in being so cheerful?
As I entered the door of our temporary home, I heard my mother and Caroline in earnest conversation.
'But I ought to accept the offer, mother,' my sister was saying. 'We are poor now, and our money is half spent already. What are we to do when it is gone? Are we to remain, like so many others, a burden on the King and the Government?'
'But, Caroline,' my mother said, 'you must remember your family, your name, and social standing. To accept this position means that you become a servant. Have you considered that, my dear?'
'Yes, mother,' Caroline said as I entered the room, 'I have thought of that. But how can there be any disgrace in doing honest work? I am strong and well; I want to do something to help Roger support you and Lizzie.'
My mother did not speak. I saw that a conflict was going on within her, the conflict that had to be fought out in so many Loyalist breasts between pride and necessity in Canada. But in this, as in most other cases, necessity won. My proud-spirited mother was finally overborne in her opposition to my sister's proposal. Before we slept that night, it was agreed that Caroline should enter a Halifax family where she would earn some ten shillings per week teaching two children and doing some other light duties.
We were surprised the next morning by an early visit from Duncan Hale.
'The Governor,' he said addressing me, 'will give you a place as secretary to one of the officers who is to go to St. John with Lieutenant-Governor Hughs to attempt to pacify the Indians. The salary will be six shillings per day. Will you go?'
'Yes,' I said eagerly; 'I will.'
The details of the expedition to the Indians on the St. John were finally arranged, and we set off. Duncan Hale was to act as secretary to Sir Richard Hughs, the lieutenant-governor, while I was assigned to a similar position under a certain Colonel Francklin, who had been appointed by the Government as superintendent of Indian affairs. There went with us also a Rev. Father Bourg, a former missionary to the Indians, a Romanist, a man of French descent, but, as I was afterwards to learn, a valuable and loyal subject of King George.
Our party, including soldiers and a few gentlemen who went to look over the country north of the bay, with a view to getting some of the many farmers who had come from Boston to settle upon it, numbered, in all, twenty-seven persons.
Somewhat tired from the long journey on horseback over a road that was exceedingly rough, we finally reached Annapolis. The country about here was partly settled, and seemed to be remarkably fertile. There were wide, rich marshes, orchards, and many well-cultivated farms, occupied mainly by settlers who had come in from the American Colonies before the war. These lands, Father Bourg explained to me, had originally been occupied by his ancestors, who had come from France over a hundred years previously.
From Annapolis we took a sailing vessel, and were soon across the Bay of Fundy, and in the harbour at the mouth of the great St. John River. The shores of the harbour seemed to be particularly rocky and forbidding. At a place called Portland Point, where we landed, there were a few buildings, somewhat rudely constructed, and used mainly by a trading company that, for years, had done business with the Indians and others up the river. On a hill to the eastward was a fort, called Fort Howe; everywhere else, down even to the water's edge, stretched the black, unbroken forest.
We found the members of the trading company here, though American born—unlike some others afterwards discovered up the river—to be true and loyal subjects of the King. They exerted themselves to house us comfortably, and then proceeded to give us much valuable information.
'The Indians,' I heard Mr. Simonds, the head of the company, tell Colonel Francklin, the evening of the day of our arrival, 'are becoming more and more insolent. Not only have agents from the rebels been among them, but their chiefs have, in answer to a special invitation, visited General Washington at Boston. He there spoke many flattering words to them, told them also that the English were planning to take their country and make them slaves. Besides this he gave them large presents, presented them with a wampum belt, a flag—a new design with stars and stripes—provided them with arms, and finally exacted a promise from them to kill or drive out the English found on the St. John.'
I saw Colonel Francklin's face take on a look of keen anxiety. 'Have these chiefs yet returned?' he asked.
'They have. For some days on the upper waters of the river they have been poisoning the minds of the tribes. Cattle of the loyal settlers have been driven off by them, houses burned, while the boats and nets of some of our fishermen have been destroyed.'
That night there was a long conference at the little trading post. The next morning Colonel Francklin, Father Bourg, Mr. Simonds and myself, with some dozen others, went on board a small sailing vessel, and proceeded up the river, the plan being to meet the Indians and bring them to the fort for an interview with the lieutenant-governor.
As our vessel swung away from the wharf, and proceeded up the great stream, I could not help admiring the grandeur of the scenery. On the right there arose a great cliff of bluish white limestone. Far up this a few workmen, in the employ of Mr. Simonds, were chipping and drilling the rock, while down near the water's edge, where two schooners were being loaded with barrels of lime, great puffs of smoke rose from the kilns. It was my first glimpse of industry in the new country.
After passing the cliffs, the banks of the river fell away back, affording us a full and magnificent view of the great stream and its surroundings. Far up the valley ahead, narrowed by the distance and sparkling in the flood of May sunlight, I could see the winding line of the river sliding among other lower hills, which showed blue through the lifting mist. White, circling gulls shrieked out protests as they swooped angrily very near to the Union Jack at our masthead; but apart from this, and the strong swish of waters about our bows, the unbroken silence of the great wilderness was over all.
Standing on the deck and looking about, a feeling of exceeding smallness and loneliness came in upon me. I had seen nothing like this in New England, nor yet in Nova Scotia, for richness, for real magnificent bigness and beauty. The sky above seemed higher and bluer, the water below was clearer, the wind purer, the sweep of scenery finer than any my memory could recall. Was nature to help in compensating us for what we had lost and left behind? Had fate been cruel a year ago in order to be kinder now? At any rate I felt as I looked out over it all, then up at the small flag flaunting its red gaily against the blue, that with these hills about me, with this river in front and with that flag and God above me, I could be happy. I breathed a prayer, then I resolved to make a home for my mother and sisters on the River St. John.
The evening of the second day on the river was approaching when I saw Father Bourg rise from his seat on the deck, and advancing to the vessel's prow, look eagerly up the stream. When he turned he said simply, 'De Indian; dey are coming in great number.'
For some time I could see nothing; but under the direction of the good priest I was finally able to make out a long, thin line far up the river, stretching almost from bank to bank.
'Dese are canoe,' he said, and then leaving me to look and wonder, he was off to seek out Colonel Francklin and Mr. Simonds.
In half an hour our vessel was surrounded by over five hundred warriors in ninety canoes. It was evident from the first that they were hostile. The flag at our masthead became a target for many arrows; now and then there sounded out sharply the crack of an American rifle; there was also much shouting and wild jeering such as I had never heard before. In one of the leading canoes waved a flag that bore stars and stripes upon it. It was the new flag of the rebel colonies, and had been presented to the chiefs by Washington. The sight of this filled me with much bitterness.
As the canoe bearing the flag came nearer to our vessel, I saw some of the anxiety disappear from the face of Father Bourg. He said something I did not hear to Colonel Francklin, then the next moment advanced to the rail. 'Pierre Tomah,' he shouted, 'Pierre Tomah'; then still speaking very loudly in a language I had never heard before, he briefly addressed a distinguished-looking warrior who sat under the flag.
When he had finished the warrior rose. He was a man of magnificent proportions. His tall plume swayed in the gentle wind, and his brilliant costume glittered in the evening sun. 'I baptize him feefteen years ago on de Restigouche,' I heard Father Bourg say in a low voice to Colonel Francklin. 'Dis is most fortunate: we may yet succeed.'
The chief lifted his hand commandingly to those behind him. Without a word the five hundred warriors dropped their rifles and removed the arrows from their bow-strings. A great silence fell over the fleet of swaying canoes. On our vessel each man breathed uneasily. Pierre Tomah was the chief of all the Indians in the great country north of the Bay of Fundy. On the Restigouche, on the wide, full Miramichi, on the St. John and all its branches, his word was law.
'Pere Bourg,' I heard the great chief say in opening, and then all was unintelligible to me for a time. At length I caught the word 'Washington' and a moment after I saw him point upward to the flag that flew above him.
Father Bourg replied with great spirit, waving his arms as he did so. I heard him use the words 'Washington,' 'England,' and 'King George.'
For a time Pierre Tomah was silent. Then his eyes wandered toward the wide sandy stretch of shore. In a few moments it was arranged that we should land, for a fuller discussion of the questions at issue.
Colonel Francklin and Father Bourg then proceeded to reason with the chiefs, most of whom showed themselves openly hostile. Finally Pierre Tomah said he could not decide without having first consulted the Divine Being. He then threw himself upon the sand and remained lying face downward, speechless and motionless for a long time. On rising he informed the other chiefs that he had been advised by the Great Being to keep peace with King George and his people. For a time the decision was very unpopular with many of the warriors, but all finally yielded, and consented to accept the invitation of the lieutenant-governor, asking them to go to the mouth of the river.
The next morning, surrounded by the flotilla of canoes, we started on the return journey, reaching the trading-post and fort at the river's mouth after having been absent four days. Negotiations were at once entered into, and the terms of a treaty of peace were, after several days, finally agreed upon. When all had been arranged, the lieutenant-governor, representing King George, accompanied by Colonel Francklin, the commander of the fort, and several soldiers who formed a bodyguard, marched down from the fort to a meeting-place previously arranged. When the King's representative was seated, Pierre Tomah, the other chiefs, and many of the principal Indians who had gathered from all parts of Nova Scotia, came and solemnly knelt before him.
First they delivered up the flag received from General Washington, also the letter written by him to them, as well as the numerous presents he had sent, together with the treaty made with the Massachusetts government some weeks previously, binding them to send six hundred warriors into the field. They then took a solemn oath, 'to bear faith and true allegiance to His Majesty King George the Third; to take no part directly or indirectly against the King in the struggle with his rebellious subjects, and to return to their homes to engage in the usual pursuits of hunting and fishing in a peaceable and quiet manner.'
This declaration made, as a pledge that it should be kept, Pierre Tomah then gave into the hand of the lieutenant-governor a belt of wampum, while that gentleman, in turn, rising and walking along the line of kneeling chiefs, placed a decoration on the shoulder of each. He also presented the warriors with a large Union Jack. When handsome speeches had been made on both sides the chiefs performed a song and dance in honour of the great conference. The night was spent in feasting and rejoicing under the British flag.
The next day the warriors, accompanied by the loyal and clever Father Bourg, embarked for the return up river. In answer to the salute from the cannon on Fort Howe, they gave three huzzahs and an Indian whoop. The last sound we heard as they drew around a bend in the river above was Father Bourg, with his French accent, leading in singing, 'God Save the King.'
That night, after talking long with Duncan Hale of the clever manner in which we had outwitted Washington and his agents, I fell asleep and dreamed of the new home I was to build on the now peaceful St. John for my mother and sisters. One step at least had been taken: from being an enemy the Indian had been turned into a friend.
The treaty was not made a day too soon. Next morning I was awakened very early by loud shouting around the fort.
'The rebel vessels—the Machias men—the American pirates who were here before and plundered us, have come again,' I heard some one say to Colonel Francklin in the next room.
I sprang up, and ran to the single window that overlooked the harbour. Sweeping in on the flood tide I saw three New England schooners. From the mast of each flew flags similar to that we had received from the Indians. The decks were black with men.
I dressed hurriedly, and presented myself in Colonel Francklin's quarters. Mr. Simonds had entered before me, and was speaking. 'This,' he said, pointing to the schooners which had now come to anchor, 'is another part of a plan to seize the fort. One of our men heard that the Indians were to come down the river, and be met here by the schooners: we were then to be subjected to a double attack.'
Outside I could hear the quick, sharp commands of the captains and the tramp of the garrison preparing for action. In less than ten minutes I was at a loophole in the wall of the fort with a rifle, waiting the order to fire. Not far from me, similarly armed, was Duncan Hale. I noticed a look of triumphant glee upon his face, as he said to a soldier beside him—
'Now we'll pay them in their own coin for trying to stir up the Indians: then I've a score against these rebels on another account. They'd have hanged me once.'
'Hanged you? Where?'
'Just out of Boston—two days after the war began. They'd a rope round my neck.' The whole scene came back upon me vividly.
'What had you done?' the soldier asked.
'Done! I'd exposed some of their smuggling and treasonable actions. That was all.'
At that moment the movements of some on the schooners attracted my attention. 'They are getting their boats in shape,' I heard Colonel Francklin, who was looking through a glass, say to Lieutenant-Governor Hughs, who stood beside him, 'and appear to be preparing to come ashore.'
There was a brief consultation among the officers. Then the Major in command said: 'Every man ready to fire at them as they come over the sides.'
From that time onward moments seemed hours. Finally the painful strain was broken by the single word—
'Fire!'
There was a thunder of cannon and a sharp crash of musketry. When the smoke blew to one side, we could see the boats pulling back to the vessels. Looking through his glass, Colonel Francklin reported that a number of shots had taken effect.
As we reloaded the sound of quick-working anchor windlasses came in over the water and up the hill slope. The rebels who had been playing havoc on the river for so long had this time met a reception quite different from that which they had planned. The fort, well hidden by trees, had been built and garrisoned since their last trip, so their surprise could not have been much more complete.
When the ebb began to make they hoisted sail and drew off down the bay. On looking seaward at noon, nothing could be seen but the line of the Nova Scotia coast, pencilled low and irregular on the base of the sky.
It is probably not to be wondered at that, during the afternoon, we were somewhat high-spirited. All through the war the St. John settlers had been harassed, plundered, imprisoned or shot, by cruel and unscrupulous marauders from New England, who had never before been resisted, much less repulsed.
'Things are moving finely,' I heard Mr. Simonds tell Duncan Hale that evening. 'With the Indians quiet, and the pirates scared out, we can go on with our trade as usual. Till the war began we did well here. Since that we have had dreadful times—no business possible—but now I'm in hopes we can go on with the fishing, the lime-burning, and "masting" as usual.'
'Masting, Mr. Simonds,' I said. 'What is masting?'
'Were you not up the river? Did you not see the magnificent forests of pine and spruce? These make the best masts in the world. There is nothing in New England like them; and in places they positively overhang the rivers. Then there are thousands of trees. Masting on this river must become a great industry. The King's whole navy may be supplied from here. All we want is quiet Indians—and peace.'
'I understand,' I said.
'And what of the land?' Duncan Hale asked. 'Is it fit for farming?'
'As good as any in the world. The crops raised on this river before the war were wonderful. This is the richest part of the province.'
'And how may the land be obtained?' I said. 'To whom should one apply for a grant?' Mr. Simonds laughed heartily.
'Thinking of settling, young man?' he said.
'Yes,' I replied, a little resentment showing in my tone; 'my mother and two sisters are in Halifax. I mean to settle on this river and make a home for them.'
Duncan Hale joined Mr. Simonds in his laugh.
'You think I can't?' I said.
'Of course you can,' Mr. Simonds said in a moment; 'and I shall do my best to help you in any way I can. It's young fellows with push and spirit we want here now.' He looked at me more critically than he had done before. 'If things keep on improving, especially if the war ends, we shall be going into masting strong here next winter, and we'll be wanting a smart young fellow to look after accounts and act as clerk. How much schooling have you had?' Duncan Hale explained somewhat fully the work I had done, ending by saying he had considered me almost ready for Oxford.
'You might do us finely,' Mr. Simonds said, 'and as to you, sir,' turning to Duncan Hale, 'what think you of founding a school? A country as rich as this cannot but prosper. We shall yet have a city here. The war drags now toward a close; and even though England should, in spite of recent disasters, yet win, many will choose this country in preference to New England. If I and my partners mistake not, in five years this river valley will have thousands of inhabitants no matter what flag waves over it. Think over the question of a school, sir.' But customers were waiting, and Mr. Simonds left us to serve them.
For several days I remained about the fort. My duties as secretary to Colonel Francklin were light, so I roamed about the high, rocky country, sometimes alone, but oftener in company with Duncan Hale. The hopeful words of Mr. Simonds, the fine buoyancy of the spring air, the manner in which we had succeeded in making peace with the Indians, and in driving off the rebel Americans, all combined to make us surprisingly happy.
The fishermen in the harbour were making fabulous catches of valuable mackerel and other fish. The smaller streams near swarmed with salmon and huge trout. Here and there on our rambles giant moose faced us for a moment, then went crashing off into the forest. Vegetation was springing up with marvellous rapidity, while all day long the woods rang with the song and chatter of nesting birds. An exuberance of wild beauty and unrestrained life abounded everywhere.
In a little over a month our party, having accomplished the object for which it had been sent, set off for Halifax, not, however, before I had engaged to return and accept a position as clerk with Mr. Simonds later in the season.
We found a spirit of remarkable cheerfulness in Halifax. The soldiers had all sailed for New York. Many of the Loyalists, both men and women, had obtained situations. In several places, about the outskirts of the town, the more resolute ones, to whom lands had been granted, were boldly hewing their own way into the forest; and here and there, where the gaps on the slopes were widest in the broken ranks of the trees, small log houses were being built.
In a few days the matter of my own grant on the St. John had been fully arranged. Since I was not yet of age, the grant—it consisted of four hundred acres some miles up the river in what Mr. Simonds had told me was the most fertile part—was made out in my mother's name. My sister Caroline, who was still engaged with the Halifax family, was delighted with the prospect of having a new home of our own.
'Mother, won't it be grand?' she said one evening as we sat and talked together, 'simply grand. Four hundred acres—all ours—a big river in front and mountains behind. We'll be far richer than ever we were. When are we to go, Roger?'
'Not till next spring,' I said. 'David Elton has secured a lot alongside of ours; he is to do some chopping on both places this summer, then during the winter we shall prepare for building houses. Next spring the Government is to give us seed, tools, and a cow.'
A few days later, accompanied by Doctor Canfield and Duncan Hale, now free from his former duties as secretary, along with David Elton and several other farmers not yet settled about Halifax, I bade a cheerful goodbye to my mother and sisters and again set off for the St. John.
It was the middle of August when we arrived.
'The Indians are acting finely up the river,' Mr. Simonds told us on our arrival, 'and as for the pirates, we have not seen hilt nor hair of them since they scuttled out of the harbour in the spring. That was a settler we gave them that day.'
'How's business been since?' I said.
'Fine, fine; looking up wonderfully ever since the peace with the Indians. Fishing couldn't be better, and as for the lime, it's turning out first class. We've almost all our plans made, too, for sending up the largest masting crew this fall we ever put in the woods. You are to go with them. You'll be quite near your own grant.'
A few days later, and before entering finally on my duties with the trading firm, with David Elton and some other farmers I went up the river to my grant secured in Halifax. Though I was little accustomed to the use of an axe, I felled the first tree myself. Before the second day had closed my hands were much blistered. However, I continued to work every day from early in the morning till late at night for two weeks.
This was the limit of time given me by Mr. Simonds. But before returning to the mouth of the river, I engaged with David Elton to spend at least a month in chopping upon my grant.
I then returned to the river's mouth, and a few weeks later found myself far in the forest with a crew of twenty men. First a camp of logs was built, then the huge pines were cut, partly hewn, and dragged to the river by means of oxen. Many spruce trees were cut for yards. Much of the work was extremely laborious. My duties as clerk were to see that the masts and yards were properly marked and measured when cut, to keep a record of the time each man worked, and to record the number of sticks, large and small, hauled to the river each day. Thus employed, I spent the winters until one spring, when on my way down the river, I learned that the war was over, that the rebels had won, that agents sent to the St. John had reported favourably on the land, and that five thousand Loyalists were expected from the New England colonies.