ROGER THE RANGER

“HE THREW THE WHOLE WEIGHT OF HIS BODY UPON ME AND STRUCK ME DOWN.”

ROGER THE RANGER

A STORY OF BORDER LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS

BY

E. F. POLLARD

AUTHOR OF “THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS,” “TRUE UNTO DEATH,” ETC.

Publishers

PARTRIDGE

London

MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN

CONTENTS

ROGER THE RANGER:
A Story of Border Life among the Indians
CHAPTER I
ESAU

“It is of no use, Father Nat; we have gone over the same ground again and again. I shall never settle down as a New England farmer, and there are other reasons why I should go forth from among you. Mother, you have Marcus; he will stand you in good stead: he has almost reached man’s estate, and he is old for his years; he will be a better son to you than I have ever been. Don’t, Loïs, my darling;” and the speaker, a tall, handsome man of four- or five-and-twenty, in the picturesque dress of the New England hunter, sought to unclasp from round his neck the clinging hands of a young girl, down whose face the tears were flowing fast.

“You are my firstborn, and like Esau you are selling your birthright, and surely even as he did you will lose the blessing,” exclaimed his mother, wringing her hands.

Martha Langlade was still a handsome woman, not yet fifty years of age, her brow unwrinkled, no silver thread visible in the bands of her soft brown hair, smoothed back under a snowy cap, round which was tied a broad black ribbon, token of her widowhood.

“Then even as Esau I shall be a great hunter before the Lord,” answered her son. “I am not leaving you comfortless, mother; you have the children and Loïs and Marcus;” and turning towards a youth standing beside Martha, he held out his hand to him, saying, “Marcus, you must take my place.”

“I am too young, Charles; think better of it and stay with us,” he replied.

The young man’s features worked; there was a moment’s hesitation, then he shook his head, stooped and kissed again his sister’s upturned face, and, pushing her gently towards a grey-headed man who had stood a silent spectator of the scene, said huskily,—

“Take care of her, take care of them all, Father Nat.”

“A man has no right to shift his burdens upon other men’s shoulders. You will live to rue this day, Charles Langlade,” was the stern answer.

“I trust not,” said the young man; “but this I know, go forth I must! Farewell, mother; farewell, Father Nat; farewell, all of you. If troubles threaten you I will come to your aid. Farewell;” and turning away, he strode rapidly across the greensward in front of the house, bounded over the paling, and, dashing down the hill-side, entered the forest, and so disappeared. As they lost sight of the tall lithe figure, fully accoutred in his hunting garb, his blanket rolled round him, his gun and ammunition slung across his shoulders, Martha and the two little girls who were clinging to her wept aloud.

“Don’t, mother dear,” said Loïs, throwing one arm round Martha’s neck and kissing her.

“Ah, Loïs, I never thought he’d do it—never! It is your poor father’s fault, taking the lads amongst the heathen. I told him no good would come of it,” and her sobs redoubled.

Father Nat had kept silence since his last words to Charles Langlade; he seemed oppressed with a weight of care. He had never really believed in the oft-threatened desertion, and now the blow had fallen he was for the time stunned; but he roused himself, gave vent to a long deep sigh, then, laying his hand kindly on Martha’s arm, said,—

“It’s no use fretting; what is to be will be. Come, mother, be brave. Don’t ye grieve over much; remember the little ones. We’ve done all we could to hold him back. It seems almost as if the Spirit constrained him. And ye know it is not well to fight against the will of God.”

“The will of God!” exclaimed Martha angrily, wiping her eyes and checking her sobs. “Call it rather the machinations of the Evil One! How can you dare say it is the will of God that a son of mine, my eldest born, should choose to go and live amongst those cannibals, forsaking his father’s house and taking to himself a wife from amongst the idolaters? I never thought to hear you say such a thing, Father Nat! I’m minded you’ll think differently when your Roger goes off after him.”

“My Roger will never do that,” said Father Nat. “I know the two lads love each other dearly—it’s in the blood—as I loved your husband, and as it has ever been from generation to generation, since the first Charles Langlade saved the life of a Roger Boscowen from the Red Indians, and the two joining hands established themselves together on this then waste land.”

“That proves what I say,” answered Martha doggedly; “or would you sooner see our homesteads burnt and ruin threatening us? Have you forgotten the prophecy of the Indian woman, the first who died under the shelter of your ancestor’s roof? ‘When Langlade and Boscowen part, then shall the land be riven.’”

“Nay, nay,” said Nathaniel uneasily. “The lads will love each other still, though they be parted; but Roger will never do as Charles has done—he will never bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. He is my only son.”

“Tut, tut! What is to prevent him, if, as you say of Charles, it should happen to be the ‘will of God’?”

She spoke bitterly—such an unusual thing for Martha that Father Nat looked at her with surprise, and Loïs exclaimed,—

“Oh, mother! surely you do not mean it!” and the girl’s fair face flushed and her lips quivered.

“I mean no harm,” said Martha; “but what more natural? They’ve been like brothers all their lives.”

“But because Charles has gone astray there is no need for Roger to do the same,” said Loïs gently. “It was not kindly spoken, mother, and yet I know you love Roger dearly.”

“Ay, surely she does,” said Nat; “who better, save myself, and his dead mother? Come, Martha woman, shake hands; we be too old friends to quarrel! Making my heart sore will not heal yours.”

“Forgive me, Nat,” said Martha, bursting into tears. “You are right, my heart is very sore. He was such a bonnie boy; and to think I’ve lost him, for truly it is worse than if he were dead!”

“Nay, nay,” answered Father Nat; “while there is life there is hope. Cheer up, mother; who knows? he may come back to us a better and a wiser man.”

“God grant it!” said Martha tearfully, her eyes turning wistfully towards the dark forest, which seemed to have swallowed up her son.

“You’d best come and have supper with me, Martha,” said Father Nat. “It’s near upon eight o’clock,” and he looked at the sky, crimson with the glow of the setting sun. On one side lay the dark forest, and far away the long line of hills encompassing the valley; a broad shining river flashed like a line of silver through the plain, where nestled the two villages of East and West Marsh. On the slope of a hill-side overlooking the whole country stood two houses, built exactly alike, separated from each other originally by a light garden fence, which in the course of years had changed into a thick shrubbery. The “Marshwoods” they were called, and had been so named by the first Langlade and Boscowen who had penetrated with a few followers across the borderland of New England, far away from human habitations, and had struck root on this virgin soil. No one had disputed the land with them, save the Red Indian. Log huts had given place in time to these two homesteads, in front of one of which the scene we have just described had taken place.

Built of the great trees hewn down in the primeval forest, neither storm nor tempest had done them injury. Time had rather beautified than marred their outward seeming. The shingled roofs were thickly overgrown with greeny yellow lichen; the woodwork of the dormer windows, carved balconies, and deep projecting porches had grown dark with age, thus showing off to greater advantage the wealth of creepers which clambered in luxurious profusion from basement to roof. Great clusters of purple and white clematis mingled with the crimson flowers of the dark-leaved pomegranate. Over the porches, stretching up to the casement windows, as if courting soft maiden hands to gather them, clusters of white and pink roses vied with each other in perfume and beauty.

Both houses were so exactly alike! The same spirit seemed to have devised, the same hand to have carried out the work, and yet the founders were of a different people and a different race.

The Langlades were descended from a certain Chevalier de Langlade who had fought in the great wars under Turenne, and when the armies were disbanded the then French Minister, Colbert, had bestowed upon his regiment, as a reward for its services, all the lands lying on the shores of the great Lake of St. Lawrence—“Canada,” as the Indians called it; “New France,” the colonists baptised it, when as far back as 1535 a French explorer, Jacques Cartier, ascended the St. Lawrence.

In 1608 the brave and tender-hearted Samuel Champlain laid the foundations of the City of Quebec, standing proudly on her rock overlooking land and sea. France was then virtually mistress of North America, from Hudson’s Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, by right of precedence. Therefore these warriors, when they landed on the shores of the St. Lawrence, felt that they were not wholly aliens from their beloved country, for which they had fought and bled. Ceasing to be soldiers, they became great hunters. Most of them belonged to the Reformed Church, and though Henry IV. had renounced his faith to become King of France, he so far favoured his former co-religionists as to decree that New France was to welcome the Calvinists, and that they were to be allowed to worship after their own fashion; but Cardinal Richelieu, who by the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes drove the Huguenots out of France, thus depriving her of the most industrious of her population, extended his spirit of intolerance even to New France, and decreed that the Calvinistic worship was no longer to be tolerated there. The result was that many influential families left Canada, seeking a new home. Amongst these was a Charles Langlade, with the young wife he had but lately wedded. It was a perfect exodus, for he was much beloved and had many followers. They went south, past the great Lake Champlain, into the dense forests of the west. The Indians swarmed along their path, and daily, hourly, the exiles were exposed to the danger of the tomahawks of the savages.

One memorable day the French Canadians suddenly came upon a group of Englishmen defending themselves as best they could against an overwhelming number of redskins. Charles Langlade fired, at what proved to be the Indian chief, as with raised arm he was in the act of bringing his tomahawk down on the head of a tall, largely built man, whose rugged features and great strength marked him out from his companions. This man was Roger Boscowen. Their chief slain, the Indians fled. Then Charles Langlade and Roger Boscowen, who had thus seemingly met by chance, joined hands, and a great and strong affection grew up between them, so that they cast in their lots together. Roger Boscowen had but lately landed upon the shores of New England; he too had left his Lincolnshire fens, with other well-to-do, God-fearing yeomen, for conscience’ sake, to find a country where they might glorify God. They were not “broken men,”—adventurers or criminals driven from their fatherland by earthly want,—but men who were constrained by their fear of God and their zeal for godly worship.

They had no dreams of gold-fields, but were resolute and industrious, quiet and stern, recognising from the first that nothing was to be expected from the land but by labour. So the representatives of the two races united, and marched onward together along the wavy line of the New England border, until they reached a spot which seemed to possess all the most essential qualifications for a new colony. Forest land, deep hills and dales, pastures sloping down to a broad shining river which watered all the land, lay stretched out before them; and here they pitched their tents, and in time multiplied and prospered, upholding from generation to generation the characteristics of their Puritan and Huguenot forefathers—namely, piety and simplicity of life. The “Marshes” had become one of the largest and most prosperous of the border settlements.

Thus it was that the Langlades and Boscowens were alike proud of their descent, and strove ever to prove themselves worthy in all things of those who had gone before and were called “Fathers of the land.”

That an eldest son should have gone astray and have forsaken his ancestral home was therefore a bitter sorrow. Alpha and Omega had been added to the name of Marshwood to distinguish the homesteads. The Langlades owned Alpha, the Boscowens Omega. As son succeeded father the tie which bound the heads of the two houses together was never once broken; no word of dissension ever arose between them. Younger sons and daughters went forth into the busy world; some were lost sight of, others returned from time to time with a curious longing to see once more the home of their race, and were made welcome and treated hospitably; but, up to the present time, the eldest son of either branch had never deserted his post.

The present generation was less fortunate in their domestic relations than their predecessors. Nathaniel Boscowen lost his wife when his only son Roger was still a child, and Louis Langlade died in the prime of life from an accident he met with while hunting. With his dying breath he commended his wife and children to the care of his life-long companion and friend Nathaniel, who became forthwith “Father Nat,” not only in the settlement, but amongst the Indians, who came to barter the skins of wild beasts for English goods. He was still a man in the prime of life, and he strove nobly to fulfil his charge; but Louis Langlade himself had early inspired his son and Roger with a love for hunting and the wild Indian life, and after a time Nat found it impossible to exercise any control over Charles. He would disappear for days together, and at last announced his intention of dwelling entirely with the Indians and taking a wife from amongst them.

Up to the very last no one believed he would really carry out the threat, and when he did the blow, as we have seen, fell heavily upon them all.

In answer to Father Nat’s invitation to supper, Martha said,—

“Yes, I shall be glad to come; at least I shall not see his empty chair at my own table. Come, children; we will go and see after the men’s supper, and then betake ourselves to Omega Marsh.”

Marcus followed his mother, and so Nathaniel and Loïs were left standing alone in the porch. For a time they both kept silence; suddenly Father Nat asked,—

“Do you know where Roger is, Loïs? He has been absent since dawn.”

“No, I do not,” she answered. “But he will come home; have no fear, Father Nat,” and she turned her young face towards him, bright, notwithstanding the shadow resting on lips and brow. She was barely eighteen, tall and slim, but with those delicately rounded limbs which denote perfect health and strength; her features were regular, her large grey eyes fringed with long lashes, the tips of which curling up caught the sunlight, even as did the rich golden hair which, waving back behind the small ears, fell in two long thick plaits below her waist. She, like her mother, wore a black gown, a large white bibbed apron, and sleeves turned back to the elbow, with facings of linen, scarcely whiter than the rounded arms thus exposed to view.

“I believe he will,” said Father Nat, in answer to her assertion; “but he will never be content, never be satisfied again.”

“We will trust he may, in time,” answered Loïs. “Why look ahead, dear Father Nat?”

“You are right, lass. ‘Sufficient unto the day.’ There’s the gong for supper; come, the mother will follow.”

Even as he spoke Martha and her children joined them, and together they passed through the wicket gate which alone separated the two gardens.

The meal was, according to the good old custom, taken in common, masters and servants sitting at the same board. When the master entered the great kitchen, some ten or twelve men and women employed on the home farm were standing about in groups awaiting Nat’s appearance, and naturally discussing the great event of the day. Doffing his broad wideawake, he bade them “Good-evening,” as did also Martha and her children. The salutation was heartily returned, and then he took his place at the head of the long table, upon which great joints of cold viands and huge pasties were already exciting the appetites of those about to partake thereof. When they were all gathered round the board, Father Nat raised his hand to enforce silence, and in a solemn voice called upon God to bless the fruits of the earth. When he had finished his prayer, before uttering the usual “Amen” he paused; evidently some strong emotion checked his power of speech, but all present felt he had something more to say, and waited respectfully.

“My friends,” he said at last, with a slight quiver in his manly voice, “you all know that one we love has gone out from amongst us, to our great sorrow. I commend him to your prayers. May the God of his fathers watch over him, and guide his footsteps in the right way. Amen.”

“Amen,” repeated all present, and then they seated themselves and the meal began, but not gaily as usual, the cloud which rested on the master overshadowing them all.

CHAPTER II
PARTED

The sun was setting, and the rays of crimson light tinged the topmost branches of the forest trees, but scarcely could be said to penetrate through the closely interlaced branches. The long grass and thick undergrowth made walking difficult, whilst the tightly entwined boughs of the trees formed a thick, leafy canopy, perfectly impenetrable, added to which parasitic plants twined up the huge trunks in luxuriant wildness.

After he had, so to speak, fled from his home and his people, Charles Langlade walked straight before him through the forest. He was a handsome man, his mouth firm set, his nose rather large, and his chin prominent, cleft in the middle. His eyes were grey, like those of his sister Loïs, and his eyebrows marked. He wore, what was unusual among the hunters, his hair rather long. Altogether his appearance was remarkable; there was something about him which reminded one of the heroes of old, knights and crusaders. Suddenly he stopped, and passed his hand across his brow as if trying to remember.

“It has unnerved me,” he said aloud. “I shall lose my way if I don’t take care.”

As he spoke he stretched out his hand, and, passing it lightly over the trunk of the nearest tree, knew instantly by the feel of the bark the direction he was in, whether north or south, east or west. Satisfied, he strode forward, stopping from time to time to make sure he was on the right track.

This following a trail is perfectly simple to the Indian and the Canadian hunter. They read every mark and sign in the wood as clearly as if they were written; the moss, the lichen, tell their tale. No foot-print, however light, can escape their notice; they know whether it be a white or red man’s foot, whether it be of to-day or yesterday.

It was thus with Charles Langlade. He walked unhesitatingly through the darkness, until suddenly the forest came to an end, and he found himself standing on an elevated plain overgrown with a sort of heather, sloping gradually down to a river which flowed at its base. The moon had risen and was shining with a clear light over the country, making visible the long line of distant hills and the silvery stream, running low down through the land. He waited a few seconds considering; then he gave a long, low whistle. Immediately he was answered in the same way, and at some little distance a figure rose from out of a clump of bushes and advanced quickly towards him.

The individual was a man taller even than Charles, and in every way of larger build, his clothes being of the same fashion. The two men clasped hands when they met, and Charles said,—

“I’ve kept you waiting, old fellow.”

“You’ve had a bad time of it, I expect,” said Roger Boscowen. “Is it really over, and for good?”

“Yes, indeed,” answered Charles, “and none too soon. I nearly gave in when Loïs put her arms round my neck and entreated me to remain. I should not care to go through that ordeal every day,” and he heaved a sigh. Even whilst speaking they had both unfastened the skins and blankets they carried, and, throwing them on the ground, lay down full length and rolled themselves in them.

“The chiefs will not be here till dawn,” said Charles; “we shall have a long last night together, friend.”

“Not long enough for all we have to say to each other,” answered Roger sadly.

Charles Langlade turned his face towards him and stretched out his hand; Roger laid his in it, and with only the pale light of the moon and stars shining down upon them, they looked steadily into each other’s eyes. Two finer specimens of early manhood it would have been difficult to find; they both came of races who for generations had lived sober, healthy lives, fearing God, and, as far as in them lay, keeping His commandments.

Living hard lives, and frequently sleeping out in the open air, had made these two young men vigorous and powerful beyond even what might have been expected.

After a somewhat lengthened silence, Charles said gently,—

“We shall remain friends, Roger, for ever and for ever; my going will make no difference between us?”

“How can you imagine that should be possible?” answered Roger sombrely. “You are going where I neither can nor will follow you. When the sun rises to-morrow morning we shall bid each other farewell; you will go your way, I shall go mine, and in all probability we shall not meet again, except it be as enemies in the fray.”

“Let us hope not that,” answered Charles, with a touch of sadness in his voice; “and yet it is this pending conflict which must break out before long which has in a great measure constrained me to take my present step. I cannot bear arms against France; I hold they have the right of precedence in Canada.”

“What is that to you ?” said Roger harshly. “You have been born under British rule; if need be, it is your duty to fight for England, to protect your home against the invader. That is all we ask you to do.”

Charles Langlade shook his head.

“You know as well as I do, Roger, that before long there will be a great and mighty struggle between France and England; it is no fault of mine, but I honestly tell you that all my instincts, all my feelings, are with the Canadians. I believe they will defend the colony to their very uttermost; and if only France send them help, they will probably be successful.”

“Why then do you not join the Canadians openly, instead of allying yourself to the Indians who are devoted to the French interests?” said Roger.

“Because I will not give up my liberty,” answered Charles. “By remaining with the Indians, and becoming probably in time a chief amongst them, I am free. I trust to attain great influence in their councils, and perhaps prevent much cruelty. If I offered myself for service to the present Government of Canada, I should have to wink at much of which I disapprove. Peculation and robbery are the order of the day. Vaudreuil is a fool, and Bigot, his Controller of Finance, a knave. No, thank you; I prefer my savage chiefs to such civilised rascals. You know I went to both Quebec and Montreal to see for myself how matters stood, and I came away disgusted. If France loses Canada, it will be through the incapacity of the men she has placed at the helm.”

“And you will marry Ominipeg’s daughter?” said Roger.

“Yes, such is my intention,” answered Charles. “The Indian maiden is gentle and possessed of all good instincts, and she loves me. She will become a Christian, and I shall wed her. She knows no will but mine; surely she will make me happier than any other girl, who might worry me with her humours. I know all you have to say against it—the fate of the children who may be born to me; but that is a matter for after consideration.”

“I have done,” said Roger, and he threw himself back on the ground with a gesture of despair.

“Nay, but, Roger, we shall not be wholly parted; you will come out to my wigwam in the hunting season, and we shall be together. You are no stranger to the tribe I am about to join; you will be always welcome.”

“Not if war break out and we are on opposite sides,” said Roger.

“Listen,” said Charles; “I have something to tell you, which I will confide only to you,” and drawing closer still he whispered into Roger’s ear, and for a time they conversed in low voices together.

“Wrong can never be right,” said the latter at last. “The Indians are a treacherous race. If you offend them, mark my word, they will be revenged. Now let us sleep; it will soon be morning;” and side by side, with their hands clasped in each other’s, as they were wont to lie when boys, they fell asleep.

The day was just dawning, and the soft hazy light of early morn was creeping over the land, when suddenly and simultaneously they awoke. They cast one questioning look at each other, and sprang to their feet.

Paddling slowly down the river which ran below were some fifty canoes, filled with Indians in their most gorgeous array, uttering, as they moved slowly on, loud cries of delight, and gesticulating wildly.

“They have come for me,” said Charles, his voice quivering with the multitude of his emotions.

Do we ever take a decisive step in life without a momentary hesitation—a backward glance of regret at the past we are leaving behind, and an instinctive fear of the unknown future?

Roger saw it, and a wild hope flashed through his heart. “There is yet time to hold back!” he said, in a low, eager voice, laying his hand on his friend’s arm, as if to detain him.

“Nay,” answered Charles, throwing back his head. “I have passed my word and I will not now draw back. Farewell.” He wrung Roger’s hand; then, drawing himself up to his full height, he repeated the Indians’ cry, and, bounding down the slope, stood at the river’s edge in full view of the canoes, which stopped paddling, the Indians in them showing signs of satisfaction at the sight of their new ally.

Two canoes came close up to the bank. In the first stood a chief, more gorgeously arrayed than his fellows, with ceremonial paint, scalp locks, eagle plumes, and armed with steel hatchet and stone war-club. He stretched out his hand to Charles, who immediately entered his canoe, renewed shouts from the Indians making him welcome.

And Roger, standing where his friend had left him, with his arms folded, saw Charles, as he stood beside the chief, look up at him and wave his cap in token of farewell, as his frail bark, taking the lead, was paddled down the stream, the others following in compact order.

Roger never moved until the last of the crews had disappeared and silence had once more fallen on the land; then he threw himself down on the spot where they had passed the night together, and, strong, brave man though he was, wept bitterly for the friend who had departed from him.

CHAPTER III
BAD NEWS

“Well, Loïs, I think it’s pretty nearly time Roger was back amongst us; he’s been gone over two months,” said Father Nat, standing beside Loïs, as she sat on the broad window-seat, a large basket of household linen beside her, which she was carefully sorting and arranging. She and her mother managed Father Nat’s household matters as well as their own, whilst he looked after the outdoor work of the two farms. Virtually they really formed but one community: all their interests were in common; but they maintained their separate establishments. Nokomis, a coloured woman, ruled in the kitchen of Omega Marsh, and in her department suffered no interference; but the linen was Loïs’ care: twice every week she spent the whole day putting it in order. When Father Nat made the above remark, she paused in what she was doing and said,—

“Two months, Father Nat! It is ten weeks since he started for Oswega.”

“Ten weeks, is it?” answered Nat. “He ought to be back, Loïs;” and turning away from her, he looked steadily out of the window.

“Yes, he ought,” she answered; “I understood he had left Oswega a month ago?”

“So he did,” answered Nat; “he went with some other traders to Miamis, you know—the village of Old Britain.”

“He’s safe there,” said Loïs. “I thought you always said Old Britain was a fast friend of the English?”

“So he is, but the French don’t half like it; they are always trying to get him on their side. But what with presents and selling our goods dirt cheap, we’ve managed somehow to keep him and his tribe satisfied; but I expect every day to hear the French have either bought him over or destroyed and plundered the village.”

“I believe you’ve heard something already,” said Loïs, and she went and stood beside him. “What is it, Father Nat?” she asked anxiously.

He did not answer immediately. At last, in a hurried voice, he said,—

“There is a rumour, but it may be false. I don’t want to give heed to it.”

“What is it?” repeated Loïs. “Tell me quickly, Father Nat,” and in her excitement she laid her hand on his arm.

“The news has come,” said Nathaniel slowly, “that a fleet of canoes manned by two hundred and fifty Ottawa and Ogibwa warriors have paddled down the lakes from Green Bay and so up the Maumee, and when last heard of they were marching through the forests against the Miamis.

“This news is three weeks old. If it be true, they will have surprised Old Britain and made short work of him, for you know most of the men of the tribe are away at this time for the summer hunting; only the old men, squaws, and children remain in the village. Roger, as I said, was going there with other traders; it strikes me if all had gone well he would have been home by this time.”

“Do you know anything else?” asked Loïs, and the very way in which she put the question was proof that she expected something more.

Nathaniel hesitated.

“Hush, do not say it,” she said, throwing back her head, whilst tears filled her eyes. “Charles was at Green Bay when last we heard of him,” and she wrung her hands.

“It is of no use, Loïs; we must make up our minds to it,” said Father Nat with a sigh. “He has passed away from us; he is gone over to the enemy, and in the war which is threatening us his hand will be against his own home and against his own people. I have heard that in the two years he has dwelt amongst them he has become a great man with the Indians; and the French hold him also in much esteem, partly because of his influence with the tribes, partly on account of his knowledge of Indian warfare and his forest lore. It is certain that an expedition did start from Green Bay commanded by a white man; they stopped at the fort at Detroit; but whether the white man was Charles, and whether they pushed on as far as Old Britain’s, we do not know.”

Loïs had listened in silence, with bowed head. Suddenly she looked up, a light in her eyes.

“Father,” she said, “Charles would defend Roger with his own life; he would never suffer any one to touch a hair of his head.”

“If he happened to come across him! But with two hundred devils rushing into a half-deserted village, ten chances to one they would never meet; they would have scalped him before Charles came up. Besides, he could not restrain them. I know too well what Indians are like when they have once tasted blood. And to think that a Langlade should consort with such devils! There is little doubt, Loïs, if Old Britain has been attacked, and Roger happened to be there, as I am pretty sure he was, I shall never see my son again,—and he is my only son!”

“Father, I am here.”

Nathaniel and Loïs turned sharply round, the latter with a faint cry, and there, leaning against the wall close by the door, stood Roger. He could move no farther. His clothes were torn almost to rags, one arm was in a sling, his head was bandaged, his face colourless; but worse than all was the look of despair in his eyes. Loïs crossed the room rapidly, and, pushing a chair towards him, said,—

“Sit down, Roger.”

Mechanically he obeyed, and from his parched lips came in a hard guttural voice the one word, “Water.”

Loïs hastened away, and Nathaniel, laying his hand on his son’s shoulder, said with ill-disguised emotion,—

“Thank God you’re back, lad; but you’ve had a hard time of it.”

Roger made no answer; he merely bowed his head, and, taking from Loïs the bowl she now offered him, drained it at one draught.

“Fetch your mother,” said Nat, and once more the girl disappeared. “Now, Roger, cheer up, lad,” he continued. “When Martha has looked at your wounds, go straight away upstairs and sleep it off. Don’t try to tell us anything at present. I guess pretty well what has happened. It’s been rough work; but you’ve escaped with your life, and that’s more than I expected. Will you eat something?”

Roger shook his head, and rising to his feet he almost wailed forth,—

“He was my friend—my own familiar friend!”

It was terrible to see the agony in his face. Physical pain is as nothing compared with the wrench of the heart’s strings. Roger had gone away a young man; he came back with heavy lines across his brow, and a drawn, hard look about his mouth.

Martha now came in, followed by Loïs.

“There, don’t ye fret, Roger,” she said; “the thing’s done, and there’s no mending of it. Sit ye down, and let me see what ails your head and arm. I’d like to think it were none of his doing?”

Martha uttered the last words wistfully, almost questioningly; but Roger made no answer, and a deep sigh escaped her as she proceeded to unbandage his head. He was as docile as a little child under her hands.

“Get plenty of water and linen, Loïs, and be quick about it,” said Martha sharply; “and you, Nat, just hand me those scissors.” As they both turned away to obey her she bent over Roger, and whispered in a quivering voice, “It can’t hurt you as it hurts me, his mother.”

“He saved my life,” said Roger.

“Thank God for that,” answered Martha; and turning round, she added, “Do you hear, Father Nat? My poor boy saved Roger’s life,” and great tears ran down her cheeks.

“I said he would!” came from Loïs, who returned with basin and ewer just as her mother uttered the last words.

“But I’d rather have died than have seen him as he now is,” said Roger.

“Nay, lad,” returned Nat; “your dying would not have given him back to us: it would but have made our hearts the sorer. Live to prove yourself the better man. Now be quick, Martha; the sooner he’s in bed the better.”

The wound on Roger’s head was both deep and painful; it had been caused by a blow from a steel hatchet—how it had not killed him was the marvel. His arm had a deep flesh wound. But what ailed him most was the great moral depression. He had evidently received a shock, from which he had not been able as yet to recover. Loïs as she helped her mother watched him closely, but she kept silent, knowing the sorrow was still too fresh to allow of comfort. When the dressing was over and he had drunk another bowl of fresh water, he rose, saying,—

“I will follow your advice, father, and go to bed. Call me at suppertime.”

And without uttering another word, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, he quitted the kitchen. They heard him go slowly up the stairs, and, crossing the floor of the room overhead, fall heavily upon his bed.

Father Nat gave a deep groan, and Martha, sinking on a settle, threw her apron over her head and sobbed bitterly.

Loïs, kneeling down beside her mother, laid her head on her shoulder. No one spoke; they were realising for the first time how great the barrier must needs be which had arisen between them and Charles Langlade, the Indian chief.

“I’d sooner have seen him lying dead before me,” moaned Martha.

“Nay, nay, Martha, say not so; life is life—there is no hope in the grave! Remember David, who ‘fasted and wept while the child was yet alive’ in the hope that ‘God might be gracious and that the child might live, but after he was dead he ceased all outward signs of mourning and bowed his head and worshipped God.’ Is it nothing that we can still pray the Father to bring our dear one home to us again?”

Father Nat’s voice was full of deep emotion, and taking up his hat he too went forth.

CHAPTER IV
“MY OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND!”

Supper was over; the men and women employed about the house and home farm had dispersed. Father Nat sat in his large wooden armchair within the great fireplace, his pipe between his teeth; but it had gone out, and in his preoccupation he had not noticed the fact. Opposite him sat Martha Langlade knitting, and the click of her needles was heard above the murmuring voices of the two younger girls, who were busy conning over their lessons for the morrow. In marked distinction to the Canadians, and French colonies, education was held in high esteem, and indeed enforced, in the New England states. Whenever a settlement mustered a sufficiently large population to be able to support a minister, there, beside the church or chapel, a schoolhouse was sure to spring up, the functions of minister and schoolmaster being generally united in the same person. In the broad window-seat Loïs was telling Marcus the particulars of Roger’s return. The young man was now nearly twenty. Physically he resembled his brother, but in character he was the very opposite. Warfare was hateful to him; had he lived in quiet times he would have been a student. John Cleveland, the minister of the Marshes, had earnestly desired that he should be brought up to the ministry; but when his elder brother left them, Marcus knew that his place was at home, that his mother and sisters needed him, and quietly, without a murmur, he had put his own wishes on one side, and applied himself to the management of the farm. He was not brilliant like either Roger or Charles, but he was doggedly industrious, and Father Nat seldom had reason to complain. He was also a good son, and Martha, though she often grumbled at what she termed his slowness, knew it well; but he was not her firstborn, and he was fully aware that, labour as he might, he never succeeded in filling the vacant place in his mother’s heart; he never could replace the eldest son after whom she yearned! Loïs and he were great friends; they had always been so, trusting and supporting each other in all things.

“He’s slept over eight hours,” said Father Nat at last.

Loïs turned round, listened for a moment, then said,—

“He’s moving now; he’ll surely be wanting some food. I’ll go and see to it;” and rising she went into the outer kitchen, listening all the time for his step on the stairs as she and Nokomis prepared the supper. At last it came, not firm and quick as usual, but slow and heavy, as if the soul of the man were also heavy within him.

“Give me the scones, Nokomis,” said Loïs; and, taking the dish, she entered the front kitchen by one door as Roger came in by the other.

“You’ve had a good sleep and must need your supper,” she said with a smile. “Nokomis has kept some scones hot for you.”

“Thank you,” he answered, and then lifting his eyes he looked round the room. Marcus held out his hand.

“I’m glad you’re back, Roger,” he said, “but desperately sorry for the cause which kept you away.”

“I knew you would be,” answered Roger, as he seated himself at the table, where one of the younger girls had hastened to spread a snowy cloth, upon which Loïs placed the food.

“Are your wounds easier, Roger?” asked Martha.

“I scarcely feel my arm, but my head aches badly,” he answered.

“You want food; you’ll be better after supper,” said his father.

“Maybe,” answered Roger carelessly, and he took up his knife and fork and began mechanically to eat the food Loïs put upon his plate. But after the first few mouthfuls, nature asserted her rights. He was young and strong, had fasted all that day, and the fever of his wounds having left him, his appetite returned, and Loïs had the satisfaction of seeing the food disappear.

With infinite tact she told him of little events which had taken place in the settlement during his absence. Father Nat, Marcus, and the others joined in, so that the conversation became general. Roger kept silence, but he was evidently listening. Suddenly the door opened, and John Cleveland, the minister, entered. He and Nathaniel had been friends ever since he had been elected minister of the Marsh villages. The young Langlades and Boscowens had had no other teacher; he had married a Boscowen, a cousin of the present head of the house, and was therefore one of the family.

Every evening, summer and winter alike, he smoked his pipe in the chimney corner of Omega Marsh. Roger Boscowen and Charles Langlade had been great favourites with him, and both the young men returned his affection. He had done his best to prevent the latter taking the fatal step which had plunged them all into sorrow; failing to do so, he had grieved for him almost as bitterly as Nat had done.

Whilst Roger was sleeping, his father had gone over to the minister’s house and told him of the boys’ return.

“But I don’t like the look in his eyes,” he had said; “the meeting with Charles, under present circumstances, has unhinged him terribly. It’s not the fighting, nor the wounds; it’s the moral shock. I don’t think he ever really realised the change before. You’ll see what you think of him when you come up to-night.”

Entering the kitchen, John Cleveland went straight up to Roger, and laying his hand on his shoulder said earnestly,—

“Thank God you’re home again! Your father and I have been in trouble about you, Roger. You’ve had a hard time of it, lad. But it’s well, perhaps, you should look things straight in the face; you know now for certain that he we loved so well is lost to us, unless God in His great goodness vouchsafes to bring him home. In the meantime you are our hope and stay, Roger. Your name is in every mouth throughout the towns and villages of New England, as the man most capable of defending us against the French and Indians. The vote has been given; you are to be elected Captain of the Rangers, because of your superior knowledge in woodcraft. Within the last few days the story of Old Britain’s massacre has spread terror everywhere. There are those who still remember the massacre of Haverhill, when their minister was beaten to death and the men, women, and children murdered in cold blood, upwards of forty years ago. I am a man of peace and I preach peace; but if the heathen assail us, we must arise and defend ourselves: we cannot see our wives and children massacred or led captives before our eyes. Therefore I say to you, Roger Boscowen, Arise and gird on your sword, for it is a righteous cause you are called upon to defend. All the young men of New England and along the border are prepared to obey you as their leader, and to aid you in the defence of our hearths and homes. Let not your heart faint within you,” he continued kindly, lowering his voice, “because he you loved has gone over to the enemy. Jonathan and David fought not in the same camp, yet they loved each other to the end. If you cannot tear out the brotherly affection which has grown with your growth and has been so sweet to you, make up your mind to sacrifice it at the call of duty.”

He ceased, and there was a moment’s silence; then Roger arose, and standing in the midst of them said,—

“You are right, Mr. Cleveland, and I thank you for putting into words the struggle which has been going on within me. But it is over. From henceforth he and I are strangers one to another.”

He paused, drew a long breath, and then, as if he had cast something far away from him, crossed over to where his father sat, and, taking the seat beside him, said,—

“Now, if you will let me, I will tell you all that has happened since I left home: it is a long and painful story.”

In a few minutes all those present had gathered round him. Martha laid her knitting down and folded her hands to listen. It was of her son, her firstborn, she was about to hear, and it seemed to her as if her heart were like to break.

When they were all settled Roger began. “I found upon reaching Oswega that trade was far from flourishing. The French are growing very aggressive, and are daily becoming better friends with the Indians; they are liberal with both presents and promises, whereas we are neither; indeed, the Indians accuse us of not keeping faith with them. I and a dozen other traders decided therefore to go and see what we could do with Old Britain and the Miamis. It was the end of May when we reached the village. Most of the Indians were away on their summer hunt; but Old Britain received us well, and persuaded us to remain till some of the tribe should return. Thinking this might prove advantageous, as they were sure to bring fresh skins with them, we agreed to do so. Everything went well for the first fortnight; then we heard rumours of raids farther up the country, and I saw Old Britain was anxious. Once or twice he sent men out as scouts; but they came back saying they had seen no enemy, that the land was quiet; so, though he took every precaution against being surprised, he was satisfied there was no immediate danger to fear. He was not made aware by any sign that on the night of June 20th the enemy slept quietly in the near forest. They had come down the lakes in a fleet of canoes, two hundred and fifty picked warriors of the Ottawa and Ogibwa tribes. Silently, as only Indians can march, they made their way through the forest. At daybreak we were aroused by the shrill cry we all know so well, and then they were upon us, spreading terror through the village. The rifle rang out, the cry of the dying arose. Old Britain and his Indians fought bravely; but of course from the first it was hopeless—numbers were against them. They were slain or taken prisoners every one of them: it was a hideous spectacle. We traders had taken refuge in the warehouse, where till five in the afternoon we defended ourselves against fearful odds. Early in the day I had seen and recognised their chief. No need for me to tell you who he was! Three of our men managed to get out, hoping to reach the forest and escape: they failed, and were massacred before our eyes. Then the Indians swarmed over the palisades into the warehouse, and we knew that our last hour had come; but foremost, trying to hold them in check, came their chief. When he saw me he sprang wildly forward, covering me with his own body. ‘For God’s sake surrender!’ he said. ‘Never!’ I answered, and fired over his head. An Indian fell; it was a signal for all the others to rush on. He turned upon me. I never shall forget the look in his face. I saw the glittering steel in his hand as he threw the whole weight of his body upon me and struck me down.

“When I recovered consciousness I found myself in a log hut in the middle of the forest, he standing over me bathing my head.

“‘I couldn’t help it, old fellow,’ he said. ‘It was the only way of saving your life.’”

Roger paused. His voice failed him, so deep was his emotion; but when he spoke again he had mastered himself.

“I stayed in that hut a whole week unable to move; he kept guard over me and nursed me night and day. At the end of that time I was fit to travel. He brought me on my way until I was out of danger; then we parted. Ask me not what we said one to the other during those days and nights we were alone together; from henceforth we have agreed to strive our very uttermost never to meet again, never to look into each other’s faces. We are dead to one another. He told me that not for worlds would he again go through the agony he endured when he felled me to the earth, and stood over my body to prevent his Indians scalping me. Was I dead or alive? Had the curse of Cain descended upon him? He had conquered me; I was his captive,—that was all he knew, and by that right he saved me from the Indians. Not till night had fallen and they were deep in their disgusting orgies did he and John Stone, the lad who followed him as his servant, venture to do more than thrust me into an outhouse, lock the door, and threaten vengeance upon any one who should molest me. I was his prize and he was chief! They dared not disobey. During the night he and John carried me to a deserted hut in the forest, where I was comparatively safe. It is a week since we parted company. I have travelled slowly, from weakness, and because I was only able to carry a small amount of food. More than once I thought I must lie down and die after he left me.”

Roger stopped short. “That is all,” he said, looking round. The womenkind were weeping, the men’s faces were stern. Then John Cleveland stood up.

“Let us pray,” he said; and, after the fashion of the old Puritans, they all arose and stood with clasped hands and bowed heads whilst the minister prayed.

“O Lord, we thank Thee for Thy great mercy in delivering our dear brother from the jaws of the lion and bringing him back amongst us. In Thy great wisdom Thou hast done this thing, that he may be as Moses of old, a deliverer of Thy people. Strengthen him, O Lord; enlighten him, that he may overcome in Thy might the heathen and the oppressor. Give us peace, O Lord, we pray Thee; but if because of the wickedness in the land war cometh upon us, then give us the victory. Teach Thou ‘our hands to war’ that we may glorify Thy Name, and that the strange nations may do likewise. And over this household we pray Thee stretch forth Thine hand. Be merciful to the widow and fatherless in their affliction, and in Thy good time bring back the wandering sheep into the fold. Enable us to cast out all affections which tend not to Thy glory, and to worship Thee alone, the only true God, for Thy Son Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”

“Amen,” answered the little congregation.

“Peace be with you all,” said the minister, stretching forth his hand.

And so, without further speech, but with silent hand-clasping, they parted for the night. When all were gone, and Father Nat and Roger stood alone on the hearth, the former said,—

“It will be war, Roger.”

“Ay, father; it will be a terrible war,” he answered. “Brother against brother. How shall I endure?”

“The Lord’s will be done. He will surely give you strength. Now let us go to rest, my son,” said the elder man; and, putting out the lights, father and son went up the broad oak staircase together, the summer moon shining in through the casement window lighting their darkness. But their hearts were heavy within them.

CHAPTER V
A HERO

“Grandmother, where is Canada?” and a small dark girl of about sixteen years of age leant, as she asked the question, over the back of a garden chair, in which sat an old lady of nearly seventy years of age.

The scene was the terrace of the Château of Candiac in Languedoc. It was evening, and the crimson light of the setting sun illumined the whole valley, and was reflected in the numerous windows of the Castle, until the ancient fortress seemed almost on fire. It was the setting of a Southern sun, which had poured down the whole livelong day, scorching up the grass and driving men and beasts to seek refuge in sheltered spots; no breath of air stirred the trees, no animal had even yet ventured abroad. A dead silence still reigned over the landscape, as if exhausted nature were waiting patiently for the soft and refreshing night dews to restore her energies.

“Canada, Mercèdes, is at the other end of the world, my child,” answered Madame de St. Verin. “And I greatly fear if your father goes thither he will never return again. It is a land of savages, where they eat one another;” and her eyes filled with tears, and the white bejewelled hands resting on her lap were clasped together with nervous energy.

“Nay, madame,” said a younger lady, turning round, for she had been gazing earnestly along the white road which ran through the valley, “why terrify the children? If their father accepts this post of danger and of honour, surely it is more for their sakes than his own! We are noble, but we are poor, and there are many children to establish in the world—a serious matter as times go.”

“I know, my daughter,” said Madame de St. Verin gently; “but if you have six sons and daughters, I have only one son left to me in my old age.”

“Pardon me, dear madame,” replied Madame de Montcalm. “It is a hard necessity for us all; if it were not a necessity my dear husband would assuredly not separate himself from us, for you know how well he loves his home.”

“Well said, wife!” and an arm was thrown round her and a kiss imprinted on her forehead by a cavalier, dusty and travel-stained.

“Father, dear father!” and Mercèdes clung to him. “How did you come? We have been straining our eyes to catch the first glimpse of you on the high road.”

“Have you forgotten the short cut through the village at the back of the Château, Mercèdes? I left my escort to come on by the high road, and myself came across country, through the pine forest. I did this to gain time. I have not an hour to lose. I must leave you the day after to-morrow; for you may congratulate me, I have received my nomination as General-in-Chief of his Majesty’s army in Canada.”

“Oh, father!” exclaimed Mercèdes.

“My dear husband!” said Madame de Montcalm, holding his hand.

“Mother,” said the General, embracing the old lady, from whose eyes tears fell fast.

“It will be a last farewell between thee and me, my son,” she said.

“Nay; wherefore take this gloomy view of the situation?” he answered. “If I remained here I should be nominated to a regiment, and should, I hope, see some service. It is only a change of country, with the superior advantages of a higher position and better chances for the future. My eldest son is to go back with me to Versailles, to be presented to the King and given a commission. Why, mother, I thought you would rejoice, and hurried on to bring you the good news. I may be absent a year—two perhaps, if the English prove very stubborn. Who knows? I may be Military Governor of Canada when the war is over, and come home and fetch you all out, and you will hold your court like a queen in the Government House at Quebec,” and he laughed so brightly that the clouds seemed to break and the natural fears of those who loved him to dispel in the sunshine of his presence.

“You were always hopeful, Louis,” said his mother.

“Why should I be otherwise?” he answered. “We have desired this appointment; and though at first I hesitated because of the heavy responsibilities it entails, I have come to the conclusion that I am as capable as another, and that Canada is worth fighting for. It is a French colony, inhabited for generations past by our own people. It is ‘New France.’ Surely it were a national disgrace to let it slip through our fingers.”

He spoke enthusiastically: all his patriotism, all his ambition, was aroused; a fresh life was opening out before him, and he rejoiced in the prospect.

Louis, Marquis de Montcalm, the new Commander-in-Chief of Canada, was in stature rather short than tall, but his bearing was dignified and his manners courteous. His eyes were dark and wonderfully brilliant; indeed, the whole expression of his face inspired confidence and affection. He had married in early life Mademoiselle Louise de Roulay, and the marriage had proved a happy one. Ten children had been born to them; but six only were living at the time of our story.

Throughout life, in the midst of the corrupt court of Louis XV., the Marquis de Montcalm had remained a good man and a true Christian, an example in all things to the young officers and soldiers under him. His courage and sympathetic brightness won the hearts of all who came in contact with him, and he was beloved, both in life and after death, as it is given to few men to be.

“Where are all my other children?” he asked, looking around, when by his words and manner he had succeeded in calming his mother’s fears.

“They went to meet you; see, they are coming through the chestnut grove, and here is Toto,” said Madame de Montcalm, lifting up a three-year-old child who came running along the terrace towards them, and placing her in her husband’s arms. He kissed the child tenderly, waited till the others came up—two sons and two daughters—who, as soon as they caught sight of him, ran forward with joyous welcome. When the glad greetings were over, and they had all calmed down, he said,—

“Now I will go to my room and brush off some of the dust of my journey, and then to supper. I must see neither tears nor sad faces, remember; it is a good thing and a great honour which has befallen me. Come, mother,” and with exquisite gallantry he put his mother’s arm within his own, took his wife’s hand, and, followed by his troop of sons and daughters, entered the Castle. In the great hall the servants, many of whom had grown old in the family, stood ranged on either side to welcome him, for the news of his arrival had spread rapidly. He smiled and nodded to them with pleasant familiarity, saying in his cheery voice, “You may congratulate me, my friends. Your lord is indeed nominated to high office as ‘General to his most gracious Majesty’s army in Canada.’ Who will go with me?”

A murmur of congratulation followed these words; and instantly three men, all young, stepped out from amongst the servitors, and, bowing low before the marquis, the foremost one said,—

“We are ready to follow our gracious master to the world’s end.”

“My good Estève,” said the marquis, holding out his hand to his secretary, who carried it to his lips, “thanks a thousand times; I should be lost without you. And you, Joseph and Déjean! you too are willing to brave the dangers of the sea to accompany your master?”

“We are, if our master will graciously accept our services,” said Joseph, his valet.

“I should be indeed churlish if I refused,” said Montcalm. “Thanks, my friends; be ready to start to-morrow. It will be sharp work; the troops are even now at Brest, ready to embark.” And so saying, he passed on till he reached his own apartments and disappeared from view.

CHAPTER VI
A BRAVE HEART

“Father, are there no convents in Canada?” asked Mercèdes.

“At Quebec, my daughter, I believe the Ursuline Convent is a very fine establishment,” said the General. “It was founded more than a hundred years ago, in 1640, by a very rich and very beautiful woman, Madame de Peltrie. It is a romantic story. Her home was near Caen, in Normandy, and her husband dying soon after her marriage, she desired to enter a nunnery; but her father, who was old, opposed her wishes, and she remained with him until his death. Then she sold all her possessions, and with another lady like-minded, Marie de l’Incarnation, set sail with a party of Jesuit missionaries for Canada. After untold hardships they arrived at Quebec; and there she built a convent and opened a school for Indian children, which she dedicated to St. Ursula.”

“How do you know all this, father?” asked the young girl, as she walked beside him on the terrace early the following morning.

Mercèdes was the General’s especial favourite, and when he was at home was always with him; nevertheless, being the third daughter, from an early age she had been destined to a convent life. She was perfectly happy, and looked upon her future with complacent satisfaction; it was the fate of many highborn girls in those days. She closely resembled her father, was small, sallow of complexion, with dark, sparkling eyes, full of intelligence and sweetness.

“I learnt the story through a Jesuit whom I met the other day at Court,” answered her father. “He had just returned from Canada, and when he heard who I was, and my position, he gave me much useful information. He is a remarkably intelligent man, and very devoted to the interests of the colony. He has been a missionary amongst the Indian tribe of the Iroquois for over twenty years. He will probably return with me. His name is Father Mathevet.”

“And he said the convent was a good one? Are the nuns French?” asked Mercèdes.

“French Canadians mostly; but I believe he mentioned that two or three ladies from the mother country had joined the community within the last year.”

“Father, let me go.”

“You, Mercèdes? My child, it is impossible!”

“Why impossible?” she said, in a coaxing voice. “It is settled for me to begin my novitiate at the Augustines; why should I not go out to Canada with you and enter the Ursulines? I should like it much better. It would be rather amusing teaching Indian children; and then you would not be alone.”

He looked down at her. The plan seemed to chime in with his dearest wishes. The General was a man devoted to his home and his children, and the thought of being separated from them all, though he accepted it as a necessity, was very painful to him. The sudden idea of having this child, his little Mercèdes, within reach, to whom he might speak of the dear absent ones, who in all things would sympathise with and understand him, was such an unexpected joy.

“Do you really mean it?” he asked.

“If I did not, should I propose it?” she answered. “You know I am of small account in the house, as it has always been settled I should be a nun; whether I am here or in Canada it can make no difference. I do not belong to the world, but to God; you and my mother gave me to Him when I was an infant; and think how happy I shall be if, whilst fulfilling my vocation, I can be a comfort to you, my dearest father,” and she clung to his arm.

“That you would most assuredly be,” he said; “the very fact of having you near me would be a comfort. But shall you not be afraid to go so far—to cross the sea, Mercèdes?”

She laughed such a bright, happy laugh. “Afraid of what?” she said. “Is not God with us always on sea or on land? And your daughter! Shall I dare to be afraid?”

Her father smiled. “Brave heart!” he said; “truly I do not see why you should not have your wish. A convent in France or in Canada, it cannot make much difference—except to me,” he added, and, stooping, he kissed the young, eager face.

“You will speak to mother then?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered thoughtfully. “If only I knew of some woman going out to Canada!”

“I know some one who would gladly go,” said Mercèdes.

“Who?” asked the General.

“My foster-mother, Marthe Dervieu. You know her husband is dead, and all her children; she is quite alone, and loves no one in the world as she loves me. Only last week she told me that when I entered the Augustines, she should go there also as serving sister.”

“That would indeed be just the thing; she is of a good age, neither too young nor too old. Why, Mercèdes, everything seems to combine to carry out your wishes,” said her father.

“Marthe is just thirty-five; she was only nineteen when she nursed me,” answered Mercèdes. “She will be so glad to go away from here, where she has had so much sorrow. Here comes my mother; I will leave you with her, my dear father. I am so happy!” and catching up his hand, she pressed it to her lips, and then ran lightly down the steps leading from the terrace into the Château gardens.

That evening, after supper, it was announced to the assembled family that Mercèdes was going out to Canada to become a novice in the Convent of the Ursulines, and that her nurse Marthe Dervieu had agreed to accompany her. The mother’s eyes were red with weeping, and the old grandmother, Madame de St. Verin, held Mercèdes in her arms murmuring, “My poor lamb!”

“Nay, grandmother,” said the girl, though tears choked her own voice. “You are giving me to God; what matters it whether it be here or there, so that I do Him service? And my dear father needs me; he will feel that I am near him, praying, always praying for him; and when he is weary he will come into the quiet cloister, and we shall speak of home and of you all. Nay, rather rejoice that such high honour is accorded to me. Instead of an easy life of personal devotion, which would be mine if I stayed here, I shall teach little Indian children to worship Christ and show them the way to heaven. Give me your blessing, grandmother;” and she sank on her knees before Madame de St. Verin, who, touched by the girl’s devotion and enthusiasm, laid her thin white hands on the dark hair, saying,—

“May God bless thee, my child, and have you in His holy keeping now and for evermore.”

“Amen,” said all present; and then they gathered round Mercèdes and embraced her, and it was even as she desired, a scene more of joy than of sorrow.

The following day the General left, accompanied only by his son the Chevalier and Estève, his secretary. He decided at the last moment that his two servants should wait to escort Mercèdes and Marthe when the time came for them to join him.

He would not allow the parting to be a sad one, reminding his children that they were descended from heroes, and must demean themselves accordingly.

The Montcalms traced their lineage back to Dieudonné Gozon, Grand-Master of the order of St. John of Jerusalem, who in the sixteenth century delivered the island of Rhodes from a monstrous serpent, which had long been the terror of the inhabitants. For this service he was made Lieutenant-General, and continued to distinguish himself so greatly that, when he died, at a good old age, he was honoured and revered by all men. His race was continued by a long line of knights and noble gentlemen, and so the Montcalms came to be reckoned as a race of heroes, and were proud of their descent.

The present Marquis, Louis de Montcalm, General-in-Chief of his Majesty’s army in Canada, had entered upon his military career at the early age of fourteen, as did also his great opponent General Wolfe. Boys were men in those days by the force of circumstances. At the battle of Plaisance, in 1746, Montcalm was three times wounded, and at the combat before Exiles twice.

When still very young, he had stated in a letter to his father his idea of what his aim and object in life ought to be. It is characteristic and worthy of record.

“First, to be an honourable man, of good morals, and a Christian.

“Secondly, to read in moderation, to know as much Greek and Latin as most men of the world; also to know the four rules of arithmetic, and something of history, geography, and belles lettres, and have a certain knowledge of the arts and sciences.

“Thirdly, and above all things, to be obedient, docile, and very submissive to your orders and those of my dear mother, and also to defer to the advice of Monsieur Dumas.

“Fourthly, to fence and ride as well as my small abilities will allow.”

The above-mentioned Monsieur Dumas was the family preceptor, and he and the young heir were somewhat antagonistic, Louis not responding as readily as Dumas could have desired to the educational pressure to which he would have subjected him. The tutor found a more apt pupil in the younger brother, who is stated to have been an infant prodigy, but died at the early age of seven years of water on the brain, having acquired during his short life, besides a fair knowledge of his own maternal language, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, geography, history sacred and profane, and various other minor studies. Probably his early death by no means incited his brother to follow in his steps.

Throughout life the Marquis de Montcalm maintained his code of honour, and, as his ancestors had done before him, left to his children an untarnished name.

CHAPTER VII
THROUGH STORM AND TEMPEST

Not till the beginning of March of the following year did the expectant household at the Château of Candiac receive the order for Mercèdes and her party to set out and join her father at Rennes. He wrote thus to his wife:—

“Dearest,—The delay has been painfully trying; the Ministers have been hard to rouse. I have obtained money, men, and ammunition with great difficulty; but now the worst is over. I arrived at Rennes this morning, and shall remain here until my little Mercèdes appears, which will not be long now. I hope we shall be at Brest on the 21st of March, and everything will be on board by the 26th.

“My son has been here since yesterday, for me to coach him and get him a uniform made, in which he will give thanks for his regiment at the same time as I take my leave in my embroidered coat. Perhaps I shall leave debts behind; I wait impatiently for the bills. You have my will; I wish you would get it copied, and send it to me before I sail. I have much business on hand still. My health is good, and the passage will be a time of rest. I shall write up to the last moment. It is pleasant, I know, to hear particulars of those we love, and my mother, and you, my dearest and most beloved, will gladly read even the dullest details of my life. I am much pleased with my second officer in command, Chevalier Levis; he is brave and upright, full of expedients, and a man to be trusted. I might say the same of Chevalier Bougainville, the third in command. My greatest difficulty is getting sufficient troops to face such a campaign. Only twelve hundred men will embark with me. Now farewell; I embrace you, my dearest, my mother, and my daughters. Love to all the family,

“Your devoted husband,

”Louis de Montcalm.”

Poor Mercèdes! When she saw the sea and the great ships, the troops of soldiers, and all the noise and bustle of the port, her heart sank for a moment within her. But she soon recovered herself, and when her father looked at her to see what impression the scene made upon her, she smiled and said quite quietly,—

“I suppose one can get accustomed to everything, but it does seem strange after our beautiful calm Candiac; I shall at least have seen something of the world before I bid it farewell.”

“The idea of crossing the sea does not then alarm you, my daughter?” asked the General.

“With God and with you, my father, what have I to fear?” she answered.

It was a bright spring day, the second of April, when they went on board. Six large vessels—large for those days—were in the harbour; their names have come down to us—the Léopard, Héros, Illustre, Licorne, Sauvage, and Sirène. Very different were they from the transport ships of to-day—devoid of every comfort, sailing vessels, subject to wind and weather. The General, with his officers Levis and Bougainville, and of course Mercèdes and Marthe, took passage in the Licorne; but they waited to see the troops go on board, which they did with incredible gaiety, so much so that Chevalier Bougainville exclaimed, “What a nation is ours; happy is he who commands it and commands it worthily!” And so, bravely with strong hearts, officers and men sailed for the first time across the Atlantic, at the command of a country which virtually forsook them in their hour of need.

Poor Marthe Dervieu was very ill during the whole voyage, but Mercèdes after the first few days recovered from the sea-sickness, and was so well and bright that she put the men to shame. Whenever she could leave Marthe she came with her father on deck, thankful to breathe the fresh sea-breeze in lieu of the dark, stuffy cabin.

“We are sure to arrive safely; we have a saint on board,” said the sailors. Nevertheless, when they were in mid-ocean a fearful gale overtook them, which lasted ninety hours. Many deemed their end was near. Mercèdes, as she lay lashed into her hammock, thought of the sunny plains of Provence, now bright with flowers; of the dear mother and grandmother, brothers and sisters; and it seemed to her that she could hear their prayers above the howling of the winds and the sound of many waters. Truly they were terrible nights and days, never forgotten by those who passed through them; but at last the winds and the waves were calmed, and the travellers breathed freely once more. Mercèdes was unlashed; but she was so stiff that, upon trying to stand, she would have fallen had not her father upheld and carried her on to the deck, to see the wonderful icebergs which, as they approached the St. Lawrence, threatened them with destruction, and made navigation so difficult that the ships advanced but slowly, those on board being in continual fear lest the floating masses should crash down upon them.

General Montcalm was fast losing patience. But for Mercèdes he would have landed, and made his way as best he could across country to Quebec; and one day, as Mercèdes was standing behind him, he gave expression to this wish with a certain amount of irritability.

“Father,” said she unhesitatingly, “I have not come to be a hindrance, but a help and comfort to you; if you hold back because of me, your duty will suffer. I am young and strong, and Marthe is well now and will be much better off the ship than on it. Let us land with you and make our way to Quebec.”

The General looked down upon the brave little creature and smiled. “You do not know what you are proposing, my child; it would be a difficult journey for men, impossible for you: it is not to be thought of.”

“General, do you see that canoe paddling towards us? I have been watching it for some time; it is bearing down upon us, and, if I mistake not, is full of Indians,” said Chevalier Levis, and he handed the General his long glass.

“You are right; they are coming straight up the river. I wonder whether it means peace or war. If I only knew the temper of the tribes towards us!” said Montcalm.

“That remains for us to find out in the future,” answered the Chevalier; “but they are decidedly gaining upon us, and if I mistake not there is a white man amongst them. Do you see that fellow standing up with the skin round his shoulders toga fashion, and the fur cap on his head?”

He had hardly finished speaking when the canoe glided up alongside the Licorne, and the man they had been observing called out in French:

“We are friends.”

“It is well,” said Montcalm, stooping over the bulwarks; “you are welcome. Will you come on board?”

“Willingly,” answered Charles Langlade, for it was he; and easily, without the slightest apparent effort, he swung himself up the sides of the great ship and stood in their midst, such a noble specimen of humanity that the General, stepping forward, held out his hand, saying,—

“Who are you? and what are you doing amongst those savages?”

A ringing, joyous laugh responded to this question. “I am Charles Langlade,” he said, “descended from the first French colonists, and now an Indian chief. They are my people, and I belong to them,” and then he rapidly told such portions of his story as he deemed advisable.

“But if you so desired to serve France, why did you not join the regular Canadian government and army?” asked the Chevalier Levis.

“When you have been in Quebec six weeks, and have made acquaintance with those who at present govern Canada, you will have no need to ask me that question,” answered Charles. “For months I have been waiting for your coming. If Canada is to be saved, it will be by you and not by them. And now I am on my way to Quebec with some six hundred men of my tribe; and when I saw your ships coming up the St. Lawrence, I knew that at last the old country had remembered us, and so I put off to see if I could be of any service to you.”

“Indeed you can,” said Montcalm eagerly. “I am very anxious to get to Quebec myself as quickly as possible; but being utterly ignorant of the country and the mode of travelling, I am at a loss how to proceed.”

“If you are willing to entrust yourself to me, I think the journey can be accomplished without great difficulty. Alone you would find it almost impossible. It is the season of the year when we take our furs up to Quebec for sale: if you will accompany us, I will ensure your reaching the city in safety, and as rapidly as may be.”

“I should be very grateful,” said the General, “but I am not alone. I cannot well leave my daughter and her servant to land with the troops.”

“Your daughter!” exclaimed Charles; for wrapped in a great cloak, with the hood drawn down over her face to protect it from the wind, Mercèdes, standing behind the officers, had escaped observation. Now she stepped forward, threw back her hood, and showed a small white face, whiter and thinner than when she left France, and with eyes which looked preternaturally large and brilliant.

“I can travel,” she said; “I am not afraid either of the cold or of the fatigue. I am very strong.” The pure intonation of the gentle voice, the delicate refinement of the high-bred girl, were evident, even in these few simple words, and came home to Charles Langlade with peculiar force, unaccustomed as he was to civilised life.

“Mademoiselle wishes to travel by land to Quebec?” he said, looking at her and instinctively baring his head before her.

“Yes,” she answered. “If my father goes I must go too; I cannot be a hindrance to him.”

“It will be difficult,” he said. “The snow and ice are only partially melted; there are still large fields of ice. You do not know our Canada; it is a rude country. If it were mid-winter it would be better than now; then the rivers are frozen over and the land is covered with snow, and with skates, sleighs, and snowshoes we can travel easily and rapidly; but now the thaw has set in, and the rivers are no longer safe, the floods are rising, and the land is inundated.”

“You said you could take my father by land to Quebec,” she answered, speaking imperatively; “therefore you must do it, and I and Marthe must go likewise. You know you can if you will to do so.”

He could not help smiling; she appeared such a child to him, so utterly fearless because so utterly ignorant of danger.

Take her! Of course he could take her, if, as she said, he so willed it; and it seemed suddenly as if he had no will but hers.

“It can be done, General,” he said, turning to the Marquis. “If you will trust me, I will conduct your party to Quebec.”

“Will it be safe?” said Chevalier Levis. “You do not know this man,” he added in a low voice to the General.

“If I say it is safe, who will dare gainsay me?” said Charles Langlade haughtily.

“We will go, father,” said Mercèdes, laying her hand on the General’s arm.

He hesitated one moment; then he looked up at the Canadian hunter, saying, “I will trust you. Go I must, for my duty calls me. When shall we start?”

“It is too late to-day; to-morrow at dawn I will be here to fetch you.”