She shortened up straps and adjusted buckles.
“There!” she cried, as she coiled up my hair tightly, “we must do without the wig, but the bonnet will cover a multitude of sins. You are as pretty a looking fellow as the heart of woman could desire. Nothing is wanting now but a brave carriage! Walk up and down like this, till I see,” and she did her best to imitate a martial stride. “Courage, chérie! you are pale as a ghost. Courage! and remember every heart true to France will pray for you, whether you win or lose. You are carrying the fate of the colony in your hands to-night. Let me kiss you, chérie. Again. Bah! I'm only crying because I can't go in your stead. Come, I will let you out.”
When the side door of the convent shut behind me and I found myself alone in the darkness of the narrow street, my courage wellnigh failed me, and with shame in my heart I realised I was trembling so I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. But the rain dashed into my face by the high wind revived me, and with an effort I went on. As I made my way down past the Jesuits my courage gradually returned, and resolutely thinking of my mission alone, I banished my fears to such extent that I was enabled to grasp my sword firmly, and step forward with some show of assurance.
As I turned into rue St. Jean a drunken soldier struck terror into me again by shouting out a convivial salutation in Gaelic, but his more sober comrades silenced him with low curses at his imprudence, and I went on, unmolested.
There were not so many in the streets as I had expected, and with this one exception no one noticed me; but as I drew near to the St. John's Gate I made out a crowd of men busily engaged in barricading it, and for a moment I stood still in bewildered helplessness. I had so resolved on leaving the town by this means that when I found it closed against me it seemed as if my whole plan had failed. With my heart beating so I could hardly see to direct my steps, I turned back along the way I had come, and it was not until I drew near the Palace Hill I remembered there were other exits. Gaining fresh courage, I turned down and made my way to the Palace Gate, when, for the first time, it struck me that a password must be given, and of it I was ignorant. I did not even know the forms necessary to pass the men, and if an officer were present I must be discovered at once; but it was now too late to draw back, as I was in full view of the guard.
It was a strange time to remember such things, but the first line of poor Lucy's hymn kept ringing in my head, and I advanced, saying over and over to myself, like a charm:
“Thou very present AidIn suffering and distress.”
“Thou very present AidIn suffering and distress.”
When I was almost face to face with the guard I made out it was composed of sailors, and just as I expected to hear the words which meant discovery and disgrace, one said to the other in a tone of authority: “The Seventy-eighth. It's all right!” and without challenging me they presented arms. Had I even known the password I could not have pronounced it, for my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth; but seeing my intent, the man who had spoken stepped before me and opened the wicket. I raised my hand in acknowledgment, and passed through.
I was without the walls.
MAXWELL'S STORY
“Adieu, paniers, vendange sont faite.” — Old Proverb.
I CLOSE ONE ACCOUNT AND OPEN ANOTHER
Portentous as were its results, I have never been able to look upon the battle of the 13th of September as adding anything of value to military knowledge. From a technical view it never attained the dignity of battle at any point, and only exceeded a skirmish in the heavy losses and the deaths of the leading generals on each side.
The recognition of their efforts, and of those who so ably replaced them by their respective governments and contemporaries, read as a sorry commentary on the popular distribution of honours.
Wolfe, almost a tyro, at one bound won immortality and immediate applause from his countrymen; Montcalm, almost a veteran, though mourned by those about him, was persistently vilified, even after death, by the very man who should have been his most loyal supporter; I do not hesitate to name M. de Vaudreuil—and I am not aware of even a head-stone having been raised to his memory.
On the other hand, his successor, the Chevalier de Lévis, met with fitting reward and honourable advancement in his profession, and the titles of Duke and Marshal of France are now borne with dignity by one whose natural nobility of soul renders him eminently worthy of such honours.
To complete the contrast, the Honourable James Murray, who succeeded Wolfe, held an unprotected city in an enemy's country throughout a distressing winter, handled his slender troops with contagious enthusiasm, fought and lost a desperate battle like a gallant soldier; later on he governed a conquered people with a consummate tact, and still serves his country with distinction—to meet with no other reward, that I ever heard of, than the approbation of his conscience and the admiration of all honest men.
In writing thus openly I must disclaim any intention of carping, for I would scorn to deprive either of the illustrious dead of a single laurel in the crown so nobly won, but the very generosity of contemporary admiration has a tendency to work injustice towards the survivors.
I know personally, for I afterwards had abundant opportunity of judging, with what stoutness of heart did that admirable soldier, General Murray, support his misgivings, when he saw the last English frigate sail from Quebec in the late autumn of '59, bearing his more fortunate comrades to the reward of their gallantry, while he and his little garrison were left in a ruined town to face all the chances of war, to which were added the unknown dangers of a dreaded winter season.
On our side we made our headquarters in Montreal, where the military were busy enough, while the officials and other unemployed classes—priests, women, and school-boys—beguiled their inaction, and cheated themselves into hopefulness by the most chimerical and fantastical projects for the retaking of Quebec that ever deluded the human mind.
The truth is, we were as miserable a lot of devils on both sides as one could well imagine. In Quebec, the English were half-starved, half-frozen, wholly without pay, and without reliable information. In Montreal, we had enough to eat, we were as gay as the clergy, M. de Vaudreuil, and our miserable plight would permit; we were without pay, it is true, but to that we had been long accustomed; but we had the most exact information as to what went on in Quebec, thanks to friends within its walls, while our non-fighting orders, ever at the height of certainty or the depth of despair, had so befooled themselves with their infallible schemes of conquest, that they looked forward to the spring campaign with a confidence almost pitiable in the eyes of thinking men.
Early in April, M. de Lévis gathered together his motley army; the remnants of the brigades of Béarn La Reine, La Sarre, Royal Roussillon, Berri, and La Marine, less than four thousand in all, with about three thousand militia and volunteers, and, supported by a few miserable cannon, marched forth to sit down before Quebec.
We were disappointed in our first plan of attack, but on the 28th of April, 1760, we had the good fortune to meet Murray face to face almost on the very ground where Wolfe and Montcalm had fought in the previous September.
Murray's force was somewhat smaller than ours, but more than equalled it in quality, being all regular troops, besides which he had somewhat the advantage of position; but, falling into the same error as Montcalm, he abandoned this to begin the attack, and the same result followed.
The battle of Ste. Foye will always command the respect of men of discretion without regard to the side which may engage their sympathies.
There we met a foe as brave as the heart of soldier could desire who for hours disputed every foot of ground with us, and the one error of the action on our part was rectified with a precision so admirable that it but heightened the honours of the day. Before I record this, I must note a personal incident.
Immediately in front of our left, where the regiments of Béarn and La Sarre were stationed, stood a mill and its dependencies, belonging, I believe, to one called Dumont, and though its possession was not of the slightest strategical importance, by one of those strange chances of battle it became the centre of the most obstinate fighting on both sides. Our grenadiers took possession of it, and held it until driven out at the point of dirk and claymore by the Highlanders, who in turn were dislodged after a desperate hand-to-hand struggle, whereupon the whole contest recommenced. M. de Lévis, annoyed by the useless waste of men and the danger of expending such effort and attention on so misleading an object, sent me with orders to have our men withdrawn.
When I arrived the struggle was again at its height, both sides were fighting with the simple ferocity of savages, unmindful of every rule of war. There was neither direction nor command; it was man against man in a mad, unmeaning struggle for the pleasure of mastery.
“Pardon, monsieur,” I said to the Chevalier d'Aiguebelle, who commanded the grenadiers, “but M. de Lévis sends positive orders that you must withdraw your men. You are distracting the attention of the whole left.”
Then catching sight of the officer in command of Fraser's I rode forward and saluted. As he answered my salute I saw it was my once prisoner, Nairn.
“Call off your men, Captain Nairn!” I shouted. “This is simply murder! I have given orders for ours to withdraw. There is no loss of honour on either side.”
Call off your men Captain Nairn.
Without a moment's hesitation he rushed among them, commanding and striking up swords right and left, while we did the same. When our object was attained, he turned to me and said:
“Hark you, sir! I am ready enough to join in avoiding useless slaughter, but I have an account to square with you, for which there shall be no calling off when we meet. Remember that!”
I laughed and saluted, mightily intrigued at what his meaning might be, and then rode off to attend on the General.
Meantime the fighting along the line had been severe, and the enemy's artillery had told on us with such effect that at last our centre wavered and began to give way. Supported by a wood, our left stood firm within about twenty paces of the foe, when a flurried adjutant ran along the line with orders to make a half-turn to the right and retire to some houses in the rear.
M. Malartic, major of La Sarre, stood aghast; it virtually meant retreat, and retreat in such a position invited certain destruction. He hurried over to M. de Barroute, a captain of Béarn, which stood next to the right, and repeated the order. They agreed at once a mistake had been made, and an ominous murmur arose from the men as the news was whispered from one to another. On this M. Dalquier, their colonel, as fine and experienced an officer as ever drew sword, rode up, and, inquiring of their difficulty, swept it aside by crying, “I will take it upon me to disobey the order. Fix bayonets, mes enfants!” The command was executed in an instant; then, rising in his stirrups, he swung his sword above his head and roared in a voice that could be heard all along the line, “Charge!”
The effect was indescribable; there was one quick, sharp shout of “Vive le Roi!” and the men went on like so many demons.
“Look at La Sarre!” cried Poulariez, with the Royal Roussillon on the right, as we marked the sudden confusion and then the charge. “The English have advanced too far! Ride to the Canadians, Maxwell! Half-wheel to the left, and we fall on their flank!”
It was the deciding-point of the battle. The English line was thrown into complete disorder, and thence forward there was nothing but hand-to-hand fighting of the fiercest description, which lasted until it ended in the utter rout of the enemy.
At one point I saw M. de Boucherville, who carried the flag of the Montreal troops, go down in a mêlée, but the colours were saved by the determined gallantry of M. de Sarennes, who carried them off amid a storm of cheers.
“Bravo, Sarennes!” I called to him as he rode past a moment later. “Your lady-love should have seen that!”
“Go to the devil!” he roared back at me, with the voice and gesture of the boor he really was at bottom, but my hands were too full either to wonder at his insult or demand an explanation.
I will make no attempt to follow the detail of the action; it is enough to say the honours rested with us. We stood victorious over the same foe that had defeated us on the same ground six months before. We had regained the Heights, regained the General Hospital, and it remained to be seen how soon we might sweep over its ruined ramparts into Quebec and hold it once more for King Louis.
As I entered the Hospital towards evening to report to M. de Lévis, one of the sisters addressed me: “Pardon, monsieur, but are you the Chevalier de Maxwell?”
“Yes, ma soeur.”
“M. Dalquier wishes to speak with you. He lies here.”
I found that fine old soldier lying on a bed faint from a wound he had received at the very moment he made his decisive charge, but which had not prevented him holding his place for some time later. He smiled bravely as he held out his hand to me.
“These confounded surgeons will not allow me to speak in person, but I wish you, Chevalier, to thank the General for me. Did you hear about it? No? Then, listen. Just after our charge was made, and we had formed again, he rode up. 'Here is the devil to pay,' I said to myself, and was framing my defence in short order, when, 'M. Dalquier,' he said, so that all about could hear, 'the King owes you his thanks for not making that half-turn. Hold your position for five minutes, and I will answer for the battle.' Did you ever hear anything like it? Think of a general making such an acknowledgment, and before my men, too! Mort Dieu, Chevalier! Tell him I would rather have this to remember than wear the Cross of St. Louis. Go!” And he turned away his face, to hide the tears that spake of his overwhelming satisfaction.
“I will see him as soon as I can find a moment,” said M. de Lévis, when I repeated my message, almost as moved as the old soldier. “Now, Chevalier, as soon as it falls dark, do you go over the ground alone, and as close to the town as possible, to see what dispositions we are to make for our trenches. Mark what Murray has attempted in the way of defences or outworks. Let me, or M. de Pontleroy, hear from you to-night, no matter how late the hour. But get some refreshment before you set out,” he added, thoughtful as ever of the wants of others.
I sate down for a few moments' rest, and ate something the good nuns provided, and then borrowing a cloak to serve as a protection against the drizzling rain which had again set in, I sallied forth.
When I reached the Heights it was puzzlingly dark, though the hour was early, and I had the utmost difficulty in finding my way. Corpses of men and horses hindered me, more than once the wounded appealed to me for help, but I went on unheeding, trying to determine my exact whereabouts, in order to begin my task. I had approached near enough the town to see the lights, and could even catch sounds from the no doubt terrified population, but paid no attention to anything save my object in hand.
Suddenly a voice shouted in the darkness, “Halte là!” to which I promptly replied:
“Etat-major, aide de M. de Lévis.”
“Damn your Etat-major!” was the astonishing reply. “Why don't you say 'Mistaire Maxwelle'?” in an undescribable attempt at an English pronunciation of my name.
“Come, come, Sarennes,” I said, for I recognised the tall Canadian, “have you not got over your ill-humour yet? You nearly insulted me to-day in the field.”
“I intended to. Do you wish me to repeat my words, or do you not know when you are insulted, unless you are struck?”
“Are you mad, or only drunk, Sarennes? Get back to camp, man, and sleep off your fit. We cannot afford to quarrel after such a day as this.”
“No! you cannot afford to fight at any time. Do you think I am a woman like her whom you deceived, to be tricked by your lying tongue?”
“Stop, sir!” I commanded. “I am on duty, but my duty must wait until I have read you a lesson, which, I regret, you will not live to profit by.”
We could hardly see each other, and it was utterly impossible to follow the sword-play save by feel; it was not a duel at all; it was death, sure and swift, for one or perhaps both of us in the dark.
Sure and swift it was. I lost touch of his blade, and as he lunged desperately, I avoided his stroke by dropping on my left hand, and straightening my sword-armen seconde, ran him clean through the body as he came forward, his blade passing harmlessly over me. It was a desperate chance to take, but the stakes were high.
I knelt beside the fallen man and spake to him, but he could not answer, and in common humanity I rose and hurried off to find some help.
I had not gone fifty yards before I almost ran up against a man cautiously making his way over the field. To my astonishment, I saw he was an officer of Fraser's Highlanders, and commanding him to halt, I advanced, pistol in hand, and recognized Nairn.
“You are my prisoner, sir,” I declared, covering him as I spake, and then, the drollery of the situation coming over me, I dropped my arm and said, “It seems I am in for settling accounts to-night, Captain Nairn. You were good enough to remind me of some indebtedness on the field to-day, though what it was I am at a loss to determine. Perhaps it was my refusal of your handsome offer to me in Louisbourg that I should turn traitor. No? 'Pon my soul, you are strangely quiet in private for a gentleman who was so insistent in company!
“Come, draw the sword which you flourished to so little purpose to-day, and you will find I can pay in the only coin a soldier should demand or take.
“What! Not ready yet? Would you have me produce my commission as an officer, or establish my right to arms, before you can cross swords with me? By God, sir! I will stand no more of your precious fooling. Do you think you are going to roar out at me in public like some scurvy shopkeeper, and then stand like a stock-fish when I do you the honour to ask your pleasure? Draw, sir, draw, before I am forced to strike you like a coward!”
To my amazement, instead of answering my words as they deserved, he threw up his hands with a weak cry and covered his face.
He threw up his hands with a weak cry and covered his face.
Supposing him to be wounded, I melted in a moment, and, stepping forward, held out my hand to him.
“Come, sir, come! You are unnerved. Tell me, are you hit?”
As I spake I still advanced to support him, and was surprised beyond measure when the supposed officer retreated before me and cried, in a voice of intense womanish entreaty, “No, no; do not touch me!”
I burst out laughing. “'Pon my soul, madam! you came near being somewhat late, with your embargo, and you have betrayed me into an exhibition of the vilest humour, for which I most humbly apologise.”
She seemed somewhat uncertain how to take my drolling, whereupon I changed my tone, and asked, with every appearance of curiosity, “May I inquire how I can be of service to you?”
“Am I within the French lines?”
“No; you are on what may still be considered debatable ground. But I cannot give information to a lady whose masquerade is at least suspicious.”
“I only ask, sir, to be taken within your lines. Will you do this for me?”
“I doubt it, madam, unless you can show me you have good right to be there. You are not a Frenchwoman.”
“No, I am not, but I carry important information for your General.”
“Pardon me, madam, but the General is fully occupied,” I said, in my most repelling manner.
“Sir, I have come thus far at great risk to myself, and my news is of the utmost importance. Let me go on alone, if you will not take me in yourself.”
“Madam, I have not the honour to be known to you, but, believe me, my advice is of the best when I tell you that your way is open to the town again. Take it, madam, and think nothing more of this escapade, but that you were fortunate to have fallen in with one who could advise so soundly.”
“This is no escapade, sir; it has been a matter of life or death to me, and it is almost as much to your General,” she said, with such earnestness that I could not doubt her intentions.
“Then, madam, if you are determined, I will take you. You cannot possibly go on alone; there are too many Indians engaged in their usual pastime of looking after white scalps. But first I must seek for help for a wounded officer, and then must complete my work. Follow me closely, but give me your word you will not attempt any tricks,” I said; for I have never been prepossessed in favour of adventurous damsels, and I misdoubted the value of her alleged information.
“That will not answer. I must go on at once! I cannot wait.”
“It seems to me you are hardly in a position to choose, madam,” I replied, amused at her decision.
She hesitated a moment, and then said, desperately:
“Do you know who I am, Hugh Maxwell? I am Margaret Nairn!”
Had the solid ground opened beneath my feet I could not have been more confounded.
“Margaret!” I cried, when I could find my voice. “Margaret—here? I cannot understand. Speak to me again!”
“Yes, Hugh, I am Margaret—Margaret Nairn. I am Mme. de St. Just.”
“You have been here all along and never let me know? I cannot understand.”
“Do not try to understand now. Hugh! I beseech you to take me on trust and help me to go on.”
But as she spake I caught sight of a moving light.
“Do not speak another word. Some one is coming. Crouch down here until I see who it is.”
Advancing cautiously, I discovered the light came from a lanthorn, by the aid of which a priest was examining the bodies, hoping, no doubt, to discover some unfortunate who needed his ministrations. He would serve me for Sarennes.
“Mon père,” I said, advancing, “may I beg your assistance for a wounded officer?”
“Willingly. Lead me to him. Who is he?
“M. de Sarennes.”
“Ah, I know him well.”
I directed him to where Sarennes lay, and then returned to Margaret.
“I must wait until I see if anything can be done here before we go. Come with me for a moment.”
The priest took no notice of us as we knelt beside the dying man, and Margaret, exclaiming with pity as she saw him, lifted his head and supported it in her lap.
Sarennes opened his eyes and looked up into her face. He tried to speak, but no sound came from his moving lips.
“Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine,Et lux perpetua luceat ei,”
“Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine,Et lux perpetua luceat ei,”
prayed the priest, and even as we responded the unhappy spirit took its flight. Margaret bowed her head, and her tears fell on the dead face in her lap.
Most of us have been in circumstances where the killing of a man was a necessity, and have suffered no qualms of conscience thereat. I certainly had no compunctions on the outcome of my meeting with M. de Sarennes, and yet, at the sight of Margaret's tears, the natural feelings triumphed over the intellectual, and I joined fervently in the prayers of the priest.
He now appeared to notice Margaret for the first time, and lifting his lanthorn, he held it so that the light shone full upon her; as she raised her head in surprise, I could see he recognised her.
Lifting his lanthorn, he held it so that the light shone full upon her.
“Marguerite!” he cried, in a voice of reproach.
“Why do you speak to me thus, mon père? Why do you speak thus?” she repeated, with alarm in her accents.
“Marguerite, is it possible you do not know me?”
“Know you? Why do you ask? Why do you call me by my name? You are le père Jean.”
“I am le père Jean—but I was Gaston de Trincardel!”
“What!” she cried, almost with terror, as she sprang to her feet.
“I am Gaston de Trincardel,” he repeated, unmoved.
“Oh, why do you tell me this? At such a time...” she moaned, and I stepped to her side, for her cry went to my heart.
“I tell you this because I must try to bring you to your senses. Why are you here in disguise? A shameful disguise,” he repeated, scornfully. “Whose hand slew this man before us?”
“Mine!” I interrupted, for I could not stand by and see her meet his attack alone.
“Why are you here beside one who may be little better than a murderer?” he continued to her, without heeding me in the least.
“Sir, you are free to put any construction on my act you choose, as I cannot make you answer for your words,” I interrupted again.
“One from whom I have striven with all my power as a priest to keep you?” he went on, still ignoring me. “Since that has failed, I must try and appeal to your gratitude towards her who was your protector when you were but a girl. In some sense I stand as her representative, and I charge you by her memory to renounce this last folly which has led you here.”
“Stop, Gaston!” she cried. “Every word you say would be an insult did it come from another. But I have too high a reverence for you as a priest, the remembrance of your unfailing charity is too strong, to answer except by an explanation. Never mind appearances! I am here in this disguise because it afforded the only possible escape from the town, and my object is to carry word to M. de Lévis that everything within the walls is in the most complete disorder, the garrison is mad with drink, and he has but to march on the town at once to effect its capture.”
“Are you dreaming?—the town helpless?”
“Yes, it is his, if he can but advance without delay.”
“Then, forgive me! I was wrong—a hundred times wrong!”
“Just one moment. My meeting with M. de Maxwell is as much by chance as your meeting with me,” she added, with a decision which I thought perhaps unnecessary.
“Forgive me, Marguerite,” he repeated, in his usual tone; “and you too, Chevalier. I wronged you both. Now to make amends. Will you lead us to the General?” he said, turning to me.
“Come,” I said, and we each held out a hand to Margaret.
“Stand!” thundered a voice in English at two paces from us. “You are all covered!”
I FIND A KEY TO MY DILEMMA
“We are your prisoners!” I answered, instantly, for the slightest hesitation on such occasions may lead to the most serious results. Explanations can be made subsequently, but a bullet from an over-zealous musket can never be recalled.
In an instant they were beside us, a sergeant and six men, all Highlanders. I was about to speak again, but before I could do so Margaret stepped up to the sergeant, and taking him by the sleeve whispered a few words in his ear. He thereupon gave some instructions in Gaelic to his men, who closed round me and the priest, and, moving off a few paces with her, they spake earnestly together for a little. What she said I do not know, but in a moment he faced about, and picking up the lanthorn, examined me in turn.
“Your name and rank, sir?” he said to me.
“Hugh Maxwell, captain.”
“God bless me, sir! But this is not the first time I have heard your name, nor seen you, if you'll excuse my saying it,” he said, most earnestly.
“Like enough. What is your name?”
“Neil Murray, sir.”
“And a very good name it is; but I cannot say I recall it.”
“But you will remember the march to Derby, sir, and Lord George?” he asked, eagerly.
“I am never likely to forget it. Were you there?”
“Where else would I be when my grandfather was own cousin to his?”
“Then I suppose there's no treason now in shaking hands over so old a story, Neil?” I said, extending my hand, which he grasped heartily, and relations were established between us.
He then turned to the priest. “Your name, your reverence?”
“Le pére Jean, missionary.”
“Well, gentlemen, it cannot be helped. You must both follow us into the town.”
He gave his orders briefly, and blowing out the lanthorn, took Margaret by the arm, supporting her as one might a wounded man, and so we set off. It was evident the quick-witted sergeant possessed that invaluable qualification of the successful soldier, the readiness to carry out as well as to devise a plan; for in handling the lanthorn he had never once allowed the light to fall on Margaret, and by his happy pretence of her being wounded, he avoided the awkward necessity of handing over the command to her as his superior. That he would do his best to shelter her from any scrutiny or questioning was evident, and I was too thankful for the result to puzzle over the probable means by which it was attained. As like as not, by the very simple expedient of telling the truth—a wonderfully efficacious measure at times, when you know your man.
A quick, hard scramble brought us down to the level of the Palais; we passed the Intendance, black and deserted, and so on towards the foot of the Côte du Palais. When we reached the gate the sergeant halted us; the sign and countersign were given, whereupon the wicket was opened.
Passing his arm about Margaret, who leaned upon him heavily, the sergeant skilfully interposed himself between her and the officer in charge, and gave his report: “Neil Murray, sergeant, 78th, six men, two prisoners, and one of our own, wounded,” and on we marched up the slippery hill without a moment's unnecessary delay.
As soon as we were beyond sight of the gate our pace was slackened, and, now that all immediate danger of discovery for Margaret was at an end, I fell to wondering at the extraordinary chance which again brought me face to face with her who had proved the turning-point in my life. Little by little I pieced out the puzzle, and the more I brought it together, the more I wondered, but in a vague, disjointed fashion, that led to no solution. My confused thoughts were interrupted by our party halting in front of the Convent of the Ursulines, where, to my relief, I saw the sergeant lead Margaret round towards the side entrance.
“May I ask where you are taking us?” I said, when we again began our march, putting the question more to set my mind working again than out of curiosity.
“Where else would we be going but to the General?”
“And where has he found quarters in this stone heap? You have made a fine mess of things with your battering,” I said, for the evidence of their fire on the town was surprising.
“Have we not!” he exclaimed, with true soldierly pride. “But there will be a corner or two, here and there, that was out of our reach. It was a God's mercy for ourselves that we didn't have our will of the whole town, or there's many a poor fellow would have made a bad winter of it.”
“I dare say you found it bad enough as it was, eh, Neil?”
“You may say that, sir! There's been a deal to put up with for both high and low. But here we will be at the General's.”
As he spake we drew up before a house in the rue St. Louis, and were ushered into an anteroom, where we were left under guard, while our conductor departed to make his report.
I was not permitted to speak with my fellow-prisoner, and so went back to my wonderings. It was Margaret—that is, Mme. de St. Just—who had befriended Lucy on shipboard, and protected her since. What a marvellous happening, that these two women, of all others in the world, should have thus been thrown together! That she now knew of my relation towards Lucy I could not doubt; and though I had preferred it might have come about otherwise, I bitterly reflected that an estimate of my character was no longer of supreme importance to her, now she was a married woman. Though I had been doing my utmost all these years of exile to school myself to a frame of mind in which I might look upon her as unapproachable for me, now that I found an insurmountable barrier existed, not of my own raising, with the inconsistence of mankind, I straight rebelled against it. What a climax to every irony of fate! To find myself free, and she, whom I had so hopelessly loved, another's. Yet what did the priest mean when he said he had been trying to keep me from her? I looked across the room at his impassive face, and felt I would give much for five minutes alone with him. Then an explanation would be forthcoming in some shape.
From this coil I was aroused by the entrance of an officer to summon us into the presence of the General, and for the first time I considered my personal situation. Not that I had anything to fear, for, in those days, war was a profession, and an officer was treated as a gentleman by his opponent once active hostilities ceased, or were even suspended; but the consequence of my capture would certainly mean for me the loss of any advantage I might otherwise have gained from our success. Now my name would figure in no despatches, unless as “missing,” a bitter disappointment, when I had so slowly and painfully gained something of a position. But I had no time to reason it out before we had crossed the threshold of the General's room.
He was a clear-featured, bright-eyed man of thirty-five or forty, visibly harassed with the hard fortune of the day, but he did not allow his preoccupation to affect his bearing towards us.
“Reverend sir,” he said, addressing the priest, “I take it for granted you are a non-combatant, but as it has fallen to your lot to be brought within our lines, you must perforce remain a prisoner. If you will satisfy me as to your name and position, I shall judge if I can grant you the less galling restrictions of parole.”
I take it for granted you are a non-combatant.
The priest smiled. “I appreciate the reasonableness of the condition, your Excellency. My full name is Jean Marie Gaston de Caldeguès, Vicomte de Trincardel, but for years I have borne none other than 'le père Jean, missionary to the Indians.'”
“That is perfectly satisfactory, sir. I shall be pleased to allow you parole within the walls, only restricting you from approaching those parts of the town where our defences are now placed. I shall give you an order for quarters at the Ursulines, though doubtless the good ladies would readily receive you even without my introduction.” As he spake he accompanied the priest to the door, where he gave his instructions to an aide in waiting.
He then turned to me and extended his hand. “Chevalier, we have already had the pleasure of some slight correspondence.”
“I have to thank your Excellency for as great a courtesy as one man can shew towards another. When I wrote, I ventured to mention my acquaintance with your Excellency's brother, Lord Elibank, not that I relied on anything else than your Excellency's natural sensibility for the acceptance of my request, but that I might in that manner help to establish my identity.”
“Believe me, Chevalier,” he returned, with emphasis, “that was totally unnecessary. I was quite aware that you were in Canada. A man does not easily slip out of sight so long as he remains among his own class.”
“Your Excellency overwhelms me; such a recognition goes far to make up for the years of disappointment I have endured.”
“Then let us speak plainly, without further compliments on either side,” he said, smiling gravely.
“Nothing could please me better, your Excellency.”
“It will not even be necessary to keep up the 'Excellency.' I shall call you Kirkconnel, after the good homely Scots' fashion, if you have not forgotten.”
“Forgotten! That is one of the curses of my Scotch blood. I cannot forget!”
“Then there is hope for you yet, Kirkconnel! For you have something behind you worth remembering.”
“I cannot say it oppresses me with any great sense of obligation, for I would find some difficulty in naming it at the moment.”
“Tut, tut, man!” he exclaimed, heartily. “Don't tell me that a man who played his part as well as you in '45 need mourn over it.”
“We're getting out towards the thin ice now, are we not, General?”
“Not for me; though I dare say some members of my house might have to guard their steps more carefully. But to go on: you followed what you and your forbears held to be The Cause, and to which you held your honour pledged, and you saw it through to the bitter end. Then, instead of mixing yourself up in a miserable farrago of pot-house plots and chamber-mysteries which have only served to turn some honest men into rogues, you have acted like a soldier, and done only a soldier's work. And, best of all, you have succeeded. You have much that is worth remembering, Kirkconnel!”
“Your Excellency is most kind.”
“I prefer to be plain. Why not drop this whole business?”
“How can I? You would not urge me to come over because I happen to be a prisoner to-day? I may be exchanged to-morrow.”
“That you shall not, I'll answer for it! I have no intention to give M. de Lévis the assistance of even one more artillery officer, if I can help it. No, no! I shall keep you fast while I can, but 'tis only in the event of my holding the winning cards in this affair that I would urge you to send in your submission and take your place beside us, your natural comrades, where you belong. What chance of promotion, or even of recognition, will you run, if M. de Lévis has to leave Canada in our hands?”
“None whatever. I have never deceived myself for a moment on that point.”
“Then be sensible, and, like a sensible man, make a sensible move when the time comes!” he exclaimed, with the greatest good feeling.
“I am afraid I am too old a fool to be sensible at any time on such a subject. But I thank your Excellency from the bottom of my heart,” I returned, as warmly.
“Nonsense, man! I would not have spoken had I not been taken with you. But there! I am not a recruiting officer,” he said, with a laugh. “Think well over what I have said; I am not pressing for an answer.” Thereupon he turned the subject, and we fell into a conversation over the events of the past summer and winter. I answered such questions as I could in regard to our present position, for there was no advantage to be gained by undue concealment, and his consideration spared me any embarrassment.
When our interview ended he thanked me very handsomely, and regretted he could not offer me the hospitality of his own roof, but provided for me in the Ursulines, granting me the same parole as the priest.
“You will find among your countrymen an odd rebel here and there, Kirkconnel; but I rely on you to stir up no fresh treason with 'White Cockades,' or 'Bonnie Charlies,' or any other of the old shibboleths.”
“Have no anxieties on that score, your Excellency; I have had too rude an awakening ever to fall a-dreaming again. 'The burnt child.'” And I bowed, and left in company with the officer told off to see to my reception.
The General's unlooked-for sympathy had gone far to restore me to my natural bearing for the moment. It is flattering to any man to be received by his military superior as a social equal, and Heaven forbid that I should pretend to a susceptibility less than the ordinary. I was greatly pleased, therefore, by his recognition, and to my admiration of his soldierly qualities was now added a warm appreciation of his interest in me and my fortunes. But no personal gratification could long blind me to the misery of my real position. Chance, inclination, and, I think I may honestly add, principle, had kept my affections disengaged and, my heart whole, without any reasonable expectation of ever realising my life's desire, and now I had stumbled upon it, only to find it inexorably withheld from me, and every avenue to its attainment closed. Could I have gone on to the end without actually meeting with Margaret, I could have borne it with the silent endurance which had supported me so far, and had, in large measure, become a habit; but now every regret, every passionate longing, every haunting memory which time had lulled into seeming slumber, awoke to wring my heart at the very moment when I believed the bitterness to have passed forever.
The first to welcome me at the convent was my son Kit. Heavens! how tall and well-looking the boy had grown, and with what feeling did I take him in my arms. He returned my embrace with equal affection, and when we settled down, spake of his mother's death with much natural feeling.
Poor Lucy! She had had a narrow life of it with the exception of the year we had lived together. What a light-hearted, merry little soul she then was! She had no education in the general sense, but was possessed of so lively a sympathy that she entered into all that appealed to me with an enjoyment and an appreciation that no mere learning could have supplied. She may have lacked the bearing and carriage of a great lady, but what stateliness of manner can rival the pretty softnesses of a gentle girl wholly in love. She was not strictly beautiful, but she had the charm of constant liveliness, and her unfailing content and merriment more than made up for any irregularity in feature. This was the woman I had left, and I have already told what she was when I returned. It was not so much her nature that was at fault, poor thing! as the atrophy of soul resulting from an ungenerous form of religion.
I cannot but think it safer for both man and woman to continue in those religions which have received the sanction of authority, than take up with any new ventures, no matter what superior offers of salvation they may hold out. And the first step towards this dangerous ground I believe to be that pernicious habit of idle speculation on subjects too sacred for open discussion, which might well be left to their ordained guardians, and not to the curious guessings of simple and unsophisticated minds.
Kit had much information to give touching others in whom I was interested. Of Mme. de St. Just he spake, as I would have expected, with the warmest admiration and gratitude; but after he had informed me that she was an inmate of the same convent in which we were, I turned the conversation towards her brother, who, I learned, was wounded sufficiently to be under the surgeon's care, and was pleased to gather that Master Kit had made a respectable showing for himself in the rescue of his Captain. That Mademoiselle de Sarennes was much concerned in Nairn's condition I was glad to hear, as such an interest could not fail to be of service when she should learn of her brother's fate, of which I took care to make no mention, as I had no desire to figure as the bearer of what must, to her, prove painful tidings.
“Your Captain is fortunate to engage the sympathies of so fair an enemy,” was my only remark.
“Why, father, we do not look on them as enemies at all!” he returned, with the ingenuousness of his years.
“Look you here, Master Kit, I cannot have you calling me 'father'; it has altogether too responsible a sound, and I do not wish to begin and bring you to book for matters which may, later on, call for a parent's judgment. Call me 'Chevalier,' if you like, it is more companionable, and it is as comrades you and I must live, unless you wish to have me interfering with you in a manner you might naturally enough resent later on. I love you heartily my boy, and it is love, not authority, I wish to be the bond between us. What do you say yourself?”
“It can never be anything less than that, sir; you know how I was drawn to you that very first morning, when I entered your room in Wych Street; you were the finest gentleman I had ever seen.”
“Well, you have seen better since, Kit.”
“None better to me, sir.” And he added, hurriedly, as if to cover his emotion, “Will you come over to us, now that we are victorious?”
“Oh, Kit, Kit, you are a true Englishman! Victorious! Why, great Heavens! We beat you fifty times over, only to-day! Not that it will make any great matter in the long run, perhaps, for it is no question of a single battle for either Lévis or Murray, it is the arrival of the first ships which will decide this affair. Wait until they come up, and then it will be time enough to talk of victory.”
The lad's face fell. “I mean for ourselves,” he said, wistfully; “this can't go on with us on different sides.”
“That is a serious matter for the principals, no doubt, Kit; but we need not worry over it, for I am not likely to be exchanged, the way things now are.”
“But when it is decided?”
“Your way, Kit?”
“I meanifit is decided our way,” he corrected. “You will come back?”
“Come back to what? You forget I am still a proscribed rebel with a price on my head.”
“But that is long past.”
“So Dr. Archie Cameron thought, but they hanged him like a dog not so many years ago, and I do not know that he was deeper in the affair than I. That I am not a very ardent rebel, I will confess; but I have grown too old in rebellion to shift my character readily. Besides, I fancy I am more of a Frenchman than an Englishman, or even a Scotchman; and the worst of such a transmogrification is, that one grows used to it, and change becomes wellnigh impossible. But you have chosen wisely, my boy. I wouldn't have you different for the world!”
“It is not for myself I speak. I am thinking of you, sir.”
“God bless you, Kit! I would rather have those words from you than a free pardon. And now good-night, or rather, good-day. You have your duties before you, and I must get some sleep;” and I embraced the generous boy with a full heart.
The next afternoon I set out to look over the town and mark the effect of the English fire during the bombardment, and could not but admire how destructive it had been, nor withhold my approval of the efforts the garrison had put forth during the past winter to repair the results of their own handiwork.
As I wandered round the Cape I caught sight of le père Jean leaning against the parapet of la batterie du Clergé, gloomily surveying the dismal prospect of a river full of drifting ice and a desolate and half-frozen country beyond.
He turned as I approached, and greeted me with a return of the manner that was once habitual with him. “I was glad to hear you found friends last night, Chevalier.”
“Thank you, yes. I found friends both new and old,” I answered, glancing at him curiously.
But he had turned towards the river again, and waved his hand outward. “This is all emblematic of our fortress, I fear —dissolution,” he said, wearily.
“One might descant on the promise of spring and the renewal of hope, but in reality I gather as little from the prospect as you do,” I returned. And side by side we leaned over the parapet, and continued to indulge our cheerless speculations in silence.
“Chevalier,” said the priest, suddenly, but in his usual tone, and without changing his position, “perhaps I owe you a more formal apology than was possible last night; but when I found that Mademoiselle Nairn—”
“Mme. de St. Just,” I corrected.
“It is scarce worth while to keep up that fiction between us,” he said, as if waiving the most ordinary form in the world, and in some manner I checked the cry of astonishment that was on my lips, and remained silent while he continued. “When I found Mademoiselle Nairn in your company, I too hastily assumed that it was by design on your part.”
I was so bewildered by this unconscious revelation that I could make no reply; but, fortunately, he did not mark my agitation, and went on as though speaking to himself: “Right or wrong, I have been the means of keeping her from you thus far; and if I have sinned in so doing, I must bear the consequence.”
As he spake he turned and faced me, but by this I had recovered command of myself, and saw that his thin face was flushed and drawn with suffering. “Let me go on,” he said, with decision. “I owe an explanation to myself as well as to you.”
Just what he said I cannot clearly recall. The revelation he had made was so astounding, had so completely changed the whole complexion of my outlook, that my brain could scarce apprehend the import of his words. I only realised that Margaret was no longer beyond my reach. The rest mattered not one whit.
When he ceased speaking, I briefly exposed what had been my position throughout, without reserve or argument, leaving it to him to draw his own conclusion.
“Chevalier,” cried the priest, heartily, as I ended, “I feel that any apology would be frivolous in the face of what you have told me, but I can assure you no man was ever more satisfied to find himself in the wrong than I.”
“I take that as more than any apology,” I returned, as sincerely. “But to return to Sarennes. What use did he make of my letter?”
“He attempted such a use that the outcome of your meeting with him is fully justified.”
“It was justified as it was!” I objected. “I do not fight on trifles. Do you mean, he tried to persuade Margaret that it referred to her?”
“He did. And though I was enabled to save her from personal danger, I could do nothing to relieve the distress he had wrought by these means.”
“The hound! It would have been a satisfaction to have known this when I met him.”
“Remember, though, it is entirely owing to the loyalty of his mother and sister that her position here has been possible.”
“That is true; but I see as clearly, that her reception by them was only possible through your answering for her. I owe you everything.”
“You owe me much,” he said, quietly, as if to himself. And at the simple words of self-abnegation my heart ached at the thought of the pain I had involuntarily caused.
“I am sorry for any family that holds so black a sheep as Sarennes,” I said, to break the awkward pause that followed.
“His family need know nothing, beyond that he died on the field of battle, a much more desirable fate than he was likely to meet with in France, had he lived; for, believe me, information has gone forward that will insure the trial and, I trust, the punishment of every peculator who has helped to ruin this miserable colony, no matter which way the present crisis may turn.”
“Now that we have confidence in each other, may I ask why you never let me know of your presence in Canada?”
“To be frank, I had no desire to awaken old associations. So far as I knew the past was a book that had been read and done with. Nothing was to be gained by reopening it under the same conditions, and I had no reason to suppose they could be altered. Remember it is only now my eyes have been opened, and I see the error of my warped and ignorant judgment. We have travelled a long road, Chevalier, to meet in friendship, and I am glad we can so meet at last. I always regret when my feeling towards an honourable man cannot go beyond mere liking.”
“Gaston,” I cried, “I never received so handsome a compliment in all my life!”
I MAKE A FALSE MOVE
I can make no pretence to marshal the train of thought that swept through my brain when the priest took his way and left me to myself. Engrossed as I was with my own affairs, I could not but speculate on the curious chance that had driven him into a life of renunciation and me to one of exile at the same time and for the same cause, and that now brought us together before the woman we both loved. I use the word advisedly and without any reflection on his integrity; but it would be an insult to my intelligence could I look on his face, worn by suffering and emotion, and mark the tone of his voice, and, most confirmatory of all, the jealous care with which he avoided any mention of her name, and not acknowledge the presence there of the gentlest passion that ever refined the soul of man. He had found abundant opportunity for self-denial and sacrifice in the career he had chosen, but I doubted if he had found either peace or entire resignation. During his interview with General Murray, and especially during his familiar talk with me, I had caught a dozen reflections of his old bearing and manner, and I could not believe he had laid aside all human longings and emotions, however he might refuse to recognise them, when he doffed the outward habit of his class for the soutane and shovel hat of the Jesuit. It were childish to think so.
Thus occupied I sate heedless of the hours that went by, until chilled by the change of the day to evening. As I moved slowly towards my quarters, the only result of the hours of solitary thought that remained by me, was that Margaret was unmarried, and that she had come out to meet with me and for this alone.
That same evening I paid my respects to the Superior, la mère do la Nativité, a well-bred woman, who should have graced the world rather than a convent, and to her I proffered my request that I might be allowed to wait upon Mme. de St. Just.
“Most certainly, monsieur, if it be her desire. She is a guest to whom we owe much. If you will permit, I will send and inquire.”
In a few moments the sister sent returned with word that Mme. de St. Just would see the Chevalier de Maxwell at eleven the next morning.
“Very well, monsieur, you may then meet her here in the parlour,” added the Superior, pleasantly, and I bowed my thanks and withdrew.
I spent the night in great unrest, inventing imaginary difficulties when I overthrew those which really existed, picturing the expected interview in a thousand forms, framing and reframing every appeal I should make, and so wore out the night in a fever of consuming anticipation.
I was thankful I had been captured while on staff duty; for I had ever made it a practice to dress myself with the most scrupulous attention when going into action, so that death himself might not find me unprepared—and, thanks to this, I was now enabled to make a fitting appearance.
The feeling that I was outwardly prepared went far to reassure me, and when the time came for my meeting I had banished my uneasy apprehensions of the night, and recovered my habitual confidence. My sole anxiety was, lest I should fail in conveying an adequate impression of my appreciation of her sacrifice and undertaking for my sake, but when I saw her every doubting fled.
I do not know how she was dressed, beyond that it served but to heighten her queenly beauty; which, rare as I remembered it, had now grown and developed beyond all my faint conceptions. Her amber hair had deepened into the richest auburn, its colour was undisguised by powder, and its abundance undistorted by the art of the hair-dresser. Her eyes were steady, and clear, and truthful; every line of her face had rounded out the promise of her youth, and her shape and carriage were divine. She moved like a goddess.
“Margaret,” I said, as I advanced towards her, forgetting all the openings I had so carefully rehearsed, “I can scarce believe I am awake. It seems incredible I should speak face to face with you here.”
“It is indeed a strange meeting,” she returned. The words were nothing, but they were spoken in a tone of perfect quiet and control, without any trace of the emotion that broke my voice and dissipated my self-possession.
“It is a meeting for which I have dreamed, but tried not to hope,” I said, with much feeling.
“And I had lived for nothing else,” she returned, with unfaltering voice and the same absence of emotion.
“Then, Margaret, it has come at last!” I cried, joyously, the temporary cloud passing as she spake.
“No, it has not!” she said, with the coldest decision, and, with that incongruity of thought which springs upon us at the most inopportune moments, I wondered if every woman for whom I cared was to change her whole nature, the moment I left her side. I remembered Lucy, and now here was Margaret, whom I had known as the embodiment of impulsive affection, fencing with a coolness that enforced my admiration. I saw she had fully prepared herself, and instantly I resolved to change my ground.
“Margaret,” I said, falling back on the most unstudied tones at my command, “it was only yesterday I learned from Gaston the true reason of your presence here. We have both suffered too cruelly from the accidents of the past to risk any misunderstanding now for the want of perfect openness between us.”
“That is what I desire above all things in the world,” she answered.
“Then let us begin at the beginning. Why was it you never let me know of your plan?”
“I do not hold that any explanation is due on my part,” she replied, still in the same tone of self-possession. “Remember I did not seek this interview, and I do not see that you have any right to question me on matters which concern only myself.”
“Great heavens; Margaret! Can anything concern you and not touch me?”
“Once I believed it could not. I am older now.”
“How can you speak thus coldly?” I cried, shocked at her incredible calm. “If there is anything I can do or say, for Heaven's sake, demand it. You cannot know what torture it is for me to see you like this. I have dreamed of you, longed for you, despaired of you through all these years, and I have a right to a different treatment. Is it on account of Lucy?”
“Partly,” she answered, somewhat moved. “Why did you never tell me of her?”
“How could I?”
“There was nothing dishonourable about it.”
“A thing does not need to be dishonourable to be ruinous. The dishonour would have been in my speaking when I was pledged to silence.”
“Was it more honourable, think you, to allow a young girl to live in a world of mock affection, and to expose her to what I have gone through?”
“But did I ever by word or sign make the slightest move to engage your affections, after I discovered the truth?”
“Pardon me, if I say that question could only serve to embarrass a child. I will answer it by another. Does a man need to speak to declare his love?”
“No, by heavens, he does not, Margaret!” I cried, throwing all defence to the winds. “It speaks in every tone of his voice, in every glance of his eye, and I would be a hypocrite beneath contempt were I to pretend I did not always love you. I loved you from the moment I first saw you, a girl, before Temple Bar, and I will love you, God help me, till I die!”
“If this be the case, then, had I not a higher claim on you than any woman living? Were you not bound to protect me against my ignorance of such a barrier?”
“Absence, and I had hoped forgetfulness, would prove your best protection,” I replied, with happy inspiration.
“The implication is skilful,” she said, quietly, without a trace of the emotion I expected from my allusion, “but no mistake on my part can serve to lessen your want of good faith towards me. Do you think a woman would have considered any point of personal honour where the life of one dearest to her hung on her sacrifice?”
“It is quite beyond my poor powers to judge of what a woman might do.” I replied, with a sudden rash indiscretion. “I find I have but little knowledge of women or the motives which sway them.”
“Then there is but little to be gained by continuing this conversation,” she returned, with a stately bow, and swept out of the room, leaving me to curse the folly that had betrayed me into so false a move. And with this bitter morsel for reflection I sought my solitary room.
Nothing in the world, short of actual dishonour, can cause a man of sensibility keener suffering than the knowledge that he has made a fool of himself. This I had done to the top of my bent. Why had I not apprehended the effective point of attack from the outset, and, instead of attempting any defence, thrown myself on her compassion and generosity? Why had I not...? But it were futile to reiterate the charges I brought against my own folly.
What was the support on which she relied? If her brother—then I regretted from the bottom of my heart I had missed the occasion of squaring that account of which he had spoken. If a man at all, it was he; for the woman who had so discomfited me was heart-whole I could swear; a defiant modesty rang in every note of her voice. Possibly the convent, that fallacious sanctuary for disappointment. But if I knew anything of her sex, she was the last to whom such a retreat could bring satisfaction. Heavens! It was a coil involved enough to drive a man wellnigh distracted.
Dinner, and the intercourse it entailed, did much to restore me to my ordinary bearing, and when Kit sought me in the afternoon, with a polite request from his Captain that I would wait upon him when at leisure, I had quite recovered. Nothing could have fallen out more to my liking; I was anxious to discover his cause of quarrel with me, and, if possible, to arrive at some solution of Margaret's attitude. So I followed Kit to his room at once.
Nairn I found a trifle pale, with a well-bandaged head, but his welcome was open and unconstrained, and his greeting met me at the threshold. As I advanced to return it, I caught the flutter of a dress out of the opposite door, which informed me that his sufferings were not without certain consolations.
I took the hand extended to me with the same heartiness as it was offered.
“Will you accept a broken man's apology for a whole man's insult, Chevalier? I have promised my sister that I would make you this reparation, and I am heartily glad we can return to our old footing of Louisbourg.”
“Readily, Nairn. I have seen your sister this morning, and I cannot blame your action. I might have done the same myself. Let us say no more about it.”
“With all my heart! Well, Chevalier, the fortune of war has reversed our personal positions from Louisbourg, but I do not see that the end is much more certain now than then.”
“Much the same,” I answered; “the result altogether depends on the first ships.”
“And I suppose you abide by it as before?”
“I must, Nairn. We need not reopen that subject.”
“I only mention it, because I am anxious about the future of your boy, Christopher. I congratulate you on finding such a son. Will you understand me, if I say I trust you have not thought of influencing him to leave our service, though I could not blame you wishing him beside you.”
“Nairn, I owe you my thanks for having broached the subject. I have been too dependent on my own exertions all my life to make me a good beggar, even for my son. When in Louisbourg you expressed yourself as under some obligation towards me. Will you discharge it by using your best endeavours for his advancement? He is too good metal to waste as a common soldier.”
“He is that! And if you allow him to remain, I pledge my word he shall not continue as such. It may sound presumptions in a mere captain to promise so confidently, but if we come out of this successfully, promotions will follow. He has been most favourably marked by the General, and also by our Colonel.”
“Let me see; he is a son of old Lovat, is he not?”
“That he is, and in more ways than one.”
“If he be like his sainted father, he will have a longer memory for his own interests than those of his friends.”
“This is rank treason, Chevalier. I won't listen to another word of it,” said Nairn, laughing. “But I am depending on the General, he never forgets any one, I can tell you, too,” he added, eagerly, “he is a stickler for birth, and he will appreciate the fact of Christopher being your son.”
“That is a rare advantage!” I said, banteringly.
“Of course it is! Would you not value a good horse the more if you knew his pedigree?” he answered, without the ghost of a smile.
“Oh, come, come, Nairn! You must not attempt flattery, it has too overwhelming an effect. But, tell me—in what manner did you meet with your sister again?” I ventured boldly, knowing there was nothing to be gained by a subtler policy with him.
“Simple enough. She was in the General Hospital when I was placed in command there, and very pleased I was to find her,” he answered, as though the meeting were the most ordinary affair in the world, his tone clearly indicating that he had concluded the matter, and did not intend to reopen it.
“I should apologise for having frightened her away as I came in,” I continued, feeling for another opening; but he feigned ignorance of my move, and explained in the most natural manner—“Oh, that was not my sister, but a very good friend of hers, to whom we are both indebted for many kindnesses.”
“Ah, that is much. I trust she appreciates your gratitude in your allowing her to nurse you?”
“Not at all; I do not think she looks upon it in that way. I believe there are some women who love the bother of looking after you. I try to give her as little trouble as I can,” he ended, with a catch in his voice.
“Nairn, you are a gentleman! Forgive my humbugging.”
“I didn't know you were, or I shouldn't have been so simple as to answer you. Do you know, I've often wished I could tell when a man is in earnest. I'm no good at guessing what his intent may be unless he has a sword in his hand; and as for a woman, I can never tell at all.”
“You're no worse off than the best of us, in that respect, Nairn. Some day I trust some good woman will engage you in dead earnest, and then the quicker you surrender at discretion the better. And for your sake, I hope the day will come soon.”
“I don't know, I'm sure,” he answered, in so woe-begone a tone that I left him, convinced his enemy had already been making serious advances, and that his defence was likely to be as feeble as his most ardent well-wisher could desire.
I discovered my ex-Jacobite sergeant to be as matter-of-fact as his captain. He would discuss military matters freely enough, but on the subject of our night's adventure I could not get him to advance a word.Exempli gratia“Neil, how is the officer you assisted on the field the other night?”
“Indeed, Captain, you must go away in and ask for yourself.”
“You are not uneasy as to his hurt proving dangerous?”
“Not half as dangerous as undigested catechising, sir, saving your presence, and meaning no offence.”
And in the face of so diplomatic a rebuke I would abandon the subject and fall back on the safer ground of mines and countermines, carcasses and grenadoes.