I crawled out bruised, but otherwise unhurt.
Without delay I made my way to M. Bois de la Mothe, in charge of the fleet, and stated the case, carefully suppressing, however, all mention of my personal adventure, and by morning was in possession of the desired stores, extracted from the Commissary by a peremptory threat to put him in irons and send him to France if they were not forth-coming.
Long before our preparations could be made for leaving the town, the sound of musketry reached us from La Cormorandière, and we knew the landing was attempted. I was all impatience to be off, but our scanty stores could not be risked if the attempt were successful; so with the others I anxiously awaited the result. But, alas! our stoutest hopes were dashed by the sight of white uniforms straggling over the crest of the hill in full flight, and, instead of a hospital train, I was soon heading a sortie to support the retreat of our troops, with the cannon thundering over our heads to cover their entry into the threatened town.
“A FRIEND AT ONE'S BACK IS A SAFE BRIDGE”
One after another our positions were abandoned or driven in, until the plan of defence by our outlying works entirely failed, and we were forced to fall back on the sorry defences of the town itself.
Our ships did little or no effective service, and though we succeeded in closing the mouth of the harbour and were comparatively safe on that side, the English crept closer and closer, until they hemmed us in between their ever-contracting lines and the sea.
On the evening of the 8th of July the colonel of the regiment of Bourgogne called for volunteers, and leaving the town by night, six hundred strong, we hurled ourselves upon the enemy's southern line, only to be driven back with heavy enough losses on each side, and at daybreak to see the English General, Wolfe, in a more advanced position.
Among the prisoners we carried in with us was a young officer of the 78th, a Highland regiment.
My services as interpreter were not required, as he spake French perfectly, so it was not until after his interview with M. de Drucour that I met him in company with my colonel.
“Chevalier, a countryman of your own, an unwilling guest on our poor hospitality. Captain Nairn, the Chevalier de Kirkconnel.”
We bowed, but I supplemented the courtesy by extending my hand, for I was in no doubt for a moment as to his identity, his likeness to his sister Margaret being remarkable.
“Captain Nairn is well known to me,” I said, laughing. “I could even name him more intimately.”
“Indeed, and what might that be?” he returned, on his guard.
“Archie.”
“God bless my soul! Who are you, sir? I haven't heard that name for ten years!” he exclaimed, in the greatest surprise.
“I can go even further. I can name a certain mission which ended in Fort William.”
“Sir,” he answered, with grave dignity, “I dislike mystifications. Who told you these things?”
“One Maxwell.”
“Have a care, sir; you are naming one to whom I am under deep obligation.”
“I am naming one, Captain Nairn, who will be as pleased to be of service to you now as then.”
At this his face fairly flamed with pleasure, and he caught my hand in both his.
“Chevalier, I know you now. Maxwell of Kirkconnel! There is no man I would rather meet in this world than yourself.”
Chevalier, I know you now
“I cannot make out a word of your jargon,” broke in M. de St. Julhien, “but you seem to understand each other. Barbarians, va! You are best left in charge of each other. You are on parole, remember, Captain Nairn—and you are on your honour as host, remember, Chevalier. Do not disgrace our reputation for hospitality. If your cellar be low, I have a bottle or two uncracked,” he cried, as he bowed and walked off, and we took our way to my quarters.
My heart was bursting for news of my dear Margaret, but these were the last tidings I could ask of a brother whose sister had cast him off. In ordinary courtesy I had to abandon my personal gratification and feign a lively interest in his adventures.
These, however, I have no intention of inflicting upon my reader. I have refrained from telling much of interest in connection with myself through a reticence which is, perhaps, blamable; and Captain Nairn, although relating a tale which bore every impress of truth, was bald in his manner, lacking that lively sensibility which is the charm of all cultivated narration, and, being unable to view any occurrence save from a personal stand, was utterly lacking in any sense of humour.
At length I felt I was justified in asking for tidings of her, who for me, stood first among all women.
“You are aware, Captain Nairn, that when with my cousin Lady Jane Drummond in London and Paris I saw much of your sister Margaret. I know of the unhappy resolution she took, on hearing of your acceptance of service under King George, but may I hope that it is dissipated ere now, and that you can give me news of her, for these hostilities have prevented all correspondence for near a year past?”
“No,” he answered, gravely; “my poor sister has never brought herself to forgive me, and I have never had word from her direct since I informed her of my resolve. I heard before sailing that Lady Jane had died early last year, leaving her well provided, and I should not be surprised to learn that she had taken the veil, as there was some disappointment in connection with the Vicomte de Trincardel, whom, I believe, she was to have married.”
And with this I had to be content, for Nairn was not a man of many words, and in any event his acquaintance with his sister, whom he had not seen since a child, was slight compared with mine.
Meantime the besieging line crept closer and closer about us. Building after building went crashing down, or was swept heavenward in a tower of flame; our weakened ramparts crumbled day and night before the never-ceasing storm of shot and shell breaking on them, and the very earth trembled under the incessant thunder of the bombardment.
Our one hope lay in the appearance of Sarennes, who had been ordered to our relief with a sufficient force of Canadians and Indians. Not that the latter are by any means the formidable foe generally imagined, but the terror of their name was great in European ears, and any diversion on the part of so dreaded an ally would give us instant relief. This was the hope that supported us; our gallant fellows stood by their guns on their crumbling ramparts, and as they fell beside them more than one man said: “Our turn next. Wait till they see the savages!”
“Courage, my children! We only need Sarennes to show himself,” Drucour repeated, as an incentive when he marked our fire slacken.
“There is another signal for M. de Sarennes!” cried his intrepid lady, undauntedly, as she daily fired her three cannon with her own brave hands, and day by day men and officers uncovered and cheered her as she passed.
Within the crowded casemates by the King's Bastion, the only place of safety now left, terrified women and children wept and prayed, and wounded men cried and raved for the delayed succour; every time the enemy's fire slackened for an instant—it was Sarennes who had attacked them in rear; every time the thunder redoubled in the vaulted chambers—it was our support of Sarennes's attempt; but as day after day came and went without relief, the weeping, prayers, crying, and ravings were hushed into a dull despair, and on the ramparts and in the casemates men cursed at the very mention of that name which had so long been their sole support.
One night in the middle of July, Nairn, in discussing the probable length of our resistance, said to me:
“Chevalier, What will you do when this is at an end?”
Although it was a question which had been perplexing me constantly, I answered, carelessly enough, “If this bombardment keep up, the chances are that I shall not be called upon to settle so important a point.”
“Chances enough,” he responded, gravely; “it is never the number of men who fall, but the number who escape, at which I am astonished. But that is not the point. I have been thinking much, and am much troubled about your future.”
“So am I, for that matter, though I have never found that I have advanced it a hair's-breadth by losing a night's sleep over it. No, no, Captain Nairn, the best thing that can happen to me is to do the grande culbute.”
“Chevalier, I am not only under heavy personal obligation towards you, but the memory of your friendship for me and mine ties me closer to you than you know. I stand high in the esteem of my general, who in turn can command attention to any request. You have approved of my own conduct in accepting service; let me open the way for you to the same honourable career. You have abundantly paid your debt to France; give your arm to your own people. Surely there come times when you dream of 'home.'”
“Captain Nairn,” I answered, “believe me, I can pay you no higher compliment than in saying I receive your words without offence. I am sensible, deeply sensible of the kindness, may I say the affection, which prompts your offer; but 'my people' are wanderers on the face of the earth; my lot is that of the soldier of fortune. 'Home,' Nairn! Though I have never set my foot on my own soil save as an outlaw and a rebel, my heart at times grows faint for it, and the turn of an old song sets my brain aching and my eyes longing, but my only inheritance has been the loyalty which has robbed me of it all. That I am on the losing side is my misfortune; that I have inspired your respect and affection is my reward. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, but do not mention the subject again if you love me.”
One personal gratification the siege brought to me was the renewal of my intercourse with the fair Madame Prévost. Now that I had her truculent husband under my thumb, for I held exposure over him like the sword of Damocles, I was free to see as much of her as I chose.
People eat and sleep, breathe and hope, though danger may lie down with them by night and draw their curtains with the day; at such times the most marked difference is that life goes with a faster foot, so that my intimacy with my charming rescuer grew at a pace altogether disproportionate to the hours.
On the evening of the 24th of July, when capitulation was unavoidable, when our fire was so weak that it was more like funeral guns than a defence, and our one anxiety was to obtain honourable terms, Madame Prévost came to me in a sad state of distraction.
“Chevalier,” she said, “it is hopeless! No matter what the commandant may resolve, we are betrayed. Prévost will force them to accept any terms, no matter how great the humiliation. It is nothing to him so long as he escapes; but it is death to me. I have been despised all these years on account of my connection with him; I have suffered tortures of shame daily through the siege, and now all will be crowned with this height of infamy. I cannot bear it! I cannot look upon it!” And the poor distracted creature fell to sobbing and weeping as if her very heart would break.
When she had recovered somewhat she revealed her design, which was that, should Prévost succeed in forcing the commandant to the disgraceful surrender we all feared, she and I would escape together.
I was much moved by her generous offer, for generous it was beyond a doubt. I have known too much of women not to recognise when full credit should be given to their virtues, and if Madame Prévost had a second thought beyond escaping from the disgrace of the capitulation, then I know nothing of the sex.
“My dearest madame,” I answered, warmly, “'tis quite out of the question.”
“Why? I have seen old Gourdeau, the pilot; his two sons have a boat at my service. They know every hole and corner of the harbour, and will do anything for me.”
“The boat is not the question, my dear madame; it is yourself I am thinking of.”
“Well, I am ready. I will have everything in readiness, if the capitulation be not signed by nightfall, it will be by the morning, and the moment it is determined on, you are free. We can easily pass out by the wicket near the Brouillon Bastion, and the Gourdeau will be at their post. I have thought of everything.”
“Pardon me, madame; you have thought of everything save yourself. Have you thought of what the world will say to your flight with me? It will only credit you with motives of which I know you have never dreamed.”
“Oh, mon Dieu, monsieur I this is cruel of you!” she cried, much distressed. “I was thinking as much of you as of myself.”
“You were, I am sure, thinking more of me than of yourself, and for this I speak plainly, madame. I am overcome with your generosity, but my appreciation of it is too high to allow you, an honourable woman, to wreck your good name for my sake. I cannot go among the English, where you might be unrecognised, but where I am still a proscribed rebel; you cannot go among your own people to Quebec, where you would but suffer a martyrdom for your courage and sacrifice. No, no, my dear madame, believe me, it is not to be thought of!”
Here she began to cry again, somewhat to my relief, for I saw that her resolution was giving way.
“Oh, mon ami! I have been nothing but a silly fool of a woman all my life! Since my husband married me out of a convent, no man has spoken to me but to flatter, or to make love, until you came. You are the only one who has treated me as an equal, and because of this, I would do anything for you. I care nothing for what the world says!”
“Probably not, madame, because you have no idea what extremely cruel things it can say,” I returned, for enthusiasm is a bad beginning for argument. “But suppose I were willing. I have only my sword to depend upon, and you know how much that is worth nowadays! If I turned it into a spit, I could not even provide a capon to roast upon it. But long before we came to that pass we would infallibly be captured or starved, for a woman cannot put up with the hardships of such a venture. I had some months of it in Scotland after the Forty-five, and I know what it means. To lodge à la belle étoile, and to dine with Duke Humphrey, as we English put it, may be the highest romance, but I assure you the quarters are draughty in the one, and the table bare with the other.”
As I spake her face brightened, and by the time I made an end she took both my hands and said, determinedly: “Then, mon ami, you shall go alone. I will have everything in readiness, and I do it for you with all my heart—the more so that your refusal makes it better worth the doing,” she added, with an attempt at a laugh, and then turned and ran off, that she might not discover her feelings further.
It was a surprising outcome, and much as I regretted the seemingly ungracious part I was forced to play, I could not but rejoice at the opportunity offered of escaping from English hands, particularly those of such regiments as Lee's, Lascelles's, or Warburton's, my old opponents in Scotland. There was no difficulty in carrying out the simple plan, for, in providing the boat and the men, Madame Prévost had overcome the one obstacle. Hostilities would be suspended, vigilance would be relaxed, and if the capitulation were not signed before nightfall, it would be an easy matter to gain the harbour, and under cover of the night to pass the enemy's batteries and make some unguarded point on the coast beyond their lines before day.
It fell out much as we had anticipated. M. de Drucour demanded the same terms as those extended to the English at Port Mahon, in Minorca. These were refused, and he resolved, with our unanimous consent, to abide by the assault. But Prévost was at work, and so artfully did he play on our commandant that by eleven o'clock the same night, July 25, 1758, the terms of the harsh capitulation were accepted.
At midnight, the capitulation being signed, I passed out by the Brouillon Bastion, found the men with their shallop in readiness, and, stepping in, said, in answer to their query:
“All the papers are signed; the English enter in the morning.”
“'Dieu seul devine les sots,'” quoted old Gourdeau, sadly. “Shove off!”
MARGARET'S STORY
“Le coeur mène ou il va.”— Old Proverb.
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE BAIE DES CHALEURS
Never, never shall I forget the elation which filled my heart as I stepped ashore with Lucy that September day in the Baie des Chaleurs, in Canada. After weeks of unrest, my feet once more were on the sure, unchanging earth, in the land that held what was more than all else to me, “my dear and only love,” my Hugh.
As we strolled along the clear, hard sands beyond the sound of the men toiling at the water-casks, I felt tempted to cry: “Lucy, Lucy, can you not see my happiness? I am no Madame de St. Just, but Margaret Nairn, the happiest woman in all the world, because my feet press the same ground that bears my love.” This, poor Lucy, with her cramped Methodistical ways, would have held savoured only of lightness, or worse; she could never understand the longing that had worn at my heart all these years, and, most of all, she could never conceive of a love such as that of my Hugh. Crowning all my joy came back the words of his dear, dear song—
“The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh,Nor deep eneugh the sea,Nor braid eneugh this weary warldTo part my Love frae me.”
“The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh,Nor deep eneugh the sea,Nor braid eneugh this weary warldTo part my Love frae me.”
No, nothing should part us now. Poverty and pride had kept him silent when my heart was yearning for him; but now, poverty did not exist, for I was here to make him restitution, and the pride was all mine now, in claiming a love that belonged to me alone. Love was King, and
“The King shall have his ownOnce more!The King shall have his own!”
“The King shall have his ownOnce more!The King shall have his own!”
I sang, mimicking his manly tone as best I might, to the great astonishment of Lucy.
Delighted as we were merely to feel the sands beneath our feet, the soft, fresh green of the forest which edged them close attracted us, and we timidly made our way under the first scattered trees. Then seeing no wild animals, of which we were greatly in dread, and hearing the reassuring voices of the seamen, we ventured in far enough to gain the thick, sweet-smelling carpet of pine needles, and at length seated ourselves by a little stream, but near enough the sands to see the waters of the bay glinting between the trees.
“Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I am so happy!” I said, in the fulness of my heart, giving her my hand, for I looked on her more as a companion than a waiting-woman; but before she could reply a hand was clapped over my mouth, and I saw Lucy struggling in the arms of a savage. An overwhelming terror crushed all life and sense out of me, and I swooned away.
When I recovered I found I was being carried swiftly by two savages, one at my shoulders and another at my feet, but my terror was so great upon me that I dared not make a sound. How long, or how far we went I could not even conjecture. I saw the trees passing before my upturned eyes as in some horrid dream, but it was not until I began to catch glimpses of the sky through the thinning branches, and my captors halted in an open space, setting me on my feet, that my senses came back in some degree.
We were beside the water again, dark and empty. The Indians immediately brought forth three of their light canoes, which they had cunningly concealed among the bushes, and laid them gently on the stream. No one molested me, nor, indeed, paid any special attention to me as I sate and watched them.
And laid them gently on the stream.
The pictures in such works as La Hontain and others I had seen were unreal, and I could not recognise their models in the men about me. They were painted, it is true, but in a manner more grotesque than affrighting; their hair was black and lanky, plastered close to their heads, but with one or two long, plaited braids escaping, ornamented with beads. Their only clothing consisted of leather leggings more or less tattered, and the belts for their weapons, which crossed their naked bodies; each one was shod with soft moccasins neatly ornamented, and I could not but admire the ease and agility of their movements. Strangely enough, I was no longer possessed by my former terrors, my only anxiety being for Lucy; but I could not doubt she was in safety, as the Indians were evidently expecting the arrival of the rest of the band.
Before long we heard sounds of their approach, and my poor Lucy appeared. “Oh, my dear, dear mistress!” she cried, “I was afraid I should never see you again!” and the faithful creature clasped me in her arms and kissed me as if I had been a child. Once she was convinced of my safety, she straight recovered her serenity, for it was more than composure. Her absolute faith and trust that we were in the hand of God—of “Our Heavenly Father,” as she always said—was so complete that I leaned upon her strength and was comforted.
All was now ready for the embarkation, but, to our dismay, we were directed to different canoes. No force was used. Indeed, my captor, who appeared to be the leader, or chief, for he wore somewhat more of their tawdry finery than the others, and his face was decorated by a broad band of white below the eyes, seemed anxious to add to my comfort, directing me how to dispose of myself in the bottom of the canoe. But once separated from Lucy, I lost the courage with which she had inspired me, and I trembled at the rough, guttural voices of the savages, who talked their loudest, filling me with the greater apprehension, as it betokened they held themselves beyond pursuit or discovery.
But Lucy, dear courageous soul that she was, divined my fears, and sent back her message of reassurance to me in one of her people's hymns, which I had learned to love on board the ship:
“Thou very present AidIn suffering and distress,The mind which still on Thee is stayedIs kept in perfect peace.”
“Thou very present AidIn suffering and distress,The mind which still on Thee is stayedIs kept in perfect peace.”
At length, when the clear September day began to fade, we landed, and Lucy and I were again together. No one seemed to pay any special regard to us, but though we had apparent liberty, I felt sure that any attempt at escape would be futile; indeed, the black forest about us held more terrors, to our minds, than even our captivity.
It was not long before the savages had kindled a fire, and the work of clearing away the brush and making a camp was begun. In spite of our fears, we could not but admire the readiness of those at work, while the chief, with the principal warriors, lay about smoking, and staring at us with their fixed eyes.
In a little space a fish was broiled on the hot stones, and a portion of it laid before us, cleanly enough, on sweet-smelling bark freshly peeled from one of the great birch-trees near by. It was flat for the want of salt, but we were too hungry to be over-nice, and our spirits revived with the comfort of our meal. Then, wearied out, I laid my head on Lucy's lap and fell fast asleep.
I was awakened by the sound of voices raised in discussion, and, to my amazement, I saw in the light of the fire a man in the garb of a priest. Instead of a hat he wore a tight-fitting cap, his soutane was rusty and patched in many places, and his feet were shod with moccasins like the Indians. To my dismay, instead of the accents which I expected, he was speaking to the chief in the same guttural tongue as his own; yet his very gown was a protection, and I rose and went to him without hesitation.
“Oh, father! You have been sent in answer to our prayers. Thank God, we are safe!”
He started at the sound of my voice, and stared at me for what seemed a long time without a word. “Yes, you are safe,” he said, at length, but in halting English; “these Indians will do you no harm. They will carry you to some post farther south, whence word will be sent to your friends among the English, and you will be ransomed. Yes, you are safe.”
“O, mon père,” I implored, breaking into French, for I saw that was his tongue, “do not speak so! You will not leave us with them! For the sake of the mother who bore you, listen to me!” and I threw myself on my knees and stretched out my hands to him, but he drew back as if my touch would have hurt him. “Do not forsake us; take us with you! We are women, and are helpless. I do not desire to reach any English post. I have no friends among the English. Do not abandon us to these men; we are both women, and I am a lady.”
“I see that,” he said, more softly. “Where do you wish to go?”
“To Louisbourg, mon père; our ship was bound there when we were carried off.”
“Had you any friends on board the ship?”
“My woman had her son.”
“Have you a husband, or a brother, in Louisbourg?”
My face flamed scarlet at the unexpected question, but I answered that I had not, without further explanation.
“Then you cannot go to Louisbourg. It is quite impossible,” he declared, with authority. “Louisbourg is no place for women at any time, least of all now. The important matter is to set you free from these savages, but you may rest without alarm to-night, and I will decide what is to be done before morning.”
He spake these last words wearily, like a man who had received a hurt, which moved my heart towards him in quick pity, and I waited to see if he would speak again, but he only raised his hand and blessed me.
Lucy received my report with her usual quiet; even the tidings that we were not to go to Louisbourg did not disturb her. “He knows better than we, and he will be guided in all his decisions.”
Despite the assurances of our safety, we neither of us closed our eyes that night. Apart from the anxiety as to our destination, the strangeness of our situation, the crackling of the fire, and the uncanny noises of the forest kept us at such a tension that sleep was impossible, and we were awake before any of our captors were astir.
I looked eagerly for the priest, and saw him kneeling at a little distance, absorbed in his morning devotions. Thereupon we withdrew quietly to the river, and soon returned, greatly refreshed, to find the whole camp afoot, and the priest awaiting us at the water's edge. Going directly to him, I asked, “Mon père, what have you decided?”
“That you go with me,” he said, quietly. And I turned to Lucy, but she had already caught the joyous message of our deliverance from my face.
LE PÈRE JEAN, MISSIONARY TO THE INDIANS
Though the priest spake with confidence, I judged he had no small difficulty in persuading the savages to part with us, for there was much discussion and apparently grumbling on the part of the chief; but at length the obstacle, whatever it was, was overcome, and the priest announced we were free to depart.
“My canoe is small for four people, and would be too heavy when we begin the ascent of the Matapediac,” he said, “but I will borrow another from the savages, with two men to paddle. Explain to your woman that she is to go with my servant André in the one, and you will follow in the other with me. She need have no fear; André is to be trusted in all things.”
These matters being settled, we were made spectators to surely the strangest sight my eyes had ever looked upon. André brought forth a small folding-table, and the priest, still in his rusty soutane, recited the holy office of the mass to the kneeling savages under the shade of the great pines, and only the ripple of the water broke the pauses in the service. To my astonishment, the Indians recited the Venite, but this was the extent of their knowledge, apart from the Pater-Noster, the Confiteor, and some of the responses.
The priest recited the holy office of the mass.
When the service was ended we breakfasted heartily, and, as soon as the priest's preparations were made, we embarked with, oh, such different hearts from yesterday!
Now that our anxiety was at rest, I had time to observe the priest more closely. Though his figure was slight, it moved to the dip of his paddle like that of a man vigorous in all exercise; his long, thin hands were full of strength; and his face, though worn, and burned to almost as dark a colour as that of an Indian, was that of a man who must have been handsome in his youth. At his age I could not even guess, beyond that he looked old with his scanty beard and long white hair, which fell almost to his shoulders. We sat face to face as he paddled in the stern of the canoe, and I marvelled at the wild grandeur of the river and forest, which I had barely marked before.
“It is beautiful—yes, very beautiful,” he said, presently, noticing my admiration; “but it wears another face in winter; then it is even terrible.”
“Have you been long among these people, mon père?”
“So long, that I know their tongue like our own; I know their faults and virtues, which are also like our own, but more simple, more direct; so long, that sometimes I forget I ever knew anything different. But come, my daughter, I can tell my story at any time, while you cannot have a better opportunity than the present to tell me yours, which I must know if I am to be of service to you. The man behind you cannot understand a word of French, so you may speak freely.”
Though I foresaw some explanation on my part would be necessary, I had so far hardly looked upon the man before me as other than our rescuer, one of our own blood and habit and tongue; but now it was the priest, and, more than that, my equal, for he invited my confidence not by right of his office but by right of his equality, for gentle I divined him to be; and at his demand I was sore confused, for I knew that questionings must follow which had been spared me on shipboard.
“My father,” I said, after a moment's hesitation, “I do not know that you will understand my story, but I am sure that as a gentleman you will believe it, and as a priest you will respect my confidence.”
“I know many secrets; I have listened to many stories, my daughter; yours will be none the less sacred that it comes of your own free will, and not on account of my office.”
Once I began, it was a relief. Since Lady Jane's death I had not spoken freely to a human soul, and before I had gone far, I knew I spake to one who understood.
When I told him of my guardian's death, of my utter loneliness, of my longing to be near him who stood nearer to me than all else in the world, I caught the murmur, “Poor child! poor child!” as he bent over his dipping paddle, and these low words of sympathy unsealed the last door of my heart, and I told him all without reserve: How Lady Jane had diverted her inheritance from her natural heir, Hugh, because he was withheld from writing to her by a sense of delicacy which would have been felt by few; how she had taken such offence at this during her illness that, unknown to me, she had altered her will in my favour, depriving him even of her former provision; how the same delicacy which had prevented him approaching his wealthy kinswoman separated him from me, her heir; how his first separation from Lady Jane had been a voluntary renunciation of his own interest, to ensure what he supposed would be my happiness; how he had, for my sake, performed a hundred sacrifices, which in happier days had been the delight of Lady Jane, his cousin; how all these things so worked on me that, knowing my love would neither speak nor come to me, I had thrown aside all other considerations save that I was bound to make restitution to one so unjustly wronged, and who had so suffered for my sake. For this I had broken through every barrier convention had set up, and, sure in his affection, I had come forth alone under an assumed name; “for I am no Madame de St. Just, mon père, but Margaret Nairn, and he whom I love is Hugh Maxwell, in garrison at Louisbourg.
“I know, mon père, that many will point the finger of shame at me; will say I am without decorum and without pride. But, my father, I had been living without the love for which my soul had hungered all these years, until the want became so strong that it swept away all the petty rules of life and humbled my pride in the dust. I came because I could not stay, and now my one prayer is to find him.”
When I finished, he was silent for a long time. “My child,” he said, at last, “that you have greatly dared, I need not tell you. But you know nothing of the pain, the misconstruction, the evil report to which you have exposed yourself.
“These 'petty rules,' as you style the barriers which society has established, are the safeguards of men and women in all their relations, and these you have chosen to disregard. For this sin against the social law you will suffer as surely as you would for any infraction of that law which, because it is higher, we call divine. You have only begun to realise it, because you have now met with one of those disarrangements we name 'accident.' Your plan, had it not been for this, would have carried you safely to Louisbourg, where you were to have met and married M. de Maxwell; but now your whole design is overthrown; Louisbourg is an impossibility; you are going in an opposite direction. Again, up to the present you have only met with your inferiors, to whom you owed no explanation of your position, but now the first man you meet happens to belong to your own class, and your isolation is no longer possible. Being a woman of high courage and principle, you have revealed to him your position in all its helplessness. But are you prepared to do the like when you meet the next person to whom an explanation is due? Can you again say, 'I am Margaret Nairn come out to meet my lover'?”
“Oh, my father, my father!” I cried, with a bewildering shame at my heart, and tears which I could not repress filling my eyes. “How could I foresee this? Everything seemed so plain. I was no longer a young girl, but a woman grown, with all a woman's strength of love, when the death of Lady Jane left me without a soul to whom I could turn, save him to whom I had given my first and only love. I had been denied all its expression at the time I most longed for it; I was deprived of its support when I most needed it, through the mistaken sense of honour which drove into exile the gentlest and most devoted of men. He was not one to push his own interest at any time, and now that I am burdened with this undesired fortune, his pride would fasten the door between us. It seemed to me—I thought—that I could come to him and say, 'See, I bring back what was yours by right.' Then, I had no doubts, no hesitations; but now, they crowd in upon me when I am alone, and at times I cannot keep my heart from sinking. I am not afraid, but I am in a dark place, and I know not where to turn for light.”
“Go to Her who has known sorrow above all women, my daughter. Each of us will think this over in such light as we may find, and will decide as we may be guided. Meantime do not waste your strength or courage in unavailing regrets or reproaches. Remember this poor woman with you has her own trial and anxiety. Give her your sympathy and your help. Much may come to us through our own effort, if it be for another.”
When we made our camp that night, Lucy and I, much to our delight, were allowed to take a share in the preparation of the meal, and afterwards we sate before the blazing fire, while the priest told us of his life among the roving Indians, of their strange customs and stranger beliefs, of their patient endurance in times of want, of their despair when disease made its appearance in their lodges, and of the ruin wrought among them by the white man's traffic in strong waters. “For the Indian it is no question of French or English; whichever conquers, he must go—nay, is passing even now—with only such feeble hands as mine to point the way of his going.” And there were tears in his voice as he spake.
Before we parted for the night I asked by what name we might address him.
“Le père Jean,” he answered.
“That is not difficult to remember,” I said, smiling.
“Which is important, my daughter, for it has to serve me from Gaspé to Michilimacinac. There is but little danger of confusion in the names of missionaries,” he added, sadly; “the labourers are few.”
When we left him I was glad to find that even Lucy's strict views were not proof against his simple goodness. I had feared the very fact of his priestly office would have prejudiced her, for I knew her sect made little of much the older religions held sacred; but in speaking of him afterwards she simply said:
“The Lord is wiser than we. He knows what vessels to choose for His service.”
We were so tired, and there was such a sense of security in our new keeping, that we were asleep before we knew; but during the night I fell into a strange dream, which so distressed me that I awoke, with tears streaming down my face. What it was, I could not clearly gather, but with the awakening came my sorrow afresh, and I lay staring up into the blackness with wide-open eyes.
Presently I heard Lucy's soft whisper, “Dear heart, what is the matter?”
“Lucy, why are you awake?”
“Christopher,” she answered. “I know my boy is in sore trouble on my account, and, alas, he has not my faith to support him.”
“Lucy,” I whispered, after a pause, “I have been selfish. In my own trouble I have not remembered yours.”
“Why should you, mistress?” she said, simply. “You have been good to me, beyond what one in my condition has any right to expect. My trouble can have no claim, when you are burdened, perhaps even beyond your strength.”
It was strange she should remember the difference between us at such a time. To me, we were simply two women suffering a common sorrow in our severance from those most dear to us, and I longed to take her in my arms and tell her all my pain. Had she been a mere servant, I might have done so, if only for the comfort of crying together; but she was too near my own class, and yet not quite of it, to permit me to take this solace. So we talked quietly for a space, and then fell once more to sleep.
I AM DIRECTED INTO A NEW PATH
The following morning, when we resumed our quiet way in the canoe, le pére Jean asked, “Well, my daughter, did any light come to you through the darkness?”
“No, my father, but I have found a little quiet.”
“That is much. Now I shall ask you to listen to me patiently, for I may say much with which you will not agree, but you will trust me that I only say that which I know to be best. We have every reason to believe a serious descent will be made on Louisbourg in the spring, so that, apart from any other reason, your presence in a town which will in all probability suffer a bombardment, would be unwise and undesirable in the last degree. You have no idea of what war actually means; it is a horror that would haunt you to your dying day.”
“But, my father, in that case I should at least be by his side. That in itself would mean everything to us both.”
“That is a point I had not intended to touch on, my daughter. I know the world. I know that men, banished to such exile as that in which M. de Maxwell has lived, change much with the years. Think how you have changed yourself, in happier surroundings than he has known. Think what new connections he may have formed. Did you never think that he—”
“Oh, my father, what would you tell me? Do you know M. de Maxwell?”
“I have never been in Louisbourg,” he answered, somewhat coldly, as if my earnestness had hurt him.
“But you do not mean that he may be married?”
“He may be. It would surely not be unnatural.”
“It might not in another man, but in him it would be impossible. He is not as other men.”
“May I inquire, my daughter, if he ever asked you in marriage?”
“No, my father; I told you how he was situate. Besides, my guardian then wished me to marry another.”
“And you would not?”
“I did not,” I answered, with some little hauteur, for I held this was beside the matter, and a subject on which even he had no right to question me.
“Well, that can make but little difference now,” he said, after a short pause. “What does make the difference is that Louisbourg is an impossibility for you at the present. Your best course is to go on to Quebec. I shall give you letters to M. de Montcalm, who is so old and intimate a friend that I may ask him any favour. He will see that you have passage in the first fitting vessel for France. In order that you may not be subject to embarrassing surmises, I hold your best plan is to continue to style yourself Mme. de St. Just; in fact, that has now become a necessity. Once in France, you can, with the influence at your command—for I will see that M. de Montcalm furthers your desire—procure the recall of M. de Maxwell in the spring, and so realise the dream which has now led you so far astray.
“Do not think I am blaming you overmuch,” he added, quickly; “you have been led astray because you could not see as the world sees. Your heart and motive were pure, were generous, but none the less are you subject to those rules which govern so rigorously the class to which you belong, whose very existence depends on their observance. In a romance, the world would no doubt have wept over your perplexities; but in real life, it would crush you, because you have sinned against the only code it acknowledges. Your purity and faithfulness would count for nothing. Believe me, my child, I know it and its ways.”
So it was decided; and at once I began to plan with new hope for the desire of my heart; and such was the change it wrought in me that the whole world took on a new interest to my eyes.
For the first time I realised the grandeur of the river into which we had now fully entered; the sullen sweep of black water in the depths, the dance of silver over the shallows, the race of waves down the rapids between its ever-changing banks, now like imprisoning walls with great sombre pines, now open and radiant with the gold and scarlet of the maples, marshalled in order by the white lances of the slender birches.
At times Lucy and I were allowed to walk along the reaches of level sand to relieve the strain on the paddlers, where the river ran swift and strong, and when we at length gained the great stretch of the lake called Matapediac, like the river, my heart was full of the beauty and charm about me.
“The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh,Nor deep eneugh the sea,Nor braid eneugh this weary warld,To part my Love frae me,” ...
“The span o' Life's nae lang eneugh,Nor deep eneugh the sea,Nor braid eneugh this weary warld,To part my Love frae me,” ...
I sang in my heart, for was it not all so wonderful, so beyond all planning, this way of Love? It might be long, it might be wearying, but it would lead aright in the end.
When the head of the lake was reached, the canoes were lifted from the water; that of the strange Indians was left behind, but ours they raised on their shoulders, and, André carrying the scanty baggage of the priest, we set off on a long carry, or portage, as they call it. This occupied two days, as the path was difficult, and we found a sad encumbrance in our skirts, which suffered much in the traverse. We took the water again at a tiny stream, and finally gained another, called the Metis, leading to the St. Lawrence, our highway for Quebec. At the Metis the strange Indians left us and returned to join their fellows.
Late one afternoon le père Jean ran the canoe inshore, and, nothing loath, we left her in charge of André, to follow the priest up the high bank and take our way on foot under the great pines.
A low breeze was moving almost silently among the trees, bringing an unwonted freshness we could verily taste. Soon we marked the screen of undergrowth, which hid the sun, grow thinner and thinner, until his rays came shining low through a halo of golden leaves, with gleams like to glancing water. Breathless, we hurried on until we swept aside the last veil and found ourselves on the open cliff, overlooking mile beyond mile of dancing water, which the setting sun covered with a trail of glory breaking in ripples on a beach of golden sand, that stretched below the cliff on which we stood.
“Oh, the sea! the sea!” I cried, sinking to the ground, overwhelmed by the flood of feeling which broke upon me. It was the promise of a new world of light and safety, after the black, swift river and the sombre forest from which we had escaped.
“No, my daughter, not the sea; la Grande Rivière, the St. Lawrence!” said le père Jean, almost reverently. “Do you wonder these poor Indians worship it?”
“Oh, it is blessed! blessed! It means home! It is like to heaven!” I whispered, and then I fell a-crying with very happiness.
Presently Lucy touched me on the shoulder. “See! there is André!” And below we saw the Indian paddling out into the open. He went cutting through the golden water until he was some distance from the shore, when he stood upright, gently rocking as he balanced, gazing up the river. Suddenly he crouched down, again and made all haste towards us, crying, as he came within call: “Mon père! Dufour! Dufour! Gabriel Dufour!”
“This is fortunate, most fortunate,” exclaimed the priest. “It will save us many a weary mile, and perhaps weeks of waiting. Gabriel is a pilot, with one of the best boats on the river, and your way to Quebec is now easy. It could not have fallen out better.”
“'One of those disarrangements we name Accident,' mon père?” I said.
“No, my daughter; when we are schooled sufficiently to read aright, we name it 'Providence,'” he returned, gravely.
We took our places in the canoe once more, and with deep, long strokes she was forced through the current across the mouth of the stream. We disembarked on the farther side, and all made our way out to the end of the low point, which stretched far into the wide river. My disappointment was great when I could make out nothing of the object to which André triumphantly pointed, but this the priest pronounced, without hesitation, to be the pilot's boat.
“André, dry wood,” he commanded; and to us he added, “You can help, if you will.”
We ran back to where a fringe of bleached drift-wood marked the line of the highest tides, and returned with our arms laden with the dry, tindery stuff. Carefully selecting the smallest pieces, the Indian skilfully built a little pile, but so small I wondered at his purpose. The priest, kneeling by it, soon had it alight, and kept adding to it constantly, while André ran off again to return with a supply of green brush; by this time a heap of glowing coals was ready, and on this the Indian carefully laid his green branches, one after another. In a few minutes a strong, thick smoke arose, and went curling out in a long thin line over the now quiet waters of the river.
Meantime le père Jean had a second pile of wood in readiness, and at his word André quickly smothered up the first with sand, and, after waiting for the smoke to drift completely away, soon had a second thread trailing out after the first. This was repeated again, and the fire extinguished as before.
“There, my daughter! that is the manner in which we sometimes send a message in this country, and the answer will be the appearance of Maître Gabriel himself by the morning.”
We then withdrew to the shelter of the wood, for the smoothest sand makes but a sorry bed, and made our camp for the night.
After our meal, le père Jean bade André pile more drift-wood on our fire, and, producing the little journal in which he kept the brief record of his labours, as required by his Order, he fell to writing.
“Here,” he said, when he had finished, handing me the folded paper, “is your letter to my good friend M. de Montcalm. It is not over-long, as paper is much too precious to waste in compliments; I have used so much, as it is, in fully explaining your position, so that you may not be exposed to embarrassing inquiries; in demanding his fullest assistance, so that you may be under the lightest personal obligation, that I have left no space to set forth your future movements; these you must yourself lay before him, and so spare me the sacrifice of another page of my precious journal.”
The next morning, as the priest had foretold, we were awakened by André's announcement of the pilot's arrival, and before long, Gabriel Dufour was presented in due form. He was a stout, thick-set man, much reddened by exposure, with his dark hair gathered into a well-oiled pigtail, comfortably dressed in grey, home-spun jacket and breeches, with bright blue stockings, and a short canvas apron, like to the fishermen in France.
He at once expressed himself ready to take us to Quebec.
“What day have you chosen for your return, Gabriel?” asked le père Jean.
“Qui choisit, prend le pire, mon père. All days are alike for me. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, I find much the same as Thursday, Friday, Saturday. I can start to-day, to-morrow, or the day after that, as madame may say.”
“Then I shall speak for madame, and say to-day,” returned the priest; and added, in his quiet way: “I bid you beware of Master Gabriel's fair words, madame. To quote from his favourite proverb, 'il est né dimanche, il aime besogne faite,' he will promise you anything.”
“'Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut,' mon père,” he answered, laughing. “Well, I am ready at once, if madame can support the poverty of my poor cabin.”
“Ah, Maitre Gabriel, if you knew how much your care will mean to us, you would make no apologies.”
“Come, come, Gabriel! No more proverbs, no more delays,” exclaimed le père Jean, and, as the pilot hurried off to his shallop, he took both my hands in his.
“My child, remember God goes with you by land and water, by day and night, and He will surely bring you to the goal which He alone can see,” and then he raised his hand, and I knelt while he blessed us both.
THE MARQUIS DE MONTCALM-GOZON DE ST. VÉRAN
In Maître Gabriel I found a type I could readily understand; he was very shrewd, very curious, with a passion for questioning, but so honest and childlike that he took no offence at any rebuff. He was a thorough sailor, a martinet to his little crew, vain of his skill and boastful of his courage, and confident of the showing he and his fellow-Canadians would make against “les goddams,” should they venture to appear.
He insisted on hearing the story of our capture in detail, and seemed much more amused at the address of the Indians than distressed at our misfortune.
“They were good fellows, after all, madame. If it had not been for them, you would not have fallen into the hands of le père Jean. But, bedame! I cannot understand why he should send you to Quebec when he knew you were bound for Louisbourg. A priest, no doubt, knows much, but I can tell you, madame, if you came to me and whispered 'Louisbourg,' it would not be by way of Quebec I should send you. If you have any reason to be there, there is no time like the present, for the English are on their way thither even now; and if they are frightened away by our ships, they will be back in the spring; take my word for it!”
“But, Gabriel, le père Jean spake as if nothing was to be feared from any attempt they might make at present.”
“Perhaps not, but they may try it, all the same. They have been in Halifax for months past, and only sailed in August. I do not think it will come to anything myself, but by the spring all the music will be on hand, and the dancing before Louisbourg will begin in earnest. But pardon, madame; I forgot you had friends there, or I would not have let my tongue run on so.”
“No, no, Gabriel; I wish to hear all you have learned. Why is it impossible to go to Louisbourg?”
“Bedame! I never said it was impossible to go to Louisbourg, madame; mais, 'qui se tient à Paris, ne sera jamais pape,' and your face is not in the right direction. If you would be there, madame, I would engage to find you a way in the teeth of all 'les goddams' who ever chewed rosbif. But I forget; we are going to Quebec,” he ended, slyly, evidently desirous that I should talk.
This, however, I would not do, but he had given me matter enough to keep me awake by night and set me anxiously dreaming by day.
Why had the priest been so determined to keep me from Louisbourg? Now that I thought it over, I saw that I had never urged my wish at all. I had allowed my whole purpose to be swept aside at his first firm refusal to consider my request. And all this time Hugh was in danger, while I had turned my back upon him. If not in danger now, he certainly would be in the spring, and all my effort, with those weary miles of sea again between us, would be unavailing for his recall. Indeed, he would probably refuse to leave his post if it were threatened by an enemy. Why had I consented? Why was I even now lengthening the heart-breaking distance between us with every coward mile I travelled? Why had I not pleaded with le père Jean, instead of obeying blindly, like a child? He had not known the real danger, perhaps, or his advice would have been different.
Could I have spoken freely with Lucy, I might have gained some comfort; but, alas! my lips were sealed towards her. How could I expect her to understand even if I could speak? My distress she would readily comprehend, but she could not possibly know anything of such a love as Hugh's; so I was forced to take the sympathy of her silent companionship, making her such return as I might.
Gabriel, I grew almost afraid of; he questioned me so cunningly, without seeming to do so, that I was in constant dread lest I should betray my secret and declare the desire which was consuming me. It was a relief when I could turn his curiosity and lead him to talk of his own life and the places we passed; for the wilderness of hills of the North Shore, to which we had crossed, was broken here and there by settlements, as at Les Eboulements, where the tiny church and village nestled by the water's edge at the foot of mountains rising and rolling back to purple heights behind. We were here shut out from the main river by the wooded shores of the Isle aux Coudres, which Gabriel regarded with peculiar pride, as somewhere on its farther side stood his white-washed cottage, where his wife kept her lonely guard during his long absences, and spent sleepless watches on wild nights in autumn, entreating the protection of St. Joseph and Our Lady of Good Help for her man, fighting for life somewhere on the dangerous waters.
“She must be very strong with her prayers, ma bonne femme, for every time I have come safe home—eh, madame?”
It was a pleasure to me to confirm him in his belief.
The next morning we passed the wide mouth of the Gouffre at la Baie St. Paul, but fortunately without experiencing its formidable wind, and early in the afternoon we saw rising before us the purple mass of Cap Tourmente. We stood well out here to escape the strong current; in the distance before us lay the green point of the island of Orleans, and behind it, to the north, Gabriel pointed out the beautifully rising slopes of the Côte de Beaupré, with the pride of a man who is in love with his country.
But soon his attention became fixed on a boat of better appearance than any we had as yet seen, standing in for the main shore.
“No fishing-boat that!” he exclaimed. “It must be some of the officers down from Quebec.” He altered our course so that we stood in to intercept her. His excitement grew as we approached. “I am right,” he shouted. “She is the yacht from Quebec. I must go on board. They will wish to hear what news I carry from below.”
As soon as we were within a reasonable distance he made some signal with his sail and, both boats staying their way, he launched his shallop over the side, and quickly rowed to the stranger. We watched him with keen interest, especially as we saw there were officers on board. Before long he was on his way back to us, and, as soon as he was within speaking distance, he called in the greatest excitement:
“Oh, madame! On board there is his Excellency, M. de Montcalm. He wishes to see you. Pardon, madame, pardon if I say hurry. Do not keep him waiting.”
It was indeed a startling summons, and the last I was expecting, but I accepted it without hesitation, and, making such slight preparation as was possible, Gabriel helped me carefully into the tossing boat; and put such heart into his rowing that in a few moments we were safely alongside the yacht, and a strong hand was held down to me. “Courage, madame! hold firmly and step slowly,” and, as the shallop lifted, I stepped lightly on the deck, where I was surrounded by a group of gentlemen.
“Madame,” said one of them, bowing, “I am Monsieur de Montcalm, and, believe me, my best endeavours are entirely at your service. We have heard something of your adventure from our good Maître Gabriel here.”
“Monsieur le marquis, it is to your friend le père Jean we owe our safety, and he has added to my obligation by commending me to your care in this letter,” said, handing him the precious billet.
“Any lady in your position, madame, would command my service of right, but such a recommendation makes it obligatory; there is little I would not do to please my friend le père Jean.”