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Title: Gleaner Tales

Author: Robert Sellar

Release date: August 27, 2021 [eBook #66150]

Language: English

Credits: Sonya Schermann, Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


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GLEANER TALES

BY

ROBERT SELLAR

HUNTINGDON, Q.
1895




Entered according to act of parliament of Canada, in
the year 1895, by Robert Sellar, at the
Department of Agriculture.




A glance at the map shows the south-western extremity of the province
of Quebec to be a wedge shaped bit of territory; the St. Lawrence on
one side, the United States on the other. All that is related in the
following pages is associated with this corner of Canada. The name of
the book comes from the newspaper in which most of the tales first
appeared. There is a purpose in the book. It attempts to convey in
a readable form an idea of an era in the life of Canada which has
passed--that of its first settlement by emigrants from the British
isles--and to give an account of two striking episodes in its history,
the invasion under Hampton and the year of the ship fever. These are
historically correct; the briefer tales are based on actual incidents
in the lives of early settlers in the old county of Huntingdon.




CONTENTS.
                                  PAGE
HEMLOCK                              1

ARCHANGE AND MARIE                 205

THE SETTLER’S FIRST GRIST          225

ABNER’S DEVICE                     236

A SETTLER’S STORY                  254

JEANIE MORISON                     290

LOST                               318

AN INCIDENT OF HUNTINGDON FAIR     324

THE SUMMER OF SORROW               341

NOTE                               459




HEMLOCK.


CHAPTER I.

The rain of the forenoon had been followed by an outburst of heat and
the sunshine beat with fierce intensity on the narrow square that
formed the yard of the barracks at Montreal. There was a milkiness in
the atmosphere which, conjoined with the low bank of black cloud that
hung over the St Lawrence where it rolled out of sight, indicated a
renewal of the downpour. The yard was deserted. Dinner was over and
the men lounged and snoozed indoors until the sun abated his fervor,
always excepting the sentry, who stood in the shade of the gateway,
his gaze alternately wandering from the refreshing motion of the blue
waters of St Mary’s current to the cluster of log houses, interspersed
by stone edifices with high tin roofs, which formed the Montreal of
1813. Presently the sound of hoofs was heard, and there came galloping
to the gate an orderly from the general’s headquarters. Passing the
sentry, he pulled up at the door of that portion of the barracks where
the officer of the day was quartered, and who, in another minute, was
reading the despatch he had brought. It was an order for a detachment
of 20 men to report without delay at headquarters. Instantly the voice
of a sergeant was heard shouting the order to those who had to turn
out and the barracks became a bustling scene of soldiers rubbing their
accoutrements and packing their kits. In half an hour they had fallen
into rank and marched to the general’s residence. The lieutenant in
charge went in to report and found General de Watteville writing.

“You ready for the route? Ah, yes; very good, Morton. I will write you
one order. You will escort an ammunition-train to camp La Fourche and
there go under command of Major Stovin.”

“I hope, General, there is a prospect of our helping to use the
cartridges when we get there?”

“I cannot say. Yankee very cautious; put his nose one, two, three time
across the frontier and then run back, like rat to his hole. Maybe
Hampton come; we must be ready. Here is your order. You will find the
train at King’s Posts and use all expedition.”

Saluting the General, Morton withdrew and, rejoining his men, they
marched down the narrow and crooked maze of St Paul street, attracting
little attention, for the sight of soldiers had become familiar even to
the habitant wives, who were jogging homeward in their market-carts.
By the time the town was cleared, and the Lachine road gained, the sun
was inclining to the west, and his rays being more endurable, the men
stepped out briskly, bandying coarse jests, while the officer, some
paces behind, eyed with surprised delight the foaming rapids, which
he now saw for the first time. The afternoon was calm, which made the
spectacle of a wide expanse of water tossed into huge billows without
apparent cause, all the more singular. “Why,” said Morton inwardly,
“all the rivers of the United Kingdom, with their falls and cataracts,
if added to this vast river, would not perceptibly add either to its
volume or its tumult.”

At the head of the rapids, where the St Lawrence expands into the lake
named St Louis, stood the King’s Posts, an extensive collection of
buildings, with wharves in front, at which were moored a large number
of boats. King’s Posts was the depot of supplies for the country
west of Montreal, and therefore a place of bustle in time of war,
boats stemming the rapids and long trains of carts conveying to its
storehouses daily the supplies brought by shipping from England to
Montreal, to be in turn sent off as required to the numerous garrisons
along the upper St Lawrence and lakes Ontario and Erie, while the
troops, then being hurried to the front, here embarked. Reporting
his command, Morton was informed the boat with the supplies he was
to guard would not be ready to sail until late in the evening, and
quarters were assigned his men and to himself an invitation to join
the mess-dinner. Thus relieved, he strolled to the water’s edge, and
watched the shouting boatmen and the swearing soldiers as they loaded
the flotilla that was in preparation, and was fortunate enough to see
a bateau arrive from Montreal, poled up against the current by part of
its crew while the others tugged at a tow-rope, reinforced by a yoke of
oxen. Then he watched the sun, which, as it neared the horizon, dyed
the waters of the majestic river with many hues. Slowly it neared the
thick battalion of pines behind which it would disappear, and as Morton
noted the broad crimson pathway that it seemed to stretch across the
placid lake as a temptation to follow it into its chamber of glory, he
thought he never beheld anything more imposing. Slowly the throbbing
orb descended and was lost to sight, and, as if evoked by angel-spell,
cloudlets became revealed and were transformed into plumage of scarlet
and gold. The train of Morton’s reverie was snapped by the tread of
troops behind him. Turning he saw a file of soldiers with a manacled
man between them. When they reached the head of the wharf, the order
to halt was given. Morton knew what it meant. The tall thin man in his
shirt-sleeves was a spy and he was going to be shot. It was supper-time
and boats and wharfs were for the time no longer the scene of activity,
but the grimy bateau-men paused in their cookery, to watch the tragedy
about to be enacted. Two soldiers lifted from their shoulders the
rough box that was to be his coffin, and the doomed man stood beside
it. Behind him was the St Lawrence, a lake of molten glass; in front
the line of soldiers who were to shoot him. There was no hurry or
confusion; everything being done in a calm and business-like manner.
The prisoner stood undauntedly before his executioners; a man with a
sinister countenance, in which low cunning was mixed with imperturbable
self-possession. He waved the bugler away when he approached to tie a
handkerchief over his eyes. “Guess I want ter hev the use o’ my eyes as
long as I ken; but say, kurnel, moughtn’t you loose my arms. It’s the
last wish of a dyin man.” The officer gave a sign with his hand, and
the rope was untied. “Prisoner, are you ready?”

“Yes, kurnel.”

Turning to the firing party, the officer gave the successive
orders--make ready,--present,--fire! Hardly had the last word been
uttered, than the prisoner, with surprising agility, gave a backward
leap into the river, and the volley swept over where he stood, the
bullets ricochetting on the surface of the river behind. “The Yankee
scoundrel! Has he escaped? Ten pounds for him alive or dead!” shouted
the officer. There was a rush to the edge of the wharf, and the
soldiers fired at random amid its posts, but the American was not to
be seen. “It is impossible for him to escape,” the captain said to
Morton, who had come to aid in the search. “He would have been hung had
we had a gallows handy, and if he has escaped the bullet it is only to
be drowned, for the river runs here like a mill-race and will carry him
into the rapids.” The soldiers jumped on the boats and scanned wharf
and shore, and seeing no trace came to the conclusion that from his
backward leap he had been unable to recover himself and did not rise to
the surface. Satisfied the man was drowned, the soldiers were ordered
back to the guard-room and the stir and hurry in getting the flotilla
ready were resumed.

Soon afterwards Morton was seated at the mess-table, which was crowded,
for there were detachments of two regiments on their way from Quebec,
where they had landed the week before, to Upper Canada. The company
was a jovial one, composed of veteran campaigners who had learned to
make the most of life’s pleasures when they could be snatched, and
joke and story kept the table in a roar for a couple of hours, when
the colonel’s servant whispered something in his ear. “Comrades,” he
said, rising, “I am informed the boats are ready. The best of friends
must part when duty calls, and the hour we have spent this evening
is a pleasant oasis in our long and toilsome journey through this
wilderness. We do not know what difficulties we may have to encounter,
but we who braved the sun of India and stormed the Pyrenees will not
falter before the obstacles Canadian flood and forest may present, and
will carry the flag of our country to victory, as we have so often
done under our glorious chief, Wellington. We come to cross swords
not for conquest but to repel those invaders, who, professing to be
the champions of liberty, seek to bolster the falling cause of the
tyrant of Europe by endeavoring to create a diversion in his favor
on this western continent. We shall drive the boasters back, or else
will leave our bones to be bleached by Canadian snows; and we shall do
more, we shall vindicate the independence of this vast country against
the ingrates who smite, in the hour of trial, the mother that reared
them, and shall preserve Canada to be the home of untold millions
who will perpetuate on the banks of these great rivers and lakes the
institutions and customs that have made the name of Britain renowned.
Comrades, let us quit ourselves in this novel field of conflict as
befits our colors, and I propose, as our parting toast, Success to the
defenders of Canada, and confusion to the King’s enemies.”

With clank of sword and sabre each officer sprang to his feet and the
toast was drank with shout and outstretched arm. Amid the outburst of
enthusiasm, a broad-shouldered captain started the chorus,


     “Why, soldiers, why, should we be melancholy, boys?
     Why, soldiers, why, whose business ’tis to die?”


It was taken up with vigor until the roar was deafening, and then
the colonel gave the signal to dismiss. From the heated room, Morton
stepped out and drew his breath at the spectacle presented. The moon,
full orbed, hung over the woods of La-prairie and poured a flood of
light upon the rapids beneath, transforming them where shallow into
long lanes of glittering network and where the huge billows tossed
in endless tumult, sable and silver alternated. Above, the waters
slumbered in the soft light, unconscious of the ordeal towards which
they were drifting and scarcely ruffled by the light east breeze that
had sprung up. Directly in front were the boats, loaded, and each
having its complement of soldiers. The officers took their places
among them and they cast off, until over a hundred were engaged in
stemming the rapid current with aid of sail and oar. After passing
between Caughnawaga and Lachine, indicated by their glancing spires,
the leading boats awaited on the bosom of the lake for those that had
still to overcome the river’s drift. When the last laggard had arrived,
the flotilla was marshalled by the naval officers who had control into
three columns, some sixty yards apart, and, the oars being shipped, and
sails hoisted, moved majestically for the head of the lake. Surely,
thought Morton, as he eyed the imposing scene, the far-searching lake
embosomed by nodding forest, “This country is worth fighting for.”

The air was balmy, the motion of the boats pleasant, the moonlight
scene inspiring, so that the men forgot their fatigues, and burst
into song, and chorus after chorus, joined in by the entire flotilla,
broke the silence. A piper, on his way to join his regiment, broke in
at intervals and the colonel ordered the fife and drum corps to strike
up. The boat in which Morton sat brought up the rear, and softened by
distance and that inexpressible quality which a calm stretch of water
gives to music, he thought he had never heard anything finer, and he
could not decide whether the singing of the men, the weird strains
of the pibroch, or the martial music of the fifes and drums was to
be preferred. About an hour had been spent thus, when the captain
of the boat shouted to shift the sail, and putting up the helm, the
little barque fell out of line and headed for an eminence on the south
shore, so sharp and smooth in outline, that Morton took it to be a
fortification. When their leaving was noted, the men in the long lines
of boats struck up Auld Lang Syne, the fifes and drums accompanying,
and when they had done, the piper succeeded. Morton listened to the
strain as it came faintly from the fast receding flotilla, it was that
of Lochaber no More.

As the shore was neared the boat was brought closer to the wind, and
lying over somewhat deeply, the helmsman told those on the lee side
to change seats. In the movement a man rubbed against Morton, and he
felt that his clothes were wet. Looking sharply at him, he saw he was
one of the boat’s crew, when his resemblance to the spy he had seen
escape the bullets of the firing-party struck him. The more he looked
the more convinced he grew that he was correct, and, improbable as
it seemed, within an arm’s length, almost, sat the man he saw plunge
into the river and whom he, with everybody else, believed to have been
swept into the deadly rapids. With all a soldier’s detestation of a
spy, he resolved he should not escape, yet to attempt to seize him
in the boat would be to imperil all in it, for that the fellow would
make a desperate struggle Morton knew. Prudently resolving to make no
move until the boat neared its moorings, he slipped his hand into his
breast-pocket and grasped the stock of one of his pistols.

As the boat approached the shore the sharply-cut eminence, which
Morton had taken to be a fortification, resolved itself into a grassy
knoll, destitute of glacis or rampart, and round the eastern extremity
of which they glided into a smooth narrow channel, whose margin was
fretted by the shadows cast by the trees which leant over from its
banks. The sail now flapped uselessly and the order was given to get
out the oars. The suspected spy rose with the other boatmen to get them
into place and stood on a cross-bench as he lifted a heavy oar to its
lock. It was a mere pretence. In a moment his foot was on the gunwale
and he made a sudden spring towards the bank. There was the sound of
a plunge, of a few brief strokes by a strong swimmer, a movement among
the bushes, and then silence. Morton was intensely excited, he drew his
pistol, rose and cocking it fired at random. Turning to the captain
of the boat he shouted in fury, “You villain; you have assisted in
the escape of a King’s prisoner.” With stolid countenance the captain
shifted the helm to suit the windings of the channel, and answered,
“Me no spik Ingleese.” Feeling he was powerless, Morton resumed his
seat and in a minute or two a cluster of white-washed huts came in view
and the boat drew alongside a landing-stage in front of them. Several
soldiers were standing on it awaiting them, and on asking where he
would find the commissariat officer, Morton was directed to one of the
houses, in front of which paced a sentry. Entering he perceived it
consisted of two rooms, divided by a board-partition. In the larger end
was a woman, surrounded by several children, cooking at an open-fire,
and in the other, the door and windows of which were open, for the
evening was sultry, were four officers in dishabille, seated round a
rickety table playing cards, and with a pewter-measure in the middle
of it. One of them rose on seeing the stranger, while the others
turned carelessly to examine him. Assuring himself he was addressing
the officer of the commissariat, Morton explained his business. “Oh,
that’s all right; the powder-kegs must remain in the boat and in the
morning I will get carts to forward them to the front. There’s an
empty box, Lieutenant Morton; pull it up and join us,” and hospitably
handed him the pewter-measure. It contained strong rum grog, of which
a mouthful sufficed Morton. Not so the others, who, in listening to
what he had to tell of the news of Montreal and of the movements of
the troops, emptied it, and shouted to the woman to refill it, and, at
the same time, she brought in the supper, consisting of fried fish and
potatoes. That disposed of, the cards were reproduced and the four were
evidently bent on making a night of it. On returning from seeing how
his men were quartered, Morton found that the grog and the excitement
of the card-playing were telling on his companions, who were noisy and
quarrelsome. Asking where he should sleep, the woman pointed to the
ladder that reached to a trap in the roof, and he quietly ascended.
It was merely a loft, with a small window in either gable and a few
buffalo robes and blankets laid on its loose flooring. The place was
so stiflingly hot that Morton knew sleep was out of the question even
if there had been no noise beneath, and he seated himself by the side
of one of the windows through which the wind came in puffs. The sky
was now partially clouded and the growl of distant thunder was heard.
Fatigue told on the young soldier and he dozed as he sat. A crash
of thunder awoke him. Startled he rose and was astonished to find
himself in utter darkness, save for the rays that came through the
chinks of the flooring from the candle beneath, where the officers
were still carousing. He leant out of the window and saw that the
moon had been blotted out by thick clouds. While gazing there was a
flash of lightning, revealing to him a man crouched beside the window
below. In the brief instant of intense light, Morton recognized the
spy, and guessed he was listening to the officers, hoping to pick
up information, in their drunken talk, of use to his employers. “He
cheated the provost-marshal, he cheated me, but he shall not escape
again,” muttered Morton, who drew his pistols, got them ready, and,
grasping one in each hand, leant out of the window to await the next
flash that he might take aim. It came and instantly Morton fired. The
unsuspecting spy yelled, jumped to his feet, and rushed to the cover
of the woods. Then all was darkness. A crash of thunder, the sweep of
the coming hurricane and the pelting of rain, increased the futility
of attempting to follow. “I hope I’ve done for him,” said Morton to
himself, “and that like a stricken fox he will die in cover.”

The pistol-shots together with the crash of the elements had put a stop
to the carousal downstairs and Morton heard them disputing as to who
should go up and see what had happened. “I will not go,” said one with
the deliberation of a stupidly drunk man. “I am an officer of the Royal
Engineers and have nothing to do with personal encounters. If you want
a line of circumvallation laid down, or the plan of a mine, I am ready,
but my commission says nothing about fighting with swords or pistols. I
know my office and how to maintain its dignity.”

“Yes, Hughes, and the integrity of your skin. I’d go myself (here he
rose and tried to steady himself by holding on to the table) but I’ll
be jiggered if I can go up such a stair-case as that. It would take a
son of a sea-cook,” and with these words, losing his grip, the speaker
toppled over and fell on the floor. The third officer, a mere lad,
was asleep in his chair in a drunken stupor. The commissariat officer
staggered to the foot of the ladder, and, after vainly attempting to
ascend, shouted, “I say you there; what’s all the shooting for? Are
you such a greenhorn as to be firing at mosquitoes or a bullfrog. By
George, when in company of gentlemen you should behave yourself. I will
report you to your shuperior officer,” and so he maundered on for a
while, receiving no answer from Morton. Finally the woman of the house
helped him to a corner, where he lay down and snored away the fumes of
the liquor that had overcome him. Meanwhile the storm raged, and when
it had passed away, and the moon again calmly came forth, and the frogs
again raised their chorus, Morton was too sleepy to think of going to
look for the body of the spy, and making as comfortable a bed as he
could, he lay down and rested until late next morning.


CHAPTER II.

On descending from his sleeping place, Morton found the woman preparing
breakfast, and, looking into the adjoining room, saw that three of
its inmates were still sleeping surrounded by the litter of their
night’s carousal. Stepping out of doors, he was surprised by the beauty
of the sylvan scene. The air had the freshness and the sky the deep
tender-blue that follows a thunder-storm, and the sunshine glittered
on the smooth surface of the river that, in all its windings, was
overhung by towering trees, except where small openings had been made
by the settlers, from which peeped their white shanties. The eminence
which had excited his curiosity the night before, he perceived to be
an island, with a largish house at its base, flanked by a wind-mill.
At the landing, was the bateau, with a group of men. Approaching them,
he found the captain, whose bloodshot eyes alone indicated his excess
of the preceding night. “Ah, Morton,” he exclaimed, “you were the only
wise man among us; you have your wits about you this morning. For me,
I had a few hours’ pleasure I now loathe to think of and a racking
headache. Come, let us have a swim and then go to breakfast.”

Following him to the nook he sought, Morton told of his shot at the
spy. The captain listened attentively to the story. “I hope you winged
him,” he said, “but he will escape. The settlers, except a few Old
Countrymen, are all in sympathy with the Yankees, and will shelter and
help him to get away. We cannot make a move that word is not sent to
the enemy. I will warn the Indians to look out for him. Had it not been
for the rain, they could trace him to his lair.”

On returning to the house, they found their comrades trying to make
themselves presentable and sat down to a breakfast of fried pork and
sour bread, to which Morton did ample justice. The commissariat officer
told him he could not start for some time, as carts were few and the
rain would have filled the holes in the track called a road. He could
have forwarded him more quickly by canoes, but there was a risk of
wetting the powder at the rapids. It was noon before sufficient carts
arrived to enable Morton to start, when a laborious journey ensued,
the soldiers being called on constantly to help the undaunted ponies
to drag the cart-wheels out of the holes in which they got mired. When
they had gone a few miles the carts halted and the kegs were placed
in boats, which conveyed them to their destination. Camp La Fourche
was found to consist of a few temporary buildings, or rather sheds,
which, with the barns and shanties of the settlers near by, housed a
few hundred men, of whom few were regulars. Morton’s orders were to
remain and time passed heavily, the only excitement being when a scout
came in with reports of the movements of the American army on the
frontier, which were generally exaggerated. The camp had been purposely
placed at the forks of the English and Chateaugay rivers, to afford
a base of operations against the invader, should he approach either
by way of the town of Champlain or of Chateaugay. Morton relieved the
tedium of waiting by hunting and fishing, for his proper duties were
slight. At first he did not venture into the woods without a guide,
but experience quickly taught one so active and keen of observation
sufficient bush-lore to venture alone with his pocket-compass. The
fishing, at that late season, was only tolerable, and while he enjoyed
to the full the delight of skimming the glassy stretches of both rivers
in a birch canoe, he preferred the more active motion and greater
variety of traversing the pathless woods with his gun. He had been in
camp over a week when he started for an afternoon’s exploring of the
woods. After an hour’s tramp he struck the trail of what he believed
to be a bear. Following it was such pleasant exercise of his ingenuity
that he took no note of time, and he had traversed miles of swamp and
ridge before prudence cried halt. The sun was sinking fast, and to
retrace his track was out of the question. He resolved to strike due
north, which he knew would take him to the Chateaugay where he would
find shelter for the night. The flush of the sunset was dying from
the sky when he emerged from the woods on the banks of the river,
which flowed dark and silent between the endless array of trees which
sentinelled it on either side. Threading his way downward he, in time,
came upon a clearing--a gap in the bush filled with ripening grain and
tasselled corn. The shanty, a very humble one, stood at the top of the
bank, with the river at its feet. Gratified at the prospect of rest, he
paused before swinging himself over the rude fence. There rose in the
evening air the sound of singing: it was a psalm-tune. The family were
at worship. Reverently the soldier uncovered his head and listened.
The psalm ended, he could hear the voice of supplication, though not
the words. When Morton approached the house he saw a heavily-built man
leave the door to meet him.

“Gude e’en, freen; ye’re oot late. But I see ye’re are o’ the military
and your wark caas ye at a’ hoors. Is there ony news o’ the Yankee
army?”

Morton explained he had not been on duty but had got belated in hunting
and craved the boon of shelter until morning, for which he would pay.

“Pay! say ye. A dog wearing the King’s colors wad be welcome to my
best. You maun be new to this country to think the poorest settler in
it wad grudge to share his bite with ony passerby. Come your ways; we
are richt glad to see you.”

Entering the shanty Morton was astounded at the contrast between the
homelike tidiness of the interior and the rudeness of the exterior,
everything being neatly arranged and of spotless cleanliness. “Truly,”
he thought, “it is not abundance that makes comfort, but the taste and
ingenuity to make the best of what we have.” The glow of the log-fire
in the open chimney was supplemented by the faint light afforded by a
candle made from deer-fat, which showed him a tall young woman, who
came forward to shake hands without the slightest embarrassment, an
elderly woman, evidently the mother, who kept her seat by the fire,
explaining she “wasna very weel,” and two stout young men.

“Sit in by the fire, Mr Morton; there is a snell touch in the evening
air that makes it no unpleasant, and Maggie will get ye something to
eat. An hae ye nae news frae the lines? Does it no beat a’ that thae
Yankees, wha mak such pretensions to be the only folk i’ the warld wha
understan what liberty is, should fail in practice? What hae we done
that they shud come in tae disturb us? Hae we nae richt to live doucely
and quietly under our appointed ruler, that they should come into our
ain country to harry and maybe kill us? Dod, they are a bonny lot! In
the name o’ freedom drawing the sword to help the oppressor of Europe
and the slaughterer of thousands of God’s children by creation, if no
by adoption.”

“We have the comfort,” replied Morton, “that they have not got Canada
yet.”

“An never will,” replied the settler, “there’s no an Auld Countryman
on the Chateaugay wha wad na sooner tint life an a’ than gie up his
independence. My sons an mysel are enrolled in Captain Ogilvie’s
company and mair Yankees than they count on will hansel it’s ground
afore they win oor puir biggin.”

“Dinna speak sae, gudeman,” said his wife, “tho’ the Lord may chastise
he will not deliver us to the oppressor, but, as with the Assyrian,
will cause him, gin he come doon on us, to hear a rumor that shall make
him to return to his own land. We are but a feeble folk here by the
river-side, but He winna fail them wha trust Him.”

Maggie here beckoned the young officer to draw to the table, and the
bread and milk tasted all the sweeter to him that they had been spread
by so winsome a damsel. After supper Morton was glad to fall in with
the family’s custom of going early to bed, and accompanying the lads,
whom he found to be frank, hearty fellows, to the outbuilding, slept
comfortably alongside them on top of the fragrant fodder. At daylight
they were astir, when their guest joined them in their labors, until
a shout from Maggie told of breakfast being ready. Seen by daylight
the favorable impression made upon Morton the previous evening was
deepened, and he did not know which most to admire, her tact which
never placed her at a disadvantage or the deftness with which she
discharged her household duties. Reluctantly he left, accepting readily
the invitation to revisit them. In a couple of hours he was in camp and
reported himself.

The acquaintance thus accidentally formed was cultivated by Morton,
and few evenings passed that his canoe did not end its journey at the
foot of the bank whence the settler’s shanty overlooked the Chateaugay.
The more he knew of the family the more he was attracted, and before
long he was on familiar terms with all its members. The inaction of
camp-life in the backwoods ceased to be wearisome and there was a glow
and a joyousness in his days which he had never before known. So it
came, that when, one afternoon, the orderly-sergeant notified him the
officer in command desired to see him, the prospect of being sent away
caused him a pang of vexation. His orders were to be ready to start
at daylight for the frontier with despatches for the Indian guard
and to collect what information he could with regard to the American
army encamped at Four Corners. “I trust to your discretion,” said the
officer, “as to what means you will use to get it, but we want to
know the extent of the force and the prospect of their moving. I will
give you an Indian as a guide, and one who speaks English.” Morton
withdrew, pleased that the order was not one of recall to his regiment
at Montreal, and spent the evening with the Forsyths. The news of his
departure, on an errand that involved some danger, even though it would
last only a few days, dampened the innocent mirth of the household and
the soldier was vain enough to think Maggie gave his hand a warmer
pressure than usual when he left. He rose with the first streak of
daylight and had finished his breakfast when he was told his guide
was waiting. Hastily strapping his cloak on his back and snatching up
his musket, he went out and beheld an Indian standing stolidly on the
road. Morton noted that he was taller than the average of his race,
and, despite his grizzled hair, gave every sign of unabated vigor. He
was dressed in native fashion and his face was hideous with war-paint.
Without uttering a word, he led the way and they were soon buried in
the woods. The Indian’s pace, considering the nature of the ground
and the obstacles presented, was marvellously rapid, and induced no
fatigue. Morton vigorously exerted himself to keep up with him and, as
he did so, admired the deftness with which the Indian passed obstacles
which he laboriously overcame. The ease and smoothness with which
the red man silently slipped through thickets and fallen trees, he
compared to the motion of a fish, and his own awkwardness to that of a
blindfolded man, who stumbled at every obstacle. They had travelled
thus for over two hours when suddenly the Indian halted, peered
carefully forward, and then signed to Morton to stand still. Falling on
his knees the guide crept, or rather glided forward. Disregarding his
sign, Morton shortly followed until the object of the Indian’s quest
came in sight. Three deer were grazing on a natural meadow by the side
of a creek. Slowly the hunter raised his gun and its report was the
first intimation the timid creatures had that an enemy was near. The
youngest and plumpest had fallen; the others bounded into the bush.
Standing over the graceful creature, whose sides still palpitated, the
Indian said, “Lift.” It was the first word he had uttered. Morton drew
the four hoofs together and did so. “Put on your shoulder,” added the
guide. Morton laughed and set the animal down; he could lift it but to
carry it was out of the question. Without moving a feature, the Indian
grasped the deer by its legs, swung it round his neck, and stepped out
as if the load were no burden, and which he bore until the swamp was
passed and a ridge was reached, when he tied the hoofs together with a
withe and swung the carcase from as lofty a branch as he could reach.
Half an hour afterwards he pointed to a slight disturbance in the
litter of the forest. “Indian passed here this morning.”

“How do you know it was an Indian?”

“By mark of moccasin.”

“But some white men wear moccasins.”

“Yes, but white man steps differently. The wild duck flies no more like
the tame duck than the Indian walks like the pale face.”

Following the trail thus struck, they were soon hailed by a scout and
in the midst of the camp of the frontier guard they sought. Morton
counted seventeen Indians lounging or sleeping about the fire, and was
told there were as many more lurking in the bush, watching the enemy,
who had, of late, been sending in strong parties to make petty raids
upon the few settlers who lived on the Canadian side of the boundary.
As the captain was absent and would not be back until the afternoon,
Morton could only await his return, and the rest was not unwelcome, for
the rapid journey had induced some fatigue, and he was interested in
watching the Indians, this being his first experience with them apart
from white men. They paid much deference to his guide, whose name he
now learned was Hemlock, and the Indian of whom he made enquiry told
him the reason was that he was the son of a great sachem in a tribe now
destroyed, and was “a big medicine.” Hemlock accepted their tributes
to his superiority with unmoved countenance and as a matter of course,
until, after a long pow-wow, he stretched himself on the ground,
face-downwards, and went to sleep. Associating the Indians with gloomy
moroseness, and a stolidity insensible alike to pain or mirth, Morton
was surprised to see how, when left to themselves, they chattered
like children, laughed, and played boyish tricks upon one another, and
regretted he could not understand what they were saying. If he had, he
would have found their talk was the shallowest of banter.

Late in the afternoon the captain returned and warmly welcomed Morton.
Although dressed like an Indian, his only distinguishing feature being
a captain’s scarlet sash, Captain Perrigo was a white man and English
in speech, his familiarity with the Indians and their language having
been acquired during his residence at Caughnawaga. He was thoroughly
conversant with all that was passing in the American camp and expressed
his belief that only the timidity of General Hampton prevented a move
on Canada. The force was so strong and well-equipped that he believed
it could not be checked until the island of Montreal was reached. “How
can so large an army move through these woods?” asked Morton; “why,
even your handful of Indians could cut up a regiment in half an hour.”

“You forget,” replied Perrigo, “that the larger part of these American
soldiers have been reared on farms and are familiar with the bush.
They are at home with the axe, and have scouts as well-trained to
bush-fighting as our own. Worse than that, many of the American
settlers who left the Chateaugay and the other Huntingdon settlements
at the declaration of war are with them as guides.”

“I should like to see the American army,” said Morton.

“That is easy; we reconnoitre their camp this evening and you may go
with us.”

By this time dinner was ready and it was more appetizing than Morton
looked for. Hemlock, on his arrival, had told where he had left the
carcase of the deer, which two of the Indians went for and returned
with it slung between them on a pole. This they had cooked along with
pieces of fat pork. The venison, for a wonder, proved to be tender and
succulent, and was eaten with biscuit, of which there was an abundance.
When the time came to move, Perrigo gave the word, when 28 of his men
fell into line, Hemlock and Morton accompanying them. They moved in
silence in single file, the fleetest runner of their number leading
about two hundred yards ahead, to see that the way was clear. No word
was spoken except when, on gaining the summit of a stony knoll, Perrigo
whispered to Morton that they had crossed the boundary and were in the
United States. As they proceeded they moved more slowly, showing they
were nearing the enemy, and twice their scout signalled to them to
halt while he reconnoitred. The second time Perrigo went forward and
they waited while he scanned the enemy’s position. On returning, they
moved westward, when the accustomed sound of the tramp of a numerous
body of troops met the ear of Morton, followed by the commands of the
adjutant. Motioning to Morton to follow him, Perrigo cautiously crept
forward to a clump of undergrowth, and peering through it the American
camp was seen. To the right stood the cluster of wooden buildings which
formed the village of Four Corners, and on the fields that sloped up
from it southwards, shone peacefully in the setting sun long rows of
white tents. On a small field between the camp and the village two
regiments were being drilled; at one corner was a body of mounted
officers observing them. The woods, in which the British party lay
concealed, so closely hemmed in the thin line of buildings that formed
the village, that the parade-ground was not over 300 yards distant.

Morton scanned the troops as they went through their evolutions and
marked, with some complacency, that, although tall and wiry men, they
were slouchy in their movements and marched like dock-laborers. “Could
we not give those fellows a fright?” he whispered to Perrigo.

“If we were sure their patrols are not out we could. If they are, they
might flank us.”

“No danger,” interposed Hemlock, “see!” and he pointed to the
guard-house, where the men detailed for the night’s patrols were
waiting.

“All right,” answered Perrigo, “I will send two or three to creep round
to the bush on the right to cause a diversion.”

“Stay,” said Morton, “I want to get a closer view and Hemlock will go
with me.”

It was so decided upon, and while they picked their way to the west,
Perrigo busied himself in extending his little force along the edge
of the woods, so as to make their numbers appear formidable. The
most dangerous part of Morton’s movement was crossing two roads, but
Hemlock, who knew the ground thoroughly, selected parts where there
were bends, so that they could not be seen by travellers approaching
either way. When Hemlock dropped on all fours and crept he was followed
by Morton, who found he was at the edge of the field on which the drill
was in progress. The troops had gone through the routine movements and
were drawn up in line, awaiting the inspection of the general officer,
who, with his escort, was riding from the lower part of the field. A
stout, elderly man rode in advance on a splendid black horse. Hemlock
whispered it was General Hampton. As they drew nearer Morton started in
amaze, for among his staff, despite his handsome uniform, he recognized
the countenance of the spy he had twice shot at. His astonishment was
checked by a gurgling sound of anger from his companion, and turning he
saw that Hemlock had partly risen, grasping his musket as if about to
fire, his face so swollen with rage that the cords of the neck stood
out. “Stop,” said Morton, as he clutched his buckskin jacket, “if
we fire now while they are in rank we are lost; wait until they are
dismissed and in disorder.”

“I care not; thrice have I missed him of late; now he falls and
Hemlock is revenged.” He pulled the trigger, but the flint snapped
harmlessly, for the priming had been lost. The disappointment restored
his self-possession and he drew back with a scowl that made Morton’s
flesh creep. On the cavalcade of officers came, chatting unconcernedly,
and wheeled within twenty yards of where Morton stood. He had a good
view of the spy’s face, and he thought he had never seen one where
cunning and selfishness were so strongly marked. “A man who would kill
his mother if she stood in his way,” muttered Morton. “And for his
passing pleasure tear out the heart of a father,” added Hemlock in a
bitter tone. They noticed how haughtily Gen. Hampton bore himself and
how superciliously he glanced at the men as he passed up and down their
ranks. When he had finished, he put spurs to his horse and galloped
towards the house in the village where his quarters were established,
followed by his escort. The troops were then dismissed and as each
company filed away in the early twilight towards its respective camp,
Morton said “Now is our time.” Hemlock rose, drew himself to his full
height, seemed for a few seconds to be gathering strength, and then let
out a screech, so piercing and terrific that Morton, who had not before
heard the war-whoop, would not have believed a human being could make
such a sound. It was the signal to Perrigo’s men, and they answered
from different parts of the bush in similar fashion. The American
soldiers, on their way to their tents, halted in amaze, while from
new and unexpected quarters, rose the blood-curdling yell, giving the
impression that they were being surrounded from the north and west by
a horde of Indians, a foe of whom they were in mortal dread. Taken by
surprise, they broke and ran towards the camp, and Morton could see
the inmates of the tents swarming out and running to meet them, as if
to find out the cause of alarm. Hemlock and Morton were now loading
and firing as quickly as they could, the former never intermitting his
ear-piercing shrieks, while the edge of the bush to their left was
dotted with puffs of smoke from the guns of Perrigo’s band. “O for
five hundred more!” cried Morton in his excitement, “and we would rout
this army of cowards.” The confusion and clamor in the camp increased
and the contradictory orders of officers were paid no heed to by men
who only wanted to know where they could fly to escape the detested
Indians. Amid the excitement rang out a bugle, and turning whence the
sound came, Morton saw it was from the General’s headquarters and
that, to its summons, horsemen were urging their way. “Huh!” exclaimed
Hemlock, “these are scouts; some of them Indians. We must go, for they
will hold the roads.” With a final yell he plunged into the bush and
Morton followed. They had not gone far when Hemlock turned and grasped
his shoulder. As they stood, the hoofs of advancing horses were heard.
The sound came nearer and Morton guessed they were riding along the
east and west road in front of where he stood and which they had been
about to cross. The troop swept past and then the order “Halt!” was
shouted. “Louis, take five men and scour the bush from the river up
until you hear from the party who are searching the bush from above.
The screeching devils who hid here cannot escape between you. We will
patrol the road and shoot them if they do.” The motion of the men
ordered to dismount was heard.

“Quick,” whispered Hemlock, “or they will be upon us,” and facing
westward he led to the brink of what seemed to be a precipice, from the
foot of which rose the sound of rushing water. Hemlock slipped his gun
into his belt in front of him and did the same with Morton’s, then,
before he knew what was meant, Morton was grasped in his iron clutch,
unable to move, his head tucked into his breast, and with a wild fling
over the edge of the bank they went rolling and crashing downwards,
through the bushes and shrubs that faced it. On they rolled until a
final bounce threw them into a pool of the river. Without a moment’s
delay, Hemlock caught Morton’s right arm and dragged him a considerable
distance down the narrow and shallow stream behind a clump of bushes.
Breathless and excited by the rapid motion, Morton sank prone on the
turf, while Hemlock, laying aside the guns, which the water had
rendered useless, drew his tomahawk, which he held ready for use, while
he bent forward listening intently. In a few minutes Morton became
conscious of men stealthily approaching, and devoutly thanked God when
he perceived they were all on the other side of the river from where
they were concealed. On they came, searching every place of possible
concealment, with a rapidity that only children of the woods can
attain. Soon they were directly opposite and passed on. Hemlock relaxed
his strained attitude, drew a long breath, and sat down beside Morton.
“They did not think we had time to cross the river, but when they do
not find us they will come back on this side.”

“What shall we do next?” asked Morton.

“Wait till it is dark enough to creep across the road at the bridge.”

“And if they come back before then?”

“Fight them,” abruptly answered Hemlock.

In the narrow gorge where they lay the gloom quickly gathered, and
it soon grew so dark that Morton’s fears as to the searching-party
returning were relieved. When the last streak of day had disappeared,
Hemlock led the way, and they crept as quickly as the nature of the
ground would permit down the river, whose noisy brawl blotted out the
sound they made.

Coming out at a pond, where the water had been dammed to drive a small
mill, Hemlock stopped and listened. The road with its bridge was
directly in front, and it was likely guards were there posted. As they
watched, the door of a house opened, and a man came out with a lantern.
It was the miller going to the mill. As he swung the light its beams
shone along the road, failing to reveal a sentinel. When he passed into
the mill, Hemlock led the way under the shade of the trees that fringed
the mill-pond, crossed the road, and down into the rocky bed of the
stream on the other side. Pausing to let Morton gain his breath after
the run, he said in his ear, “We are safe now and can wait for the
moon.”

“Can’t we rejoin Perrigo?” asked Morton.

“No; scouts in woods over there; hide tonight and go back tomorrow.”

The strain of excitement over, Morton stretched himself on the ferns
that abounded and quickly fell asleep.


CHAPTER III.

When Morton opened his eyes he found the dell, or rather gorge, for
the sides were almost precipitous though clad with vegetation, was
lit up by the moon, and Hemlock by his side, sitting Indian fashion,
clasping his knees. Without uttering a word, he rose on perceiving the
young officer was awake and lifted his gun to move on. Morton obeyed
the mute sign and they began to descend the bed of the stream. It was
a task of some difficulty, for it abounded in rocks and often there
was no foothold at the sides, the water laving the cliffs that formed
the banks. Had it not been that the season was an unusually dry one,
leaving the river bed largely bare, Morton could not have kept up with
his companion. Chilled by his wet garments, the exercise was rather
grateful to him and he exerted himself to overcome the obstacles in his
path. As they went on, the banks grew higher and the gorge more narrow,
until, turning a bend, Morton perceived the river dashed down a channel
cleft out of a rock, which rose a pillared wall on one side and on
the other had been rendered concave by the washing down of the debris
of ages. High above, shafts of moonlight struggled thru’ the foliage
and, falling irregularly on the sides, brought into ghastly relief the
nakedness of the walls of the rocky prison. Deeply impressed Morton
followed his guide down the gloomy chasm, whence the sound of falling
water came, and they passed two small falls. Below the lower one,
where the walls drew nearer, as if they grudged the scanty space they
had been affording the tumultuous stream for its passage, the cliffs
grew loftier. Hemlock halted, and pointing to a water-worn recess in
the rocks, that afforded some covering, said, “Sleep there.” Morton
lay down, but he was in no humor to sleep again. The magnificence of
the rock-hewn chamber in which he lay, with a giant cliff bending
over him, had excited his imagination, and his eyes wandered from the
foaming falls in front of him to the solemn heights, whose walls were
flecked with shrubs and topped by spruce trees. The contrast of the
unceasing noise and motion of the river with the eternal silence and
imperturbability of the rocks, deeply impressed him. Thus time passed
and when he had scanned the scene to his satisfaction, his interest
turned to his companion, who had left him and stood beneath a pillar
of rock higher than its fellows, where the chasm narrowed into a mere
tunnel. Evidently supposing that Morton was sound asleep, he was going
through those motions of incantation by which Indian medicine-men
profess to evoke the spirits. He writhed until his contortions were
horrible, while the working of his features showed he was inwardly
striving to induce an exalted and morbid condition of feeling. He smote
his breast resounding blows, he flung himself downwards on the rock
and shook himself until his body jerked with involuntary twitchings,
he shrieked in hollow tones and plucked at his hair, until the sweat
rolled down his cheeks. After a fit of hysterical laughter he sank in a
swoon, which lasted so long that Morton was debating whether he should
not go over to him. All this time the moon had been sailing upward and
now stood directly over the chasm, its beams transforming the foaming
river into a channel of milky whiteness and, where it broke into curls
at the falls, into streams of pearls, while the foliage that tempered
the stern outline of the rocks, bedewed by the spray that kept them
constantly moist, glistened as if sprinkled with diamond-dust. The
moonlight streamed on the prostrate body of the Indian, and as he awoke
from his trance and slowly raised himself, Morton read in his face a
wonderful change--a look of calmness and of supernatural ecstasy. With
great dignity he drew himself up and stepped forward a few paces until
he stood directly beneath the pillar of rock. Then he spoke: “Spirit
of the wood and stream, who loves this best of all thine abodes, come
to me. Hemlock seeks thee to help him. The wounded moose will never
breathe again the morning-air, the stricken pine-tree never put forth
fresh shoots, and Hemlock is wounded and stricken and growing old.
Shall the hand grow feeble before the blow is dealt, the eye grow
dim before mine enemy is slain, and my ear grow deaf before it hears
his death-groan? The leaves that fall rot and the water that passeth
returneth not; therefore, oh Spirit, grant to Hemlock his prayer, that
before night comes he may find whom he seeks. Again, this day, has he
escaped me, shielded by his medicine. Break the spell, O Spirit; take
away the charm that holds my arm when I aim the blow, and pluck away
the shield the evil ones hold over him! The eagle has his nest on the
hill and the fox his lair in the valley, but Hemlock has no home. The
doe fondles its fawn and the tired swallow is helped across the great
water on the wings of its sons, but Hemlock has no children. The light
of his eyes was taken from him, the joy of his heart was frozen. The
Yankee stole his land, slew his brothers, bewitched his only daughter,
and drove him away, and now he is a sick-struck man, whom none come
near. Spirit, grant the prayer of Hemlock; break the spell that binds
me, that I may taste the blood of mine enemy and I shall die happy.”

He paused and assumed a listening attitude as if awaiting an answer.
That in his morbid state of mind he fancied he heard the Spirit in
reply was evident, for he broke out again:

“I am desolate; my heart is very bitter. The smoke of the wigwams of my
clan rises no more; I alone am left. When the north wind tells where
are the leaves of last summer I will say where are the warriors of my
tribe. As the beaver the white man came among us, but he crushed us
like the bear; the serpent sings on the rock but he bites in the grass.
We were deceived and robbed of the lands of our fathers. Our destroyer
is near, he is on the war-path, his hatchet is raised against the Great
Father. Blind his eyes, trip his feet with magic, O Oki, and take the
spell from the arm of Hemlock. The eagle soars to the mountain when
the loon keeps to the valley; the snow-bird breasts the storm when the
moose seeks the cedar-brake: the wolf knows no master and the catamount
will not fly, so the Indian clings to his hunting-ground and will not
be the slave of the stranger. Spirit, help to destroy the destroyer and
to rob the robber. The hunted deer dies of his wounds in the strange
forest. The arrows of the Indian are nigh spent and he mourns alone.
The glory of our nation has faded as the fire of the forest in the
morning-sun, and few live to take revenge. Oki, speak, and strengthen
the heart of Hemlock for battle!”

The Indian fell prostrate before the gaunt pillar of stone to which he
spoke and lay there for some time. When he rose, there was a weary look
in his impassive features. “The Spirit has spoken: he tells Hemlock he
will answer him in a dream.” Advancing towards Morton he lay down and
fell asleep.

High above him shafts of sunlight were interwoven with the foliage
of the trees that overhung the crest of the chasm, forming a radiant
ceiling, when Morton awoke. The weirdly romantic gulf in which he lay,
coupled with the strange scenes of the night, caused him to think the
past was a dream, but going over the several details the sense of
reality was restored, and there, a few feet from him, was stretched the
sinewy form of the Indian. “Who could fancy that a being so stolid,
heavy, and matter-of-fact,” asked Morton of himself, “should show such
keenness of feeling and so active an imagination? And, yet, how little
we know of what sleeps in the bosoms of our fellows. Mark that sullen
pool above the cataract! How dead and commonplace its water appears.
It is swept over the brink and, breaking into a hundred new forms,
instantly reveals there dwelt dormant beneath its placid surface a life
and a beauty undreamt of. We are not all as we seem, and so with this
much-tried son of the forest.”

He rose to bathe his stiffened limbs in the river and the motion caused
Hemlock to spring to his feet. He glanced at the sky, and remarked that
he had slept too long. While Morton bathed, Hemlock busied himself
in contriving a scoop of withes and birch bark, with which, standing
beneath the fall, he quickly tossed out a number of trout. A flint
supplied fire and on the embers the fish as caught were laid to roast,
and whether it was so, or was due to his keen appetite, Morton thought
they tasted sweeter than when cleaned. With the biscuit in their
pouches, though wet, they made a fair breakfast. As they finished,
a faint echo of drums and fifes was wafted to them. “We will stay a
little while,” said Hemlock, “to let the scouts go back to camp, for
they would search the woods again this morning.”

“And what then?” asked Morton.

“We will go back to Perrigo, who is near-by.”

“Would they not fly to Canada after what they did?”

“Indians are like the snake. When it is hunted, it does not fly; it
hides. They are waiting for us.”

“Where were you taught to speak English so well, Hemlock?”

“I did not need to be taught; I learnt it with the Iroquois. I was born
near an English settlement and my choice companion was an English girl,
we played together, and were taught together by the missionary; long
after, she became my wife.”

“But you are not a Christian?”

“No; when I saw the white man’s ways I wanted not his religion.”

“And your wife, is she living?”

“Hemlock does not lay his heart open to the stranger; he is alone in
the world.”

Respecting his reserve, and tho’ curious to know if the guardian-spirit
of the chasm had spoken to him in his dreams, Morton changed the
subject, the more so as he did not wish his companion to know that
he had been the unwitting witness of his invocation ceremonial. He
asked about the chasm in whose solemn depths they found shelter, and
Hemlock told how it had been known to all the seven nations of the
Iroquois and regarded by them as a chosen abode of the spirits, the
more so as its origin was supernatural. There had been a very rainy
season and the beavers had their villages flooded and were in danger
of being destroyed. Two of them volunteered to visit the spirit-land
and beseech the help of their oki, which he promised. He came one dark
night and with a single flap of his tail smote the rock, splitting it
in two and allowing the waters to drain into the low country beneath.
Morton listened gravely, seeing his companion spoke in all seriousness,
and thought the tale might be an Indian version of the earthquake, or
other convulsion of nature, by which the bed of sandstone had been
rent asunder, and a channel thus afforded for the surplus waters of
the adjoining heights. The trees and bushes which had found an airy
foothold in crevices, and the weather-beaten and lichened faces of the
cliffs, told how remote that time must have been.

It was wearing on to noon before Hemlock considered it safe to move.
The delay they spent in cleaning their arms, and Morton, to his
regret, found that his powder was useless from being wet. The Indian,
more provident, had saved some in a water-proof pouch of otter skin,
but he had too little to do more than lend a single charge for his gun.
Morton took the opportunity to clean and arrange his uniform as he best
could and when ready to move felt he looked more as became an officer
of the King’s army than when he awoke. Hemlock led the way to where a
cleft in the wall of rocks afforded a possibility of ascent, and, with
the occasional aid of his outstretched arm, Morton managed to reach the
summit. When he had, he perceived he stood on a plain of table-rock,
the cleavage of which formed the chasm, of whose existence the explorer
could have no intimation until he reached its brink. They had not gone
far, until Hemlock halted and looked intently at the ground. “A party
of Yankees have passed here within an hour; a dozen or more of them.
See the trail of their muskets!”

“How do you know they have just passed?”

“The dew has not been dry here over an hour and they passed when it was
gone. They are searching for us, for one went to that bush there to see
no one was hiding.”

Morton looked perplexed, for nothing was more distasteful than to be
taken prisoner. “Had we not,” he suggested, “better return to the chasm
and wait for night?”

“It is too late,” replied Hemlock, “when they come back they would see
our trail and follow it. We will have to go on and if we get across
the road we are safe,” and without another word he went on until the
road was reached. On scanning it, before making a dash across, they
perceived, to their dismay, a mounted sentry so posted as to give a
clear view of the portion of the road they were standing by. Hemlock
gave a grunt of disappointment and returned into the bush and after
a few minutes’ rapid walking turned to Morton with the words, “You
stay here, until I go and see the road. Over there is the track of a
short-cut between Four Corners and the blockhouse, so if Yankees pass
they will keep to it and not see you. Do not leave until I come back.”

Morton threw himself on the grass to await his report, and the rest
was grateful, for the day was hot and their short tramp fast. The
minutes sped without sign of the Indian, who he conjectured was finding
it difficult to discover a clear passage. It was now plain that the
Americans had discovered their tracks of the preceding evening and
had established a cordon to ensure their capture. So absolute was
Morton’s faith in Hemlock’s skill that he felt little perturbed and
was confident they would be in Perrigo’s camp before long. Then his
thoughts wandered to a subject that had come of late to be pleasant to
him, to the household by the Chateaugay, and he saw in fancy Maggie
bustling about her daily tasks, and he smiled.

“In the name of the United States of America I command you to yield as
prisoner,” shouted a voice with a nasal twang.

Morton bounded to his feet. In front of him, within four yards, stood
the spy, holding a musket, with his finger on the trigger.

“I mout hev shot ye dead a-laying there,” he said, “but I mean to take
game like you alive. I can make more out o’ your skin when you can wag
yer tongue. Yield peaceable, young man, and giv up yer arms.”

“Yield! And to a spy! Never!” shouted Morton indignantly, and he sprang
like a panther at his foe. Quick as was his movement, the American
was not quite taken by surprise, for he fired, but the bullet missed.
The next moment Morton was on him and they grappled. Both were strong
men, but the American was older and had better staying power, and as
they wrestled Morton felt he would be thrown, when he bethought him of
a certain trip he had often used successfully in his school days. He
made the feint, put out his foot, and the American fell with a crash,
underneath him.

“Villain,” he whispered hoarsely, “you twice escaped me, but will not
again,” and he grasped his throat with one hand while he held his right
arm with the other.

“Quarter,” gasped the American, who was in danger of being choked, “I
yield.”

“Quarter to a spy!” exclaimed Morton.

“I ain’t no spy. I’m Major Slocum, brevet-rank, of Ginral Hampton’s
staff.”

“Not a spy! You were to have been shot for one.”

“I was on special service, when I was informed on by an ongrateful
cuss. I’m an honorable officer and appeal to yer honor as a Britisher.
Take my sword; I yield your prisoner.”

“If I let you go; will you lead me in safety across your lines, and
release my guide Hemlock, if he has been taken prisoner?”

“Sartainly I will; Slocum’s word is as good as his bond. Take your
hands off me and I will set you and your Injun to hum in an hour.”

Morton released his grasp, and stood up, drew his sword, and awaited
Slocum’s rising. With a deft movement the American thrust his hand
into his belt, drew a heavy, short-bladed knife, and shot it forward
from his palm with an ease and dexterity that indicated much practice.
Morton’s eye caught the gleam of the steel and he sprang back, and
in so doing saved his life, for the point of the blade, which would
have pierced his breast, stuck in his right thigh for an instant
and dropped out. In a towering passion of indignation, which made
him unconscious of the pain and flow of blood, he rushed upon the
American, who had sprung to his feet and lifted his sword in time to
foil Morton’s thrust. “Vile wretch, you shall die as traitors die!”
exclaimed Morton, and the clash of steel was incessant. He was much
the better swordsman, but his impetuosity and anger deprived him of the
advantage of his skill, and stepping backward, Slocum’s long sword,
wielded by his long arm, kept him at bay. Morton’s anger increased
with the difficulty in dealing a deadly thrust, until, in making a
lunge, he stumbled over a fallen log. Had he been unwounded he would
have instantly recovered himself. The wrench to his pierced leg shot
a thrill of agony to his heart, and the weakened knee refused its
office. In a moment Slocum had him on his back and planting his foot
on the bleeding wound, pressed it with all his might, while he placed
the point of his sword on his throat. A mocking leer lit up his yellow
face as he said composedly: “I don’t see how yer mother let you go out
alone; you’re green as garden-sass. Thought Major Slocum would be your
obedient servant and lead you and yer infernal Injun past the lines!
You poor trash of a Britisher! An you sucked in my talk about honor and
let go yer holt on my throat! You poor innocent, its like stabbing a
baby to put my sword through yer gizzard. Say, sonny, wouldn’t you like
to live?”

The pain of his wound was excruciating, yet Morton answered composedly,
“I’d die a thousand times before I would beg my life of you. I am
not the first of His Majesty’s service to have lost his life through
believing there was honor in an American officer.”

“I’m a citizen of the great Republic and will be doing a patriotic
dooty in killing you, and, like Washington, after hanging Andre, will
take a good square meal with the satisfactory feeling that there is a
red-coat less in the world. But there ain’t no comfort in killing a
chick like you. Say, what will ye give, if I let you go? I will take
an order on Montreal. Slocum ain’t the man to refuse to earn an honest
dollar and do a charitable action. Yer father maybe is a Lord or a
Dook, and he can come down handsum. Why don’t yer speak? I ain’t a mind
to do all the talking.”

“If I was fool enough to believe you and spare your life it is enough.
Torture me not with your dishonorable proposals. I can die as becomes a
British soldier.”

“Yer can, eh? Waal, what if I don’t mind to kill you? Perhaps Slocum
sees he can make more by toting you into camp. It ain’t every day a
British officer is caught and I mout get promotion. Kurnel Slocum would
sound well. Come now, hadn’t yer better sign a little order on your
father’s agents for a neat little sum, payable to Major Slocum for
vally received? Yer wound hurts, don’t it?” enquired Major Slocum with
a grin, as he thrust the toe of his boot into it. Involuntarily, Morton
gave a stifled shriek of pain and lay gasping, while his tormentor
looked down upon him with a smile, enjoying his sufferings. As Morton’s
eyes rolled in agony, the sight of Hemlock met their gaze. He was
stealing stealthily up behind Slocum, who stood all unconscious of his
danger, torturing his victim in the hope he would purchase his release.
Nearer the Indian came; his arms now opened out,--he stood behind
Slocum,--they closed,--he was in their grasp, and was thrown with a
heavy thud on the ground, when, Hemlock bound his arms and legs with
his sash. Then, with dreadful calmness, he drew his scalping-knife and
knelt, one knee on the breast of the prostrate man. “Many times you
have escaped me, Slocum, but you die now. The oki granted what I asked;
the spell is gone. I tracked you long, but now you are mine. I will not
kill you at once. You shall die by inches, and have a taste, before the
dark cloud swallows you, of the bitterness I have drank at your hands
for years.”

So saying, with infernal ingenuity, the heritage of his tribe in the
art of torture, he stripped Slocum of his clothing and proceeded to
draw cuts with his knife on different parts of the body, nowhere making
an incision any deeper than requisite to cause the quivering flesh to
feel the full pain. The wretched man plied the Indian with all manner
of promises to induce him to desist, and on seeing he was relentless
in his purpose, was about to shriek in the hope of attracting aid,
when Hemlock caught him by the throat, and snatching up handfuls of
forest-litter forced them into his mouth. Then he resumed his dreadful
task. Morton, who had alternated from a state of semi-stupor to that
of insensibility, looked on in his lucid intervals with sickened
horror, and begged Hemlock to desist. He paid not the slightest heed
but went on for hours, gloating over the agonies of his victim, and
adding a fresh wound as the others dulled. Alert even in his dreadful
employment, a rustle in the bush caught his ear, and he listened. “It
is the Yankee picket going to the blockhouse. If Hemlock could take you
with him he would, but you cannot travel. They will make you prisoner
and care for your wound. And now Hemlock must finish his revenge.” With
one swift sweep of the knife, he cut the throat of his now fainting
victim, with another he severed his scalp, and flourishing it above
his head, vanished in the woods. Immediately afterwards a body of blue
uniformed soldiers appeared, who shouted with surprise at seeing the
major, naked, stiff and scalped, and a wounded British officer lying
near him. Part hurried to each. As those who went to the side of Morton
stooped over him and moved him, he fainted.


CHAPTER IV.

When Morton recovered consciousness he found he was in a large
apartment, the sides formed of heavy logs, and surrounded by American
soldiers, who were talking excitedly of the discovery of the dead body
of Major Slocum. On seeing their prisoner was restored to his senses,
they plied him with questions, in the hope of clearing up the mystery,
but he felt so languid that he made no reply, and simply begged for
water. On the arrival of two ox-carts, the corpse was lifted into one
and the wounded man into the other. On being carried into the air,
Morton saw that the building he had been in was a small blockhouse, so
placed as to command the road which led to Canada. The jolting of the
cart during the short drive was agony to him, and he was thankful when
the log shanties of the village of Four Corners came in sight and the
rows of tents of the camp. The cart halted at the door of a tavern,
where he assumed the general must be, and soon an orderly came out and
directed the driver to an outhouse, into which two soldiers carried
him. It was a small, low-roofed stable, and in one of the stalls they
laid Morton. Closing the door, he was left in darkness, and so remained
until it reopened to admit what proved to be a surgeon. He examined
the wound, picked it clean, put in a few stitches, bound a wet-bandage
round it, and had a pail of water placed near. “You keep that cloth
wet,” he said to Morton, “and drink all you please, it will keep down
the fever, and you will be well in a week. You have only a flesh-cut;
had it been on the inside of the leg instead of the front you would
have been a dead man in five minutes.”

“I am very weak.”

“Yes; from loss of blood; I will send you some whisky and milk.”

When the attendant appeared with the stimulant, Morton sickened at
the smell of the whisky, but drank the milk. The man approved of the
arrangement and disposed of the whisky. Having placed clean straw
below Morton, he left him, barring the door. The soothing sensation of
the wet bandage lulled him to sleep, and he slumbered soundly until
awakened by the sound of voices at the door.

“Now, mem, you’d better go home and leave Jim alone.”

“You tell me he’s wounded, and who can nurse him better than his old
mother?”

“Be reasonable; the doctor said he was not to be disturbed.”

“Oh, I will see him; look what I have brought him--a napkin full of the
cakes he liked and this bottle of syrup.”

“Leave them, my good woman, with me and he will get them.”

“No, no, I must see my handsome boy in his uniform; my own Jimmy that
never left my side until he listed the day before yesterday. The sight
of me will be better than salve to his hurt.”

“I can’t let you in; you must go to the colonel for an order.”

“An order to see my own son! Jimmy, don’t you hear me; tell the man to
let me in to you. (A pause.) Are you sleeping, Jimmy? It’s your mother
has come to see you. (Here she knocked). Are you much hurt? Just a
scratch, they tell me; perhaps they will let you go home with me till
it heals. O, Jimmy, I miss you sorely at home.”

Again the woman knocked and placing her ear to a crack in the door
listened.

“He ain’t moving! Soger man, tell me true, is my Jimmy here?”

“He is, mem; you must go to the colonel. I cannot let you in; I must
obey orders.”

“If Jimmy is here, then he must be worse than they told me.”

“Very likely, mem; it is always best to be prepared for the worst.”

“He may be dyin’ for all you know. Do let me in.”

“There is the captain passing; ask him.”

“What’s wanted, Bill?”

“This is Jimmy’s mother and she wants to see him. Come and tell her.”

“That I won’t,” answered the captain, with an oath, “I want to have a
hand in no scene; do as you like to break it to the old woman,” and on
the captain passed.

“What does he mean? Jimmy ain’t to be punished, is he? He would not do
wrong. It was just Tuesday week he went to the pasture for the cows and
as he came back, there marched a lot of sogers, with flags aflying and
drums and fifes playin’ beautiful. ‘O, mother,’ says he, ‘I would like
to join em,’ an he kept acoaxin an aworryin me until I let him come up
to the Corners an take the bounty, which he brings back to me, dressed
in his fine clothes, the lovely boy.”

“Now, good woman, you go home an’ I will send you word of him.”

“That I won’t; if Jimmy is here I see him. Word came this morning that
the Injuns had sprang on to the camp an’ there was a soger killed,
stone dead, an’ two taken prisoners. An’, says I, lucky Jimmy ain’t one
of them, for so they told me, an’ I will hurry up my chores an’ go and
see him this evenin’, an’ here I am. An’ at the camp they tells me he
is over here, and won’t you let me see him?”

“Your Jimmy, mem, yes, your Jimmy is----By God, I can’t speak the word.
Here, take the key and go in; you’ll find him right in front o’ the
door.”

The door opened and Morton saw a tidy little woman, poorly dressed,
step in. She looked wonderingly around, glancing at him in her search
for her son. Not seeing him, she stepped lightly towards a heap
covered with an army blanket, of which she lifted a corner, gave a
pitiful cry, and fell sobbing on what lay beneath. To his horror and
pity, Morton perceived it was the corpse of a youth, the head with a
bloody patch on the crown, from having been scalped. “This is what
Perrigo’s men did,” he thought, “and this is war.” Here two women,
warned by the sentry of what was passing, entered and did what they
could to soothe the inconsolable mother. The succeeding half hour,
during which preparations were made for burial, was accounted by
Morton the saddest in his life, and when the detachment arrived with
a coffin to take the body away, and he saw it leave, followed by the
heart-broken mother, he breathed a sigh of relief and took a mental
oath that it would go ill with him if he did not help the poor woman to
the day of her death.

Some biscuit were brought to him, the bucket refilled with
spring-water, the door closed, and barred, and he was left for the
night. Weakness from loss of blood made him drowsy, and forgetting
his miserable situation, he slept soundly until next morning, when he
woke feeling more like himself than he could have believed possible.
His wound felt easy and he was glad to find he could move without much
pain. The doctor looked in, nodded approval of his condition, and
said he would send him breakfast, after partaking of which Morton
turned his attention to his personal appearance, and with the aid
of water, which the sentry got him as wanted, improved it somewhat.
The day passed without incident, no one interrupting the monotony of
his imprisonment. From the sound of wagon-wheels and the hurrying of
messengers to and from the tavern, he surmised the army was preparing
to move, and that in the bustle he was forgotten. The following morning
his vigor had returned to such a degree that he fell to examining his
prison-house and so far as he could, by peeping through crevices in its
walls of logs, his surroundings, with a view to endeavoring to escape.
He had finished breakfast, when an officer appeared, who introduced
himself as Captain Thomas of the staff and announced that the General
wished to see him. By leaning rather heavily on the American, who
proved to be a gentlemanly fellow, Morton managed to hobble the short
distance to Smith’s tavern, and was led directly to the General’s room.
On entering, Morton saw a fine-looking old gentleman of dignified
bearing, whom he recognized as the one he saw inspecting the troops on
the evening of the surprise. He sat in a rocking-chair and before him
stood a rough-looking farmer, with whom he was speaking. Waving Morton
to take a seat, he went on with his conversation.

“You tell me your name is Jacob Manning and that you are acquainted
with every inch of the country between here and Montreal. I will
give you a horse from my own stud, which no Canadian can come within
wind of, and you will go to the British camp and bring me word of its
strength?”

“No, sir,” replied the backwoodsman.

“You will be richly rewarded.”

“That’s no inducement.”

“Fellow, you forget you are my prisoner, and that I can order you to be
shot.”

“No, I don’t, but I’d rather be shot than betray my country.”

“Your country! You are American born. What’s Canada to you?”

“True enough, General, I was brought up on the banks of the Hudson and
would have been there yet but for the infernal Whigs, who robbed us
first of our horses, then of our kewows, and last of all of our farms,
and called their thievery patriotism. If we Tories hadn’t had so much
property, there wouldn’t a ben so many George Washington-Tom Jefferson
patriots. When we were hunted from our birthplace for the crime of
being loyal to the good King we were born under, we found shelter
and freedom in Canada, and, by God, sir, there ain’t a United Empire
loyalist among us that wouldn’t fight and die for Canada.”

“You rude boor,” retorted Gen. Hampton hotly, “we have come to give
liberty to Canada, and our armies will be welcomed by its down-trodden
people as their deliverers. I have reports and letters to that effect
from Montreal and, best of all, the personal report of one of my
staff, now dead, sent on a special mission.”

“Don’t trust ’em, General. We who came from the States know what you
mean by liberty--freedom to swallow Whigery and persecution if you
refuse. The Old Countrymen are stiff as hickory against you, and the
French--why, at heart, they are against both.”

“It is false, sir. I have filled up my regiments since I came to this
frontier with French.”

“It wa’nt for love of you; it was for your $40 bounty.”

The General rose and throwing open the shutter, closed to exclude the
sunshine, revealed the army in review; masses of infantry moving with
passable precision, a long train of artillery, and a dashing corps of
cavalry. Proudly turning to the farmer he said,

“What can stop the sweep of such an army? England may well halt in
her guilty career at the sight of these embattled sons of liberty and
loosen her bloody clutch upon this continent of the New World.”

Neither the sight of the army nor the pompous speech of the General
appalled the stout farmer, who replied, “The red-coats will make short
work of ’em, and if you don’t want to go to Halifax you’d better not
cross the lines.”

General Hampton made no reply, his good-sense apparently checking his
pride, by suggesting the folly of arguing with a backwoodsman, who
had chanced to be taken prisoner in a foray. Summoning an orderly, he
commanded that Manning be taken back to prison and not released until
the army moved.

“And now, Lieutenant Morton, for so I understand you are named, you are
the latest arrival from Canada; and what did they say of the Army of
the North when you left?”

“They were wondering when they would have the pleasure of seeing it,”
replied Morton.

“Ha! it is well to so dissemble the terror our presence on the frontier
has stricken into the mercenaries of a falling monarchy. They will see
the cohorts of the Republic soon enough: ere another sun has risen we
may have crossed the Rubicon.”

“The wonder expressed at every mess-table has been the cause of your
tarrying here.”

“So I am the topic of the conversation of your military circles,” said
Hampton, with a pleased expression. “And what was their surmise as to
the cause of my tarrying here.”

“That you were awaiting orders from General Wilkinson.”

The General sprung to his feet in anger and excitement. “What! Do they
so insult me? Look you, young man, are you telling the truth or dare
come here to beard me?”

“On my honor, General Hampton, I only repeat what I have heard a
hundred times.”

“Then, when you hear it again, that I await the orders of that impudent
pill-maker who masquerades at Oswego as a general, say it is a lie!
General Hampton takes no orders from him; he despises him as a man and
as a soldier--a soldier, quotha! A political mountebank, a tippler
and a poltroon. Here I have been, ready to pluck up the last vestige
of British authority on this continent for two months past, and been
hindered by the government entrusting the Western wing of my army to a
craven who refuses to recognize my authority and who lets I would wait
on I dare not.”

“I meant no offence by my statement,” said Morton, as the General
paused in striding the room.

“It is well for you that you did not, for I brook no aspersion upon my
independence or my reputation as a veteran who has done somewhat to
deserve well of his country, and that is implied in alleging, I take my
orders from Wilkinson.”

Morton reiterated his regret at having unwittingly given offence and
would assure the General that he had entertained so high an opinion
of him that he did not attribute to him the harsh treatment he had
received since taken prisoner. Asked of what he complained, he told of
his having been thrust into a miserable stable and having received no
such attention as is universally accorded to a wounded officer in camp.

The General smiled somewhat grimly as he said: “Lieut. Morton, your
treatment is no criterion of our hospitality to those whom the
fortunes of war throw into our hands. You forget that you were made
prisoner under most suspicious circumstances. You were found lying
wounded beside the mutilated corpse of that influential citizen who,
I may so express it, stepped from the political into the military
arena, the late Major Slocum, and everything points to your having been
associated with those who slew him and violated his remains. Apart
from that grave circumstance, the mere fact of your being found on the
territory of the United States government would justify my ordering
your execution as a spy.”

“Sir,” indignantly interrupted Morton, “I am no spy. My uniform shows
I am an officer of the King’s army and I came upon American soil
engaged in lawful warfare, declared not by King George but by your own
government. I am a prisoner-of-war but no spy.”

“It is undoubted that you consorted with Indians, that you were
present with them in the childish attempt to surprise my army the
other evening, and that you were with one or more redskins when Major
Slocum offered up his life on the altar of his country in a manner that
befitted so celebrated a patriot, who to his laurels as a statesman had
added those of a soldier. You must understand, for you appear to be a
man of parts and education, that Indians and those who associate with
them are not recognized as entitled to the rights of war. They are
shot or hung as barbarous murderers without trial.”

“If that is your law, General, how comes it that you have Indians in
your army?”

The General looked nonplussed for a moment. “Our Indians,” he answered,
“are not in the same category. They have embraced the allegiance of a
free government; yours are wild wretches, refugees from our domain and
fugitives from our justice, and now the minions of a bloody despotism.”

“I do not see that if it is right for your government to avail
themselves of the skill of Indians as scouts and guides that it can be
wrong for His Majesty’s government to do the same. Between the painted
savages I perceived in your camp and those in the King’s service, I
could distinguish no difference.”

“Keep your argument for the court martial which, tho’ I do not consider
you entitled, I may grant. Leaving that aside, sir, and reminding you
of your perilous position, I would demand whether you are disposed
to make compensation, so far as in your power, to the government of
the United States by giving information that would be useful in the
present crisis? As an officer, you must know much of the strength
and disposition of the British force who stand in my onward path to
Montreal.”

Morton’s face, pale from his recent wound and confinement, flushed. “If
you mean, sir, that you offer me the choice of proving traitor or of
a rope, you know little of the honor of a British soldier or of his
sense of duty. It is in your power to hang me, but not to make me false
to my country and my King.”

“Come, come young man; do not impute dishonor to a Southerner and a
gentleman who bore a commission in the Continental army. Leave me,
who am so much older and, before you were born, saw service under the
immortal Washington, to judge of what is military ethics. We are alone,
and as a gentleman speaking to a gentleman, I demand whether you are
going to give me information useful in the movement I am about to make
upon Montreal?”

“You have had my answer.”

The General took up a pen, wrote a few lines, and then rang a bell.
Captain Thomas entered. “Take this and conduct the prisoner away,”
said the General handing him a folded paper. Morton bowed and left the
room, fully believing that the missive was an order for his execution.
Conducted back to the stable, he threw himself on his straw-heap,
indignant and yet mortified at being treated as a spy. He thought of
his relations, of his comrades, of his impending disgraceful death,
and then clenched his teeth as he resolved he would not plead with his
captors but die without a murmur.

The marching of a body of men was heard without. They halted and the
door was thrown open. The officer in command said he had come to
escort him to the court-martial. Morton gave no sign of surprise and
limped as firmly as he could, surrounded by the files of men, to the
tent where the court was awaiting him. The clerk read the charges,
which were, that he was a spy, that he had associated himself with
Indian marauders in an attack on the camp and, that he had been an
accomplice in the murder of Major Slocum. In reply to the usual
question of guilty or not guilty, Morton answered that he scorned to
plead to such charges, that his uniform was the best reply to his being
a spy and if they doubted his right to wear it, he referred them to
Major Stovin at Camp la Fourche; that he had made war in a lawful way
and with men regularly enrolled in the British service, and, before
God, he protested he had no hand in the killing of Major Slocum.
“That,” said the presiding officer, “is equivalent to your pleading not
guilty. The prosecutor will now have to adduce proof of the charges.”

The only witnesses were the soldiers who had found him lying in the
bush beside the corpse of Major Slocum. Morton peremptorily refused
to answer questions. “You place us in a painful position, Lieutenant
Morton, by refusing to answer, for we must conclude that you can give
no satisfactory explanation of the circumstances under which you
were captured. A foul, a diabolical murder has been committed, and
everything points to you as being, at least, a party to it. Your
wound in itself is witness against you that you assailed our late
comrade-in-arms.”

Morton rose to his feet, and holding up his hand said: “Gentlemen,
I stand before you expecting to receive sentence of death and to be
shortly in presence of my Maker. At this solemn moment, I repeat my
declaration, that I had no part in the death of Major Slocum, that I
did not consent to it and that if it had been in my power I would have
saved him.”

“I submit, Mr President,” said a member of the court, “that the
statement we have just heard is tantamount to Lieutenant Morton’s
declaring he knows how and by whom Major Slocum came to his death. As
one who has practised law many years, I assert that the statement just
made is a confession of judgment, unless the defendant informs the
court who actually committed the murder and declares his willingness to
give evidence for the state. If a man admits he was witness to a murder
and will not tell who did it, the court may conclude he withholds the
information for evil purpose, and is justified in sentencing him as
an abettor at least. In this case, the wound of the accused points to
his being the principal. Before falling, Major Slocum, in his heroic
defence, deals a disabling wound to this pretended British officer who
thereupon leaves it to his associated red-skins to finish him and wreak
their deviltry on the corpse.”

“The opinion you have heard,” said the presiding-officer, “commends
itself to this board. What have you to say in reply?”

“Nothing,” answered Morton.

“We will give you another chance. We cannot pass over the murder of
a brother officer. Only strict measures have prevented many citizens
in our ranks, who esteemed Major Slocum as one of their political
leaders and of popular qualities, from taking summary vengeance upon
you. We make this offer to you: make a clean breast of it, tell us who
committed the murder, give us such assistance as may enable us to track
the perpetrator, and, on his capture, we will set you free.”

“And if I refuse,” asked Morton, “what then?”

“You will be hanged at evening parade.”

“With that alternative, so revolting to a soldier, I refuse your offer.
What the circumstances are which bind me to silence, I cannot, as a man
of honor, tell, but I again affirm my innocence.”

“Lieutenant Morton, what say you: the gallows or your informing us of a
cruel murderer: which do you choose?”

“I choose neither; I alike deny your right to take my life or to extort
what I choose not to tell.”

“Withdraw the prisoner,” ordered the presiding-officer, “while the
court consults,” and Morton was led a few yards away from the tent.
He could hear the voice of eager debate and one speaker in his warmth
fairly shouted, “He must be made to tell; we’ll squeeze it out of
him,” and then followed a long colloquy. An hour had passed when he was
recalled.

“We have deliberated on the evidence in your case, Lieutenant Morton;
and the clerk will read the finding of the court.”

From a sheet of foolscap the clerk read a long minute, finding the
prisoner guilty on each count.

Standing up and adjusting his sword, the presiding officer said, “It
only remains to pronounce sentence: it is, that you be hanged between
the hours of five and six o’clock this day.”

Morton bowed and asked if the sentence had been confirmed by the
commanding-officer. “It has been submitted and approved,” was the reply.

“In the brief space of time that remains to me,” said Morton in a firm
voice, “may I crave the treatment that befits my rank in so far that I
may be furnished with facilities for writing a few letters?”

“You may remain here and when done writing, the guard will conduct you
back whence you came, there to remain until execution.” With these
words he rose, and the others followed, leaving Morton alone with the
clerk and the captain of his guard. He wrote three letters,--to Major
Stovin, to his colonel, and the longest to his relatives across the
Atlantic,--being careful in all to say nothing about Hemlock, for he
suspected the Americans would read them before sending. When done, he
was taken back to the stable, and left in darkness. He had abandoned
all hope: his voyage across life’s ocean was nearly ended, and already
he thought the mountain-tops of the unknown country he was soon to
set foot upon loomed dimly on his inward eye. The hour which comes to
all, when the things of this life shrink into nothingness, was upon
him, and the truths of revelation became to him the only actualities.
The communings of that time are sacred from record: enough to say,
they left a sobering and elevating influence on his character. He was
perfectly composed when he heard the guard return, and quietly took
his place in the centre of the hollow square. On the field used as a
parade ground he saw the troops drawn up in double line. At one end
were the preparations for his execution, a noose dangling from the limb
of a tree and a rough box beneath to serve as his coffin. There was
not a whisper or a movement as he passed slowly up between the lines
of troops. It seemed to him there was unnecessary delay in completing
the arrangements; and that the preliminaries were drawn out to a degree
that was agonizing to him. At last, however, his arms were pinioned
and the noose adjusted. The officer who had presided at his trial
approached “By authority of the General,” he whispered, “I repeat the
offer made you: assist us to secure the murderer of Major Slocum and
you get your life and liberty.”

Morton simply answered, “Good friend, for Jesu’s sake, leave me alone.”

The word was not given to haul the tackle and Morton stood facing the
assembled ranks for what seemed to him to be an age, though it was only
a few minutes. The bitterness of death was passed and the calmness of
resignation filled his soul. Again the officer spoke, “What say you,
Lieutenant Morton?” Morton merely shook his head. Presently a horseman
was seen to leave the General’s quarters and an orderly rode up. “By
command of the General, the execution is postponed.” Morton’s first
feeling was that of disappointment.

As he was hurried back to the stable, the order dismissing the troops
was given. As they broke up, a soldier remarked to his comrade, “They’d
sooner have him squeal than stretch his neck.”


CHAPTER V.

On the afternoon of the second day after the events of last chapter,
Allan Forsyth returned from his daily visit to Camp la Fourche excited
and indignant. “What think ye,” he said to his wife and Maggie,
“Lieutenant Morton is in the hands o’ the Yankees and they’re gaun to
hang him.”

Maggie paled and involuntarily stepped nearer her father.

“The deils that they be; hoo did they get haud o’ him?” asked Mrs
Forsyth.

“The story is sune tell’t,” replied her husband. “He was sent, as ye
ken, wi’ a despatch to the lines; while there he took part in a bit
skirmish, an’ the day after was found by the Yankees lyin’ wounded in
the woods beside the body o’ a Yankee officer.”

“Weel, they canna hang him for that. Gin the Yankees will fecht, they
maun expect to be kilt.”

“Ah, ye dinna understan. They say their officer wasna kilt in regular
coorse o’ war. The body was scalped and carvt in a gruesome fashion,
showing plainly the hand o’ the Indian, an’ they hold Mr Morton
accountable.”

“But he didna scalp the Yankee?”

“True, gudewife, but he winna tell them wha did. His sword they found
beside the corpse, showing they had been in mortal combat.”

“Is he sorely wounded?” asked Maggie.

“I canna say for that. It’s no likely, for they had him oot ae evening
to hang him, and took a better thocht when he was below the gallows.”

“How did you hear all this?”

“A messenger came in today with letters from him, sent across the lines
under a flag o’ truce. It was said in camp Major Stovin was stampin’
angry and was going to write back that gin a hair o’ the Lieutenant’s
head is harmed he will hang every Yankee officer that fa’s into his
hans. I gaed ower to see the messenger and he tell’t me the word went
that Morton defied General Hampton and his officers to do their worst,
that, to save his life, he wadna bring disgrace on his commission.”

“Who is the messenger: has he gone back?”

“He’s a young lad, a son o’ ane o’ the settlers in Hinchinbrook. He
goes back tomorrow with letters from Major Stovin.”

“Will he see Morton?”

“No, no: to be sure thae folk on the lines gang back an’ forrit, but
they’re no likely to let him near. His letters will be taken at the
outposts.”

“Do you think Major Stovin’s letter will save him?”

“That it won’t. The lad said the Yankees were fair wud ower the death
o’ their officer an’ will hang puir Morton to a dead certainty gin he
doesna reveal to them wha did the deed.”

“An’ for what will he no tell?” asked Mrs Forsyth.

“That he kens best. Maybe gratitude to an Indian ca’d Hemlock seals his
lips, for oor men believe he was with him at the time.”

“What does Hemlock say?” interjected Maggie.

“He’s no in camp. He came back three days ago and left for Oka, where
he bides.”

Until bedtime Morton was the subject of conversation, and the more they
talked of him the keener their interest grew in his serious situation.
That one whom they had learned to like and respect so much should die
an ignominious death shocked them, and even Mrs Forsyth was constrained
to say, that much as she disliked Yankees, “Gin I were near eneuch to
walk to him, I wad gang on my knees to Hampton to beg his life.”

Next morning, while engaged in the stable, Mr Forsyth was surprised by
the appearance of his daughter.

“Hey, my woman, what’s garrd you to come oot in the grey o’ the
mornin’? Time eneuch an hour frae this.”

“Father, I could not sleep and I wanted to speak to you. If Hemlock was
brought back, would he not save Morton?”

“Ah, he winna come back. Doubtless he kens the Yankees wad rax his neck
for him. His leevin for hame shows he is afeard o’ what he has dune.”

“Yet there’s no other hope of saving Morton.”

“Too true; gin the actual slayer o’ the officer is not surrendered
within a few days poor Morton will suffer.”

“Well, then, father, you cannot go to seek for Hemlock, and my brothers
would not be allowed to leave their duty in camp, so I will go. I can
be in Oka before dark and will see Hemlock.”

“Dinna think o’ such a thing,” entreated the father, “the road is
lang an’ the Indian wad just laugh at you gin you found him, which is
dootful.”

A favorite child has little difficulty in persuading a parent, and
before many minutes Mr Forsyth was won over, declaring “it wad be
a shame gin we did naething to try an’ save the puir lad.” It was
arranged she should go at once, the father undertaking to break
the news to his wife. All her other preparations having been made
beforehand, the slipping of a plaid over her head and shoulders
rendered her fit for the journey, and with a cheery goodbye to her
father she stepped quickly away. She went to the camp at La Fourche,
where she surprised her brothers and got them to search out the
messenger who had brought the startling tidings. She had a talk with
him, learning all he knew of Morton. Then she went to see the Indians
in camp, who readily enough told what little they knew of Hemlock. They
believed he was at Oka and did not expect him back, as he said he
would join the force that was being assembled above Cornwall to meet
Wilkinson. Thus informed she took the road, a mere bush track, that
led to Annfield Mills, now known as the town of Beauharnois, which she
reached in the course of two hours or so and walked straight to the
house of the only person in it who she thought could help her. It was a
log-shanty built on the angle where the St Louis rushes brawling past
and the calm waters of the bay, and was of unusual length, the front
end being devoted to the purposes of an office. The door stood open and
Maggie walked into a little den, in one corner of which stood a desk
with pigeon-holes stuffed with papers, and beside it were a few shelves
filled with bottles and odds-and-ends, the whole dusty, dark, and
smelling of tobacco. At the desk sat a little man, dressed in blue with
large gilt buttons.

“Oh, ho, is this you, Maggie Forsyth? Often have I gone to see you, but
this is the first time you have dropped in to see me.”

“See you, you withered auld stick! I just dropped in to speer a few
questions at you.”

“Auld stick, Mag; I’m no sae auld that I canna loe ye.”

“Maybe, but I dinna loe you.”

“Look here, lassie; see this bit airn kistie; its fu o’ siller dollars;
eneuch to varnish an auld stick an keep a silken gown on yer back every
day o’ the year.”

“An eneuch in thae dirty bottles to pooshen me when ye wad?”

“Ha, ha, my lass; see what it is to hae lear. I didna gang four lang
sessions to new college, Aberdeen, for naething. I can heal as well as
pooshen. It’s no every lassie has a chance to get a man o’ my means and
learnin.”

“Aye, an its no every lassie that wad want them alang wi’ an auld
wizened body.”

“Hech, Mag, ye’re wit is ower sharp. When a man’s going down hill, ilka
body gies him a jundie. If ye winna, anither will, but we’ll let that
flee stick i’ the wa’ for awhile. Where is your faither?”

“At hame: I just walked ower.”

“Walked ower yer lane, an a’ thae sogers an’ Indians roun!”

“If yer ceevil ye’ll meet wi’ ceevilty, Mr Milne; an’ I’m gaun farther
this day, an’ just looked in for yer advice.”

“Oh ye maun hae a drap after your walk,” and here he pulled out a big
watch from his fob. “Gracious! it is 20 minutes ayont my time for a
dram.”

Stooping beneath the table that answered for a counter, he filled a
grimy tin measure, which he tendered to Maggie, who shook her head.
“Na, na, I dinna touch it.”

Finding persistence useless, he raised the vessel to his mouth and with
a “Here’s tae ye,” emptied it. “Hech, that does me guid,--but no for
lang. Noo, lass, what can I do to serve you?”

Maggie unreservedly told him all. “An’ what’s this young Morton to you?”

“Naething mair than ony neebur lad.”

“Tell that to my grannie,” said the old buck, “I can see through a whin
stane as far as onybody an’ noo unnerstan why ye turn yer back on a
graduate o’ new college, Aberdeen, wi’ a kist o’ siller, and a’ for a
penniless leftenant.”

“Think what thochts ye may, Mr Milne, but they’re far astray. The lad
is naething to me nor me to him. I am going to Oka because nae man-body
is allowed to leave the camp, and I couldna stay at hame gin it was in
my power to save a fellow-creature’s life.”

“An what can I do to help you to save him?”

“Help me to reach Oka and find Hemlock.”

“Were it no for thae stoury war-times I wad get out my boat and gang
mysel’, and there’s naebody to send wi’ you. My lass, gif ye’ll no turn
hame again, ye’ll have to walk the road your lane.”

“I hae set my face to the task an’ I’ll no gang hame.”

“Weel, then, ye’ll hae a snack wi’ me an’ I’ll direct ye as well as may
be.”

A few rods up the St Louis, in the centre of the stream, where it
trickled over a series of rocky shelves, stood a small mill, and on the
adjoining bank the house of the miller, and thither they went and had
something to eat. The miller’s wife, a good-looking woman, could not
speak English, but made up her lack in lively gesticulations, while
Maggie helped the common understanding with odd words and phrases in
French. Justice done to the food hurriedly spread before them, Maggie
walked back with Milne until they stood in front of the house.

“There,” he said, pointing to planks resting on big stones, “you cross
the St Louis and keep the track until you come to the first house after
you pass the rapids. It is not far, but the road is shockingly bad.
There you will ask them to ferry you to the other side, when you’ve a
long walk to the Ottawa before you. I’d advise you to turn yet.” Maggie
shook her head decisively. “Weel, weel, so be it; he that will to
Cupar maun to Cupar. Here tak this,” and he put in her hand two silver
dollars.

Maggie winced. “I’ll hae nae need o’ siller.”

“Ye dinna ken; ye may get into trouble that money will help you out o’.
Dinna fear to take it; I’ve made (and here his voice sank to a whisper)
I’ve made a hunner o’ thae bricht lads by ae guid run o’ brandy kegs
across the Hinchinbrook line. It’s Yankee siller.”

Maggie smiled and, as if the questionable mode of their acquisition
justified their acceptance, clasped them, and nodding to the little
man, tripped her way to the other side of the river. The road, as
predicted, proved execrable. Walled in and shadowed by trees, neither
breeze nor sunlight penetrated to dry it, and it was a succession
of holes filled with liquid mud. So bad was it, that an attempt to
haul a small cannon along it had to be abandoned despite the efforts
of horses, oxen, and a party of blue jackets. Tripping from side to
side, and occasionally passing an unusually deep hole by turning into
the bush, Maggie made all haste. Once only she halted. A party of
artillerymen and sailors were raising a breastwork at the head of the
Cascade rapids, whereon to mount a gun that would sweep the river, and
she watched them for a while. That was the only sign of life along
the road until the white-washed shanty of the ferryman came in sight,
in front of which a troop of half-naked children were tumbling in
boisterous play, and who set up a shrill cry of wonder when they saw
her. Their mother, so short and stout as to be shapeless, came to the
door in response to their cries and gazed wonderingly at the stranger.
She volubly returned Maggie’s salutation and led her into the house,
the interior of which was as bare as French Canadian houses usually
are, but clean and tidy. Her husband was away, helping to convey stores
to the fort at the Coteau, and there was not, to her knowledge, a man
within three miles capable of ferrying her across. Could not madam
paddle her over? The woman’s hands went up in pantomimic amazement.
Would she tempt the good God by venturing in a canoe alone with a
woman? Did she not know the current was swift, and led to the rapids
whose roaring she heard! No, she must stay overnight, and her good man
would take her over in the morning. Maggie could only submit and seated
herself behind the house, to gaze towards the other bank which she was
so anxious to set foot upon. From where she sat, the bank abruptly sank
to a depth of perhaps thirty feet, where a little bay gave shelter to
a canoe and a large boat fitted to convey a heavy load. Beyond the
rocks that headed the tiny inlet, which thus served as a cove for
the ferryman’s boats, the river swept irresistibly, and where in its
channel between the shore and the islands that shut out the view of
the north bank, any obstacle was met, the water rose in billows with
foaming heads. Maggie knew that she was looking upon the south channel
of the great river, and that the main stream lay on the other side of
the tree-covered islands, which varied in size from half a mile long to
rocks barely large enough to afford foothold to the tree or two whose
branches overhung the foaming current. The motion of the rushing water
contrasted so finely with the still-life and silence of the forest
that framed it, and the many shaped and many colored islands that
diversified its surface, that the scene at once soothed the anxious
mind of the peasant maid and inspired her with fresh energy.

“Time is passing like that mighty stream,” she thought, “and before
another sunset help for Morton may be too late,” and then she asked
herself why she, so used to the management of a canoe, should not
paddle herself across? She sought out madam and told her what she
proposed, was met with energetic protestation, and then was allowed to
have her own way. Fortified with directions which she only partially
understood, Maggie took her place in the canoe, and waving good-bye to
madam and her troop of children, who stood on the landing, pushed out.
Unmindful of how the light skiff drifted downwards, she kept its head
pointed to the island that lay opposite to her and paddled for dear
life. Once she received a shower of spray in passing too near to where
the current chafed and fumed over a sunken rock, but she retained her
presence of mind, and was glad to see the island draw nearer with each
stroke. Just as the gravelly strand seemed within reach, the drift
brought her nigh to the end of the island, and she paddled into the
channel that lay between it and the islets adjoining, which nestled so
closely that the tops of the trees upon them interlaced, furnishing a
leafy arcade to the narrow channels that divided them. As Maggie paused
for breath after her severe exertion, a sense of the quiet beauty and
security of the retreat came over her, and drawing the canoe on to the
pebbly beach, she laved her feet while, idly picking from the bushes
and vines within reach, she formed a bouquet of colored leaves. She
heard the roar of the rapids beneath and she knew that a few yards
farther on lay the deep-flowing north channel, but her nature was
not one to borrow trouble and she enjoyed the present to the full in
her cool retreat. When she again took her place in the canoe, a few
dips of the paddle took it outside the islands, and she saw the main
channel of the river--smooth except for great greasy circles of slowly
whirling water, as if the mighty river, after its late experience of
being shredded in the rapids above, had a nightmare of foreboding of a
repetition of the same agony in the rapids to which it was hastening.
With steady stroke Maggie urged the canoe forward and did not allow the
consciousness that she was drifting toward the rapids discompose her.
As the canoe neared the bank, the sweep of the current increased, and
her arms began to ache with the violent and long-continued exertion.
To her joy, she saw a man standing at the landing and the strokes of
her paddle quickened. The canoe was swept past the landing, when the
man, picking up a coil of rope, ran downwards to a point, and watching
his chance, threw it across the canoe. Maggie caught an end of the
rope, and in a minute was hauled ashore. The man, a French Canadian
employed to assist the bateaux in passing between lakes St Francis and
St Louis, expressed his astonishment at a woman daring so perilous a
feat, and his wonder increased when she told him of her intention of
going to Oka. “Alone! mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “why you will lose
your way in the forest which is full of bears and Indians.” She smiled
in answer, and receiving his directions, sought the blazed track which
led to the Ottawa. Familiar with the bush, she had no difficulty in
following the marks, for the litter of falling leaves had begun to
shroud the path. The tapping of the woodpecker and the chirrup of the
squirrel cheered her, and she pressed on with a light and quick step.
Hours passed until the gloom that pervaded the forest told her the sun
had ceased to touch the tree-tops and she wished the Ottawa would come
in sight. While giving way to a feeling of dread that she might have
to halt and, passing the night in the woods, await daylight to show
her the way, the faint tinkle of a bell reached her. With expectant
smile she paused, and poising herself drank in the grateful sound.
“It is the bell of the mission,” she said, and cheerfully resumed her
journey. All at once, the lake burst upon her view--a great sweep of
glassy water, reflecting the hues of the evening sky, and sleeping at
the foot of a long, low hill, covered to its double-topped summit with
sombre-foliaged trees. At the foot of the slope of the western end of
the hill, she distinguished the mission-buildings and, running above
and below them, an irregular string of huts, where she knew the Indians
must live, and behind those on the river’s edge rose a singular cliff
of yellow sand. The path led her to where the lake narrowed into a
river and she perceived a landing-place. Standing at the farthest
point, she raised her hand to her mouth and sent a shout across the
waters, long, clear, and strong, as she had often done to her father
and brothers, while working in the bush, to tell of waiting-meals. In
the dusk, she perceived a movement on the opposite bank and the launch
of a canoe, which paddled rapidly across. It contained two Indians,
whose small eyes and heavy features gave no indication of surprise on
seeing who wanted to be ferried. Stepping lightly in, the canoe swiftly
skimmed the dark waters, which now failed to catch a gleam from the
fading glories of the evening sky. The silence was overwhelming, and
as she viewed the wide lake, overshadowed by the melancholy mountain,
Maggie experienced a feeling of awe. At that very hour she knew her
father would be conducting worship, and as the scene of her loved
home passed before her, she felt a fresh impulse of security, and she
murmured to herself, “My father is praying for me and I shall trust in
the Lord.”

On getting out of the canoe she was perplexed what step to take next.
To her enquiries, made in English and imperfect French, the Indians
shook their heads, and merely pointed her to the mission-buildings.
Approaching the nearest of these, from whose open door streamed the
glowing light of a log-fire, she paused at the threshold on seeing a
woman kneeling, and who, on hearing her, coolly turned, surveyed her
with an inquisitive and deliberate stare, and then calmly resumed her
devotions. When the last bead was told, the woman rose and bade her
welcome. Maggie told her of her errand. The woman grew curious as to
what she could want with an Indian. Yes, she knew Hemlock, but had not
seen him; he is a pagan and never comes near the presbytery. The father
had gone into the garden to repeat his office and had not returned;
she would ask him when he came in. Mademoiselle could have had no
supper; mon Dieu, people did not pick up ready-cooked suppers in the
woods, but she would hasten and give her of her best. It was a treat
to see a white woman, even if she was an Anglais and, she feared, a
heretic. The embers on the hearth were urged into a blaze, and before
long a platter of pottage, made from Indian corn beaten into a paste,
was heated, sprinkled over with maple-sugar and set down with a bowl
of curdled-cream on the table. Maggie had finished her repast when the
priest entered. He was a lumpish man with protruding underlip, which
hung downwards, small eyes, and a half-awakened look. “Ah, good-day,”
he said with a vacant stare. Maggie rose and curtsied, while the
housekeeper volubly repeated all she had learned of her and her errand.
“Hemlock!” he exclaimed, “we must take care. He is a bad Indian and
this young woman cannot want him for any good.”

“True; I never thought of that.”

“Ah, we must keep our eyes always open. What can a girl like this want
with that bold man?”

“And to run after him through the woods, the infatuate! We must save
her.”

“I will have her sent to the sisters, who will save her body and soul
from destruction. She would make a beautiful nun.” And the priest
rubbed his chubby hands together.

“May it please your reverence,” interposed Maggie, who had caught the
drift of their talk, “I seek your aid to find Hemlock. If you will not
help me, I shall leave your house.”

The priest gasped for a minute with astonishment. “I thought you were
English; you understand French?”

“Enough to take care of myself, and I wish ministers of your robe were
taught in college to have better thoughts of us poor women.”

“It is for your good we are instructed; so that we can guard you by our
advice.”

“For our good you are taught to think the worst of us! I look for
Hemlock that he may go and give evidence that will save a man condemned
to die. For the sake of innocency I ask your help.”

The priest shrugged his shoulders, stared at her, gathered up his robe,
grasped his missal with one hand and a candle with the other, and
saying, “I leave you with Martine,” passed up the open stairway to his
bedroom.

“Ah, the holy father!” ejaculated the housekeeper, “when we are sunk
in stupid sleep, he is on his knees praying for us all, and the demons
dare not come near. Will you not come into the true church? Sister
Agatha would teach you. She has had visions in her raptures. Mon Dieu,
her knees have corns from kneeling on the stone steps of the altar. You
will not. Ah, well, I will ask their prayers for you and the scales may
drop from your eyes.”

“Do tell me, how I can find Hemlock?” pleaded Maggie, and the current
of her thoughts thus changed, Martine insisted on learning why and how
his evidence was needed, and Maggie repeated as much of the story as
was necessary. The housekeeper grew interested and said decisively,
“the young brave must not die.” Covering her head with a blanket-like
shawl, she told Maggie to follow, and stepped out. It was a calm, clear
night, the glassy expanse of the lake reflecting the stars. Hurrying
onwards, they passed a number of huts, until reaching one, they entered
its open door. The interior was dark save for the faint glow that
proceeded from the dying embers on the hearth. Maggie saw the forms of
several asleep on the floor and seated in silence were three men. “This
woman has come to find Hemlock; can you guide her to him?”

“What seeks she with him?”

“She has come from the Chateaugay to tell him his word is wanted to
save his best friend from death.”

The conversation went on in the gutturals of the Iroquois for some
time, when the housekeeper said to Maggie, “It is all right; they know
where Hemlock is, but it would not be safe to go to him now. They will
lead you to him at daybreak. Come, we will go back and you will stay
with me until morning.”


CHAPTER VI.

The rising of the housekeeper, whose bed she shared, woke Maggie, and
a glance through the small window showed a faint whitening in the sky
that betokened the coming of day. Knowing there was no time to spare,
she dressed herself quickly, and, joining the housekeeper in the
kitchen, asked if the messenger had come. She answered by pointing to
the open door, and Maggie saw, seated on the lowest step, in silent
waiting, the figure of an Indian. She was for going with him at once,
when the housekeeper held her and, fearful of disturbing her master,
whispered to eat of the food she had placed on the table. Having made
a hurried repast, Maggie drew her shawl over her head and turned to
bid her hostess good-bye. The good soul forced into her pocket the
bread that remained on the table, and kissed her on both cheeks. When
Maggie came to the door, the Indian rose and, without looking at her,
proceeded to lead the way through the village and then past it, by a
path that wound to the top of the sand-hill that hems it in on the
north. Motioning her to stand still, the Indian crept forward as if to
spy out the object of their search. Glancing around her, Maggie saw
through the spruces the Ottawa outstretched at her feet, reflecting the
first rosy gleam of the approaching sun. A twitch at her shawl startled
her. It was her guide who had returned. Following him, as he slowly
threaded his way through the grove of balsams and spruces, they soon
came to a halt, and the Indian pointed to a black object outstretched
upon the ground a few yards from them. Fear overcame Maggie, and she
turned to grasp the arm of her guide--he was gone. Her commonsense came
to her aid. If this was Hemlock, she had nothing to fear, and mastering
her agitation she strove to discover whether the figure, which the
dawn only rendered perceptible amid the gloom of the evergreens, was
really the object of her quest. Silently she peered, afraid to move a
hairsbreadth, for what seemed to her to be an age, and she came to see
clearly the outline of a man, naked save for a girdle, fantastically
fashioned out of furs of varied colors, stretched immoveable on the
sod, face downward. Suddenly a groan of anguish escaped from the lips
of the prostrate man and the body swayed as if in convulsions. Her
sympathies overcame her fears, and advancing Maggie cried, “Hemlock,
are you ill? Can I help you?”

With a terrific bound the figure leapt to its feet, the right arm
swinging a tomahawk, and, despite an effort at control, Maggie
shrieked. The light was now strong enough to show the lineaments of
the Indian, whose face and body were smeared with grease and soot and
whose countenance wore the expression of one roused from deep emotion
in sudden rage.

“Hemlock, do not look at me so; I am Maggie Forsyth, come from the
Chateaugay to seek you.”

Instantly the face of the Indian softened. “Why should the fawn leave
the groves of the Chateaugay to seek so far the lair of the lynx?”

“Your friend Morton is doomed to die by the American soldiers and you
alone can save him.”

“What! Did he not escape? Tell me all.”

Maggie told him what she knew, he listening with impassive countenance.
When she had done, he paused, as if reflecting, and then said curtly,
“I will go with you.” It was now fair daylight, and Maggie saw, to her
dismay, that the mound upon which she had found Hemlock outstretched
was a grave, and that, at the head of it was a stake upon which hung
several scalps, the topmost evidently cut from a recent victim.
Glancing at the radiant eastward sky, the Indian started, and ignoring
the presence of his visitor, fell on his knees on the grave, and
turning his face so as to see the sun when it should shoot its first
beam over the broad lake, which was reflecting the glow of the rosy
clouds that overhung its further point, he communed with the dead.
“I leave thee, Spotted Fawn, for a while, that I may meet those who
did thee hurt and bring back another scalp to satisfy thy spirit. Thy
father’s arm is strong, but it is stronger when he thinks of thee.
Tarry a while before you cross the river and I will finish my task and
join thee in the journey to the hunting-ground; the arm that oft bore
you when a child, will carry you over the waters and rocks. Farewell!
Oh, my child, my daughter, how could you leave me? Tread softly and
slowly, for I will soon leave my lodge of sorrow and see you and clasp
you to my heart.” There was a pause, a groan of unutterable sorrow
escaped his lips, and he sank lifeless upon the grave. Agitated with
deep sympathy, Maggie stepped forward and kneeling beside the Indian
stroked his head and shoulders as if she had been soothing a child.

“Dinna tak on sae, Hemlock. Sair it is to mourn the loved and lost, but
we maun dae our duty in this warl and try to live sae as to meet them
in the warl ayont. He that let the stroke fa’, alane can heal the hurt.
Gin yer daughter is deed, it is only for this life. Her voice will be
the first to welcome you when you cross death’s threshold.”

“I saw her an hour ago. It is your creed that says the dead are not
seen again in this life. I got the medicine from my father that melts
the scales from our earthly eyes for a while. Last night I saw my
child--last night she was in these arms--last night my cheek felt the
warmth of her breath--last night my ears joyed in the ripple of her
laughter. Oh, my Spotted Fawn, the joy, the life of my heart, why did
you stray from me?” Then, his mood changing, he sprang up with the
words, “Cursed be the wolves that hunted you, cursed be the catamount
that crept near that he might rend you! I will seek them out, I will
track them day by day, until I slay the last of them.” Here he ground
his teeth and remained absorbed for a minute, then turning sharply,
with a wave of the hand, he beckoned Maggie to follow, and led to the
verge of the cliff overhanging the Ottawa. “Stay here until I come
back,” he whispered and, disappeared over the declivity.

The glorious landscape outstretched at her feet soothed, as naught
else could, the agitation of Maggie’s mind, for Nature’s touch is ever
gentle and healing. The great expanse of water, here narrowed into a
broad river, there swelling into a noble lake, was smooth as a mirror,
reflecting hill and tree and rock. Beyond it, was unrolled the forest
as a brightly colored carpet, for the glory of Autumn was upon it, and
a trail of smoky mist hung on the horizon. An hour might have sped,
when Hemlock reappeared, with paint washed off and dressed in his
usual attire. Across his back was slung his rifle; at his heel was a
gaunt, ill-shaped dog. “Follow,” he said, and turning backward a few
paces, led to where the bank could be descended without difficulty. At
the foot of it, lay waiting a canoe, with a boy in the bow. Maggie
stepped lightly into the centre, and Hemlock grasping the paddle, shot
the light skiff swiftly across the stream. When the opposite bank was
gained, he sprang ashore and was followed by Maggie. The boy, without a
word, paddled back to the village.

Hemlock was in no mood for conversation. The exhaustion following upon
his night-vigil was upon him, and he strode forward through the forest
without speaking, Maggie following his guidance. Once he halted, on
seeing his dog creeping forward on scenting game. Picking up a stick,
he stepped lightly after it, and when a covey of partridges rose, threw
his missile so successfully that two of the birds dropped. Tying them
to his belt, he resumed his monotonous trot, and several miles were
passed when the sharp yelps of the dog suddenly arrested their steps.
The alarm came from a point to their left. Hemlock, unslinging his
rifle, ran in the direction of the dog, whose baying was now intense
and continuous, and Maggie, afraid of losing sight of him, hastened
after. A short run brought the Indian to the edge of a slough, in a
thicket in the centre of which his dog was evidently engaged in mortal
combat with some wild animal. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Indian
started to pick his way across the morass; partially dried by the
prolonged drought, and had passed the centre, when there was a crashing
of branches and a huge bear burst out, followed by the dog, which was
limping, from a fractured paw. Before he could turn aside, Hemlock was
knocked down by the lumbering brute, which gained the solid ground and
was hurrying forward, when, seeing Maggie coming, it sprang for a huge
beech tree, with the intent of climbing it. Before it was a yard up,
the dog overtook it, had fastened its teeth in its hide and pulled it
down. The bear, roused to utmost ferocity by being thwarted, easily
caught hold of the disabled dog, held it in its forepaws, and standing
on its hind feet, with back resting against the tree, was proceeding to
hug its victim to death, when Hemlock came up. He had dropped his rifle
in the slough, and instead of waiting to pick it up, had rushed forward
to rescue his dog. With upraised hatchet he approached the bear, and
dealt it so terrific a stroke, that the light weapon stuck in the
skull. With a growl of rage and pain, the bear flung the dog down and
before Hemlock could recover himself after dealing the blow, fell upon
him, too stunned and weak, however, to do more than keep him under. On
catching her first glimpse of the bear, Maggie’s inclination was to
flee, but, the next moment, the instinct of self-preservation gave way
to a feeling of sympathy for the disabled dog, followed by absorbing
excitement as the contest went on. When Hemlock fell underneath the
brute, she gave a shriek, and rushed to where the rifle lay. Snatching
it, she ran to the bear, which lay panting with outstretched tongue
and half-closed eyes, and dealt him a blow with the butt. With a groan
the unwieldy animal rolled over motionless, and Hemlock sprang to his
feet, and drew his knife. It was unnecessary; the bear was dead. Maggie
looked wildly at the Indian, strove to speak, tottered, and fell: the
reaction from the delirium of excited feeling that had sustained her
having set in. Tenderly Hemlock raised her in his arms, and carrying
her to the edge of the swamp, scooped up sufficient water to bathe her
forehead. A few anxious minutes passed, when the pallor began to pass
away, and suddenly opening her eyes, Maggie asked, “What of the dog?”

“Never mind Toga; are you hurt?”

“No; are you?”

“I am as well as ever, and had not my foot slipped after striking the
bear, would have spared you what you did.”

“That does not matter,” said Maggie, simply, “it was God that put it
into my silly head to get the gun and it was His strength that gave the
blow--not mine.”

“I care not for your God,” answered Hemlock in a hollow voice, “I have
known too many who profess to be His followers to believe in Him.”

“Dinna speak sae,” pleaded Maggie.

“Yesterday,” Hemlock went on, “I met the topped crow that clings to Oka
while taking from a squaw her last beaver-skins to say masses for her
dead husband, and I cursed him to his teeth as a deceiver that he may
eat the corn and give back to his dupes the cob.”

Unheeding his words, Maggie rose and went towards the dog, which was
still alive, and began to stroke its head. Its eyes, however, sought
not her but his master, and when Hemlock put down his hand, the dying
animal feebly tried to lick it. At this sign of affection, the eyes of
Hemlock moistened, and falling on his knees he alternately patted the
dog and shook his unhurt paw. “My Toga, my old friend, my help in many
a hunt, my comrade when we were alone for weeks in the wilderness, are
you too going to leave me? You are dying, as the Indian’s dog should
die, in the fury of the hunt. A claw of the bear I shall wrap in a
piece of my wampum belt and put into your mouth, so that Spotted Fawn
may know whose dog you were, and you will serve her and follow her
until I join you in the happy hunting-ground--and that will not be
long.”

As if sensible of what he said the dog whimpered, and with a last
effort placed its head in his outstretched hands. Then it gave a kick
or two, and died.

The Indian rose, and selecting a knoll where spruces grew thickly,
kindled a fire. Wrapping the two partridges tightly in wet grass and
several folds of green birch bark, he waited until there were embers,
on which he placed them, and heaped fresh fuel. Asking Maggie to keep
up the fire, he left and was away for some time. When he came back he
had the bear’s pelt and several slices of steak, which he proceeded
to broil. On lifting the partridges, their bodies came out clean from
their covering of feathers, and on tearing them apart the entrails,
dried and shrivelled, were easily drawn. Maggie had eaten many a
partridge, but a sweeter bite than the breast of one so cooked she had
never tasted, and with a piece of the bread in her pocket, she made a
light but refreshing dinner. The bear-steak she could not look upon,
but like qualms did not interfere with Hemlock’s appetite, who ate them
with greater relish because part of his late enemy and the slayer of
his dog. He had filled his flask with water from a spring near by, and
Maggie remarked, if she “only had a pinch o’ saut, she couldna have
asked for a better dinner.” Trimming and scraping the bear’s hide,
to make it light as possible, Hemlock wrapped it into a bundle, and
strapped it on his back. Then looking to the priming of his rifle, he
told Maggie he was ready.

“But the puir dowg; will ye no bury him?”

“I have buried him,” answered Hemlock, “and poisoned the carcase of the
bear that it may sicken the wolves that eat of it.”

The tongue of Hemlock was now free, and as they trudged on, he kept
up a constant conversation, surprising Maggie by the extent of his
information and the shrewdness of his judgment. Becoming conscious
that the sun was descending, she expressed a fear that she could not
reach home that night. “No, you cannot, and I do not mean you should,
but you will rest safe before sunset. I am taking you to the fort at
Coteau-du-lac.”

“That is oot o’ oor way, Hemlock.”

“Not very far; it is necessary I see Colonel Scott as to how to save
Morton.”

Maggie said no more, for that was reason enough to go a hundred miles
out of the way, though she thought with pain of the anxiety her absence
for another night would give her parents. “Father will think I did not
find Hemlock at Oka and that I am looking for him,” she concluded at
last, “and will not borrow trouble about me.”


CHAPTER VII.

Colonel Scott was pacing the walk in front of the battery of the little
fort of Coteau-du-lac, viewing alternately lake St Francis, glittering
peacefully in the rays of the fast westering sun, and the swift-running
river into which it contracted where he stood, with the surges of the
rapids farther down. He was tall, and his face was that of a man who
had intellect to conceive and will to put his conceptions into force.
To the door of a house larger than any of its neighbors, and before
which a sentry paced, the Colonel often glanced and when a lady came
out, he stepped to meet her. It was his wife, who joined him for an
airing before dinner. After admiring, as she had done every day since
her arrival, the contrast between the lake and the river, as it went
sweeping downwards between forest-covered islands, she asked, “And is
there any news? I heard an arrival reported.”

“None since the despatch of last night and it said Wilkinson was still
at Sackett’s Harbor.”

“So we may not expect his flotilla of boats this week?”

“No, and were I in Sir George Prevost’s place, they would never leave
Sackett’s Harbor.”

“Why, you have told me his Excellency has not sufficient naval force to
attack them.”

“I would not attack the flotilla; I would render its purpose abortive.
What is the American plan of invasion? I can give it to you in a
nutshell, Helen. Wilkinson is to take possession of the St Lawrence
with his flotilla and is to meet Hampton at the mouth of the Chateaugay
river, when the combined forces will land on the island of Montreal and
capture it and the city. Now, to defeat this plan, it is not necessary
to destroy the flotilla. If the line of communication between Wilkinson
and Hampton is cut, the whole scheme fails.”

“And how would you cut the line?”

“Why, as I have represented time and again to headquarters, by the
capture of French Mills. Four hundred men could take and hold that
place, and with it in British hands Wilkinson and Hampton would be as
completely prevented from acting in concert as if Hampton was back to
his slaves in Carolina and Wilkinson to his gally-pots. It provokes
me to see the opportunities our forces miss. The war in the time of
Washington was a series of blunders on our side and it looks as if the
second was going to be a repetition.”

“And you blame his Excellency?”

“Yes and his staff. He is brave personally, and he is active to
fussiness, but he is unable to plan a campaign or carry it out. Here we
have the flower of the British army arriving by every convoy, yet our
policy is a purely defensive one and changed every day. Out upon such
a peddling course of action! I would teach the braggarts who lurk on
yonder heights that Canada is not to be invaded with impunity, and that
she has hearts to dare and die in defence of her independence.”

“Well, Norman, it may prove to be all for the best. So far Canada has
repulsed every attempt at invasion.”

“It is not for the best. I have made suggestion after suggestion to
improve the opportunities presented to me, and every one has been set
aside, and I am condemned to a course of inaction that galls and frets
me.”

Here an orderly approached. “An Indian and a young woman want to speak
with you.”

“I will go,” said Mrs Scott.

“Do not,” cried the Colonel, “what tete-a-tete may I not have with the
lovely squaw.”

“Please, sir,” said the orderly, “she is not a squaw. She is white and
a Scotchwoman by her speech.”

“And young to boot,” exclaimed Mrs Scott archly, “I shall certainly
stay and keep you from falling into temptation.”

“Bring them this way,” said the Colonel, and the orderly returned with
Hemlock and Maggie.

“In truth an odd-matched pair,” whispered the Colonel as he saw them
approach.

“Why, it’s you, Hemlock. I thought you were raising the war-whoop on
the Huntingdon frontier. And who may your companion be? Too young to
be your wife--too fair to be your sweetheart.”

The Indian’s features relaxed into the nearest approach they ever came
to a smile, as he answered, “An arrow from another bow than mine has
struck the doe.”

“Well, Hemlock, do you bring me news from Hinchinbrook? When is Hampton
going to march?”

In reply, Hemlock briefly told how he had been at Oka, was sought
out there by Maggie and for what purpose. The Colonel listened with
stern expression as he was told of Morton’s peril, and when the Indian
had done, he plied Maggie with questions. When she had told all, the
Colonel brought his fist down heavily on the cannon beside which he
stood as he exclaimed, “I knew these Americans were boasters but I did
not think they were capable of such cruelty. Once they hung a gentleman
wearing His Majesty’s uniform and were allowed to escape under the
belief that, tradesmen and farmers as they were, they knew no better,
but if they send a second to the gallows, there is not an officer
in Canada who would not consider it his duty to challenge every one
concerned in the deed.”

With a glance of apprehension at her husband, Mrs Scott with admirable
tact strove to divert him from his vengeful mood by changing the
subject. Addressing Maggie she asked, “And what is Mr Morton to you
that you should risk the peril of these woods to save him? Is he a
brother?”

“He is neither kith nor kin to me,” answered Maggie.

“The attraction is of another sort, then. Cupid flies his arrows in
these woods as well as the red warrior.”

Maggie blushed and the Colonel, forgetting his anger, gallantly came to
her rescue. “And if he does, madam, I would say to Master Cupid, give
me the maiden who, like our fair Maggie, would dare the dragons of the
field and flood to save her lover.”

“Oh!” retorted Mrs Scott, “that is as much as to say, I would not do
that and more for you. What thankless monsters you men are!”

“Nay, spare me, Helen, and as by what she has told us, she has walked
from Oka today, perhaps you will take her with you and play the
hostess.”

“She has done more than walk from Oka today,” said Hemlock, “she killed
a bear and saved my life.”

“What!” cried Mrs Scott in astonishment, and Hemlock told the story
of the encounter. When he had done the Colonel stepped forward and
grasping Maggie’s hands he said, “I honor you as a brave man honors
a brave woman, and if there is any possibility of saving Mr Morton’s
life, it shall be done.”

Maggie was too overcome to reply, and Mrs Scott, slipping her arm into
hers, led her away to her husband’s quarters, leaving Hemlock and the
Colonel in eager converse, which lasted until daylight had nearly
faded and until a servant came with word that dinner was waiting the
Colonel. Ordering the servant to call one of the sergeants, the Colonel
committed Hemlock to his hospitable care and then entered his own
quarters. Maggie spent one of the most delightful evenings of her life
in the company of the Colonel and his wife, forgetting her weariness
and the excitement she had passed through in the enjoyment of social
converse of a brighter and wider scope than she had been accustomed.
When bedtime came she was solicitous about being called early so
that Hemlock might not be kept waiting, when the Colonel assured her
he would take her restoration to her home by the Chateaugay into
his own hands. When she made her appearance next day, she found her
entertainers seated on the veranda, and was concerned to learn that it
was near noon and that Hemlock had left at sunrise. The anxious look
that flitted across her face, the Colonel relieved by telling her that
Hemlock had chosen a route she could not have followed, across the
great swamp that lay between the St Lawrence and the Chateaugay, and
that he carried a letter to her father, telling where she was and that
she would go home by the first safe opportunity.

“And now, my dear Maggie,” said Mrs Scott, “You need not be concerned
about those at home but be my companion for a few days. Buried away
here in these romantic wilds, you cannot conceive what a treat it is
to me to have your society.”

“You are welcome, Miss Forsyth,” added the Colonel, “and you will get
a chance before long of a convoy to Annfield, for I expect one from
Kingston by the end of the week.”

“But they may be needing me at home, Colonel; my mother is frail and if
the Yankees have crossed she will be sore in need of my help.”

“Make yourself easy as to that,” said the Colonel with a smile.
“General Hampton, as I know for an assured fact, has not crossed the
frontier and will not for several days, at least--perhaps never, for
he has no heart in the undertaking. As to Wilkinson coming, I wish
he would. I am just afraid he is going to deprive me of the pleasure
of giving him the warm reception I have gone to so much trouble to
prepare. After lunch, or rather your breakfast, we will take the boat
and see that everything is in order for him.”

A couple of hours later they were seated in the Colonel’s long boat,
manned by four tars, who, however, were spared the labor of rowing
all the way, for the wind was favorable. Heading Grande Isle, they
sailed down the south channel of the St Lawrence to a narrow point,
where, by means of the trunks of huge trees anchored above where rapids
foamed, the passage of boats was made impossible and before these
obstructions could be lifted out, the Colonel pointed to his wife and
Maggie how a concealed battery aided by sharp-shooters hid among the
foliage that lined the river would decimate the occupants of the boats.
He considered the southern channel to be so effectually closed that
Wilkinson would not attempt it and would, therefore, have to take the
northern, where he would have to run the gauntlet of the fire of the
fort at Coteau-du-lac. “True it is,” added the Colonel, “that that
channel is wide and the current swift, yet with a fire from both banks
many boats must needs be crippled or sunk, and those that do escape
would have to face a similar ordeal at Long Point, opposite the Cedars
rapids, where another battery has been placed.”

“What if the Americans passed in the dark?” suggested Maggie.

“Yes,” added Mrs Scott, “or what if they landed a part of their large
force before they came within range of the Coteau batteries and
assailed them from the land-side?”

“All that I have considered. Were they to pass in the dark, they would
not see to shoot the rapids properly, and their angry waters would be
more disastrous than our shot. As to a flank movement, I rely on the
Indian scouts to bring me word and, fully warned of their coming, these
woods are so dense and cut up by swamps, that, with a hundred men, I
would undertake to repulse a thousand.”

“So you keep constant watch?” asked Maggie.

“Unceasing,” answered the Colonel. “If you take this telescope you
will perceive a sail at the upper end of the lake. It is one of the
gunboats on the watch, and which would, on appearance of Wilkinson’s
flotilla, either make for Coteau or if the wind were unfavorable send a
row-boat. Then, on that farthest island there is a guard of regulars,
who are likely to give the island a name, for already it is called
Grenadier island. To the guard on that island, scouts on the southern
shore report daily.”

“Surely you have contrived well,” exclaimed Maggie, “and I just wish
the Yankees would come and get what you have prepared for them.”

“‘Their kail het through the reek, as the Scotch say,’” laughed the
Colonel, “well I am just afraid I will not see them. Along the river,
between Prescott and Cornwall, there is such a succession of points of
attack, that, from all I learn of him, Wilkinson is not soldier enough
to overcome.”

In returning, the boat landed the party in a cove on Grande Isle,
whence, from under the shade of maples, they scanned the lake,
shimmering in the sun, and the islets, heavy with trees richly colored
by Autumn’s fingers, set in it like gems.

“This is so pleasant,” remarked Mrs Scott, “that I do not wonder at
people growing to passionately love Canada. Do you prefer Canada to
Scotland, Maggie?”

“I never saw Scotland,” replied Maggie, “but I dearly love Canada and
can find it in my heart to wish that the Colonel may wring the necks
of those who are trying to take it away from us.”

“Well said!” shouted the Colonel, “and Canada is so favored by nature
in her line of defence and in her climate, that I cannot conceive
how, if her people are true, she can ever come under the heel of a
conqueror.”

The day passed happily and so did several others. Accompanying Mrs
Scott, Maggie visited the little canals that enabled the boats, that
plied between Montreal and Upper Canada, to overcome the rapids, to see
the lockmen and their families, and watch the peculiar class of men who
assisted the boats in passing upwards, either by poling and towing or
by lightening their load with the help of their diminutive carts and
ponies. With the garrison and its daily life she became familiar, and
the detachment of blue jackets, drafted from the men-of-war at Quebec,
partly engaged in manning the gunboats already afloat and in building
others, she never wearied in watching. Each day endeared her more to
Mrs Scott, who, she learned, had sacrificed her comfort and safety,
by accompanying her husband on duty. Following the regiment, she had
been with him in India, Egypt, and Spain, and, when ordered on special
service to Canada, had unhesitatingly followed him, leaving their two
children with friends in England. Maggie saw that her presence was a
help rather than a drag upon the Colonel, whom she assisted and cared
for as only a true woman can and preserved him from many privations
he must otherwise have undergone. While most anxious to be at home
again, it was not without a pang of regret that Maggie learned one
morning that a fleet of the King’s bateaux was in sight coming down the
lake. An hour afterwards she was on board of one, waving farewell to
her friends. Landed at the foot of the Cascade rapids, she walked home
before sunset.


CHAPTER VIII.

The army did not begin a forward movement towards Canada on the day
of Morton’s interview with Hampton. It was only the first of several
abortive starts, and the autumn days were drawing towards an end with
the army still encamped at Four Corners. The American public was
indignant at its inaction: much had been expected of the army, yet
it had accomplished nothing, and the campaigning season was near an
end. The denunciations of the Albany and New York newspapers Hampton
could not stoop to reply to: those of the Washington authorities he
answered by laying the blame upon Wilkinson. He was to move on Montreal
in conjunction with that general, and his failure to leave Sackett’s
Harbor he gave as the cause of his own inaction. To the critics who
suggested he had sufficient strength to capture Montreal unaided, he
represented that his orders from Washington expressly required him to
co-operate with the flotilla that was hugging the shelter of Sackett’s
Harbor. If he was left free to act by the secretary-of-war, he would
show the country what he could do, but he was not free. There were
those who thought his excuses were the offspring of his secret wish,
to get out of the campaign without risking any great movement. In all
those days of dallying, Morton lay forlorn in the stable, sick of his
confinement and of prolonged suspense, until the doctor, taking pity
upon him, asked, if the General could be induced to grant him the
freedom of the camp on parole, would he accept it? Eager to get out of
his dismal prison and hopeless of escape, Morton eagerly embraced the
offer, and next day he was told he was at liberty to leave his wretched
abode during daylight. The boon proved to be of less advantage than he
had anticipated. The officers would not consort with him, professing to
believe he had been a party to the disfigurement and murder of their
late comrade, and the rank-and-file swore at him as an abettor of the
Indians and as a Britisher. The miscarriage of the campaign had soured
the tempers of the troops, and they were ready to vent it upon Morton
or any other of the enemy who came within reach of their tongues. After
a few hours’ unpleasant experience, Morton returned to his stable
indignant and humiliated. Altho’ thus cut off from intercourse with the
military, he enjoyed the freedom of moving about. Even lying on the
grass and watching the face of nature, was inexpressibly sweet to him.
In course of time he scraped acquaintance with a few civilians, and
especially with a storekeeper, Douglass, a Scotchman, who showed him
such kindness as he dared without bringing upon himself the suspicion
of disloyalty. The weather, which had been uninterruptedly dry and
hot, underwent a sudden change, to wet and cold, and from suspense as
to when they would march into Canada the troops began to hope that
orders would come from Washington to retire into winter-quarters. One
particularly cold, rainy evening, Morton retired to rest in a mood
that was in keeping with his dismal surroundings, and courted sleep to
give him temporary relief. How long he might have been lost in slumber
he was unconscious, when awakened by something lightly passing over
his face. “Keep quiet,” said a voice: “do not cry or you may attract
the guard.” The darkness was intense; the patter of the rain on the
roof the only sound without. The voice Morton recognized at once as
Hemlock’s.

“How did you get here? Do you not know they would tear you limb from
limb if they found you?”

“I know it all, but an Indian brave counts nothing when he goes to save
a friend. Get up and go with me.”

A momentary feeling of exultation fluttered in Morton’s breast at the
prospect of liberty, followed by the depressing recollection that he
had given his word not to escape.

“I cannot go with you,” he said in a voice of despair.

“Why? You are well of your hurt, and you can run a mile or two if we
are followed. Come, my arm will help you.”

“Hemlock, had you come a fortnight ago I would have jumped at your
call: I cannot tonight, for I have given my word of honor not to
escape. I am a prisoner on parole.”

“Honor! Did these Americans treat you as men of honor, when they put
the rope round your neck? Your promise is nothing. Come!”

“I cannot, Hemlock. Let them be what they may, it shall never be said
that a British officer broke his word. Leave me; get away at once, or
you may be caught.”

“I will not leave without you. Think of the fair doe that sorrows in
secret by the Chateaugay for you and sought me out to bring you. Come,
you shall be with her before another sun has set.”

Morton was puzzled by this speech, but was too anxious concerning
Hemlock’s safety to delay by asking what it meant.

“Save yourself, Hemlock; the patrol will be round soon, and if you are
discovered you are lost.”

“I fear not: they cannot take me alive.”

“For my sake, then, go; I will not leave, I will keep the promise I
have given. Consider this my friend, if you are found here it is death
to me as well as you. Go.”

“Not without you; I will carry you on my back, whether you will or
not,” and he laid his hand upon Morton to grasp hold of him. At that
moment, the sound of the tramp of an approaching detachment of
soldiers was heard. “It is the patrol, Hemlock; fly for God’s sake.”

Hemlock stepped to the door for an instant, then turning to Morton
whispered, “they have torches and will see what I have done, and that
will give the alarm. Come, go with me.”

“I cannot,” said Morton decisively.

“Then, give me a token to show her who sent me that I did my duty,”
said Hemlock. Eager for his escape, Morton plucked the signet-ring
from his finger and pressed it into the Indian’s hand with a farewell
grasp. Noiselessly and swiftly Hemlock glided out, across the open,
and was lost to sight. Seeing how near the patrol were, Morton closed
the door and lay down upon his bed of straw. He heard the tramp of
the troops draw nearer, and then a sharp cry of “Halt!” followed by
a shout of horror and a volley of curses. “The damned Indians are
about!” a voice cried. “Poor Tom,” said another, “he died like a stuck
pig.” “See to the Britisher,” shouted a third, “he must know of it.”
“Back to your ranks,” commanded the officer, “I will see to what is to
be done.” Sending a messenger to headquarters to report, he detailed
three others to approach the stable and bring out Morton. One of the
three remonstrated. “The redskin may be hiding there and kill us.”
“Obey orders,” yelled the officer to his men, who had peculiar ideas of
military obedience. “Our muskets cover you.”

Reluctantly they approached, and two simultaneously burst in the door
with a rush, while the third held a torch. Their only discovery was
Morton lying in his bed. He was roughly dragged to the captain, who,
with his men, stood around something stretched upon the grass.

“What do you know of this, prisoner?” asked the captain, and a soldier
waved a torch over the object. Morton, with a shudder, perceived it was
the body of a soldier that had been stabbed in the breast, and scalped.

“This body is warm,” said the captain, “the deed has been done within
a quarter of an hour: you lay within 20 yards of its perpetration; I
demand what you know of the slaughter of this sentry of the United
States army.”

Morton hesitated. He had no moral doubt that Hemlock had committed
the deed, and that the scalp of the dead man was then dangling from
his belt, and in his horror of the act was about to tell all, when he
suddenly recollected that by doing so he would show himself ungrateful
to Hemlock.

“I neither saw nor heard aught of this foul murder,” answered Morton,
but his hesitation in replying was noted by men disposed to suspect
him. “Let me put my bayonet through him,” said one of the soldiers with
an oath, as he rushed upon Morton. There was a flash from the adjoining
bush, the crack of a rifle, and the soldier fell dead, with a bullet in
his forehead.

“Out with the lights,” shrieked the captain in a transport of fear,
as he struck one torch down with his sword and the others were thrown
into the pools of rainwater. For a minute or two they listened with
palpitating hearts in the darkness, and then the captain whispered
for them to move to headquarters, the lights of which were seen near
by. Forgotten by them in their alarm, Morton made his way back to the
stable and flung himself down on his pallet of straw, perplexed and
agitated. In vain he tried to sleep and the night dragged wearily
on. When daylight at last began to dawn upon a scene of sullen rain
and sodden fields, the sound of voices told him his captors were on
the alert. The door was violently opened and a soldier looked in and
reported to his comrades outside, “The varmint is still here,” to which
he heard the reply, “That beats me!” An hour later a scout entered,
lighted a candle, and proceeded to examine the floor of the stable and
its contents. When he was done, the door was bolted and, Morton felt
assured, a sentry placed outside. Breakfast time passed without his
caterer appearing and the forenoon was well advanced before he was
disturbed, when a detachment of troops halted and an officer entered.
“I have come, Mr Morton, to take you to headquarters.”

Going out, Morton was placed between files and marched to the General’s
quarters, where he was shown into a room where several officers were
seated. Motioned to stand at the foot of the table, the presiding
officer, a tall, cadaverous man, asked him to tell what he knew of the
event of the past night.

“Is this a court-martial and am I on trial?”

“No, it is a committee of enquiry. There ain’t no call for trying you,
seein’ you are already a condemned culprit.”

“Then, why should I answer you?”

“Wall, if you make a clean breast of it, we mought recommend the
General to commute your sentence.”

“And should I not see fit to answer this irregular tribunal?”

“I ain’t going to knock round the bush with you. At home, everybody
knows Major Spooner as up-and-down, frank and square, and I tell you,
if you don’t spit out all you know, the rope won’t be taken off your
neck a second time.”

“What I know of last night’s shocking event I am ready to communicate
to any gentleman who approaches me in an honorable manner, but I scorn
to say a word under threats.”

The officers here exchanged nods and winks, and one said: “I knew
Mister President, he wouldn’t tell--he dassn’t. He had a hand in
killing Jackson--gagged his mouth, mebbe, while the redskin drew his
knife.”

Morton, stung to the quick, turned indignantly to the speaker, “Sir, if
I had my sword you would either take back your words or know what cold
steel is.”

“Pshaw,” was the contemptuous retort, “I don’t care for anything in the
shape of a Britisher.”

“That’s so, and you know first-rate how to rile one,” exclaimed the
presiding officer approvingly. Then addressing Morton, he added, “We
ain’t afeared of your threats, young man, and won’t lose time with
you--yes or no, are you going to give evidence?”

“No,” answered Morton firmly.

“That will do: withdraw the prisoner.”

“Excuse me, Major Spooner,” said a voice behind. Morton turned and
saw standing by the door an officer whose bearing indicated he was a
soldier by profession and not one of a few months’ standing. “I came in
after the examination had begun and therefore did not take my seat at
the board. If you will allow me, I will endeavor to represent to the
accused how matters stand.”

“Sartainly, Colonel Vanderberg; yer ken try him.”

“Then, Mr Morton, the case stands thus: last night one of our men on
guard, posted near where you slept, was stabbed and scalped. I need
not say, I do not believe for a moment you had any hand in that deed.
However, this morning experts were sent to discover the trail of the
perpetrator, and they, favored by the softness of the soil, traced the
steps of the moccasined feet of an Indian to where the guard stood,
thence to your lodging-place and finally from it to the bush whence
came the shot that killed one of the patrol. More than all this, I may
tell you the footmarks of the Indian are plain inside the stable and
beside the place in it where you slept are marks caused by drops of
blood. It is thus beyond all question that the Indian visited you, and,
with a view to discovering him and so checking a system of barbarous
warfare repulsive to all true soldiers, we ask you to tell us what you
know of him--ask you, not under threats or taking advantage of your
unfortunate position, but as a gentleman and a soldier to assist us by
telling what you know of the mysterious affair.”

Morton bowed to the Colonel and replied he had no hesitation in
telling him what he knew, and he recounted briefly how he had been
awakened during the night by an Indian and urged to fly with him.
He was prepared to take oath that he knew not of his slaying the
guard, and the drops of blood upon the straw that formed his bed
must have dripped from the scalp as the Indian stooped over him and
urged him to accompany him. Morton mentioned no name, and none of his
questioners seemed to think he could have known the Indian. At any
rate their incredulity of his story, verging on disgust, rendered
cross-questioning superfluous, Major Spooner said he could not swallow
the yarn, and another officer remarked it would be easier for him to go
without his bitters for a month than believe a Britisher would not run
away when he had a chance, to which the others agreed.

“What!” exclaimed Morton, “do you think, after giving my word of honor
to your General that I would not attempt to escape, that I would do so?”

“That is just what we do think, and that there was something we don’t
know of that kept you from running away with the Indian.”

Morton’s anger again rose and he was about to say something rash, when
Colonel Vanderberg gave his shoulder a monitory touch. “If none of you
object, I will take charge of Mr Morton.”

“Yer welkim to the critter,” remarked Major Spooner, at which the
others expectorated in order to laugh. “He is under sentence of death,
and it lies with the General to say when it shall be carried out. If
he is willing you should undertake the provost-marshal’s duty, this
committee of enquiry offer you their congratulations.”

To this raillery Colonel Vanderberg said naught, and taking Morton by
the arm led him into a vacant room. “Stay here for a minute,” he said.
On re-entering he grasped Morton by the hand, while he informed him
“the General has given me permission to take you with me, and will you
ride with me to Fort Hickory?”

“With all my heart,” answered Morton, and going to the door found
several troopers waiting the Colonel, who pointed to Morton to get on
the back of one of three spare horses. He did so and they galloped out
of the village.


CHAPTER IX.

Maggie was busy with household duties when Hemlock entered and sat down
near the table at which she stood.

“All away?” he asked.

“All except mother, who is having her afternoon nap.”

Casting a suspicious glance round, the Indian drew something out of his
pouch. “Do you know that?”

It was a ring. Maggie examined it and as she recognized whose it was,
blushed.

“Is he alive?” she asked, in a low earnest tone, as if fearful that it
was a memorial gift.

“Yes; I was with him and spoke to him night before last.”

“Where?”

“At Four Corners.”

“Tell me all?” entreated Maggie, and Hemlock recounted his visit,
closing with the remark, “If he had come with me, he would have been
here now.”

“But he would have broken his word to the Yankees,” urged Maggie in his
defence.

“And perhaps they will break his neck,” answered Hemlock with a grunt.
“Major Stovin told me that Hampton’s answer to his letter was that he
could allow no interference from outside in his disposal of spies.”

“Morton is not a spy,” exclaimed Maggie indignantly.

“They will punish him all the same unless I give myself up,” said
Hemlock, “and I mean to.”

“Oh, Hemlock, they would kill you.”

“Maybe, but Indian would save his friend.”

“He may get off when our men beat them.”

The Indian’s lip curled. “The owls are telling the eagles what to do.
When the order came to the Indian bands not to fight but just watch,
I left. We would have hung to their sides like wasps on a deer, and
marked every mile they marched with deeds that would have caused widows
to raise the funeral song from Champlain to the Ohio, but our arms are
held fast.”

“You did not tell me how you came by this ring?” faltered Maggie, as
she shyly tried it on her fingers.

“I asked him for a token, and he gave me that.”

“A token for whom, Hemlock?”

“For you.”

“For me!” gasped Maggie, with beaming eyes, while her color came and
went.

Hemlock nodded and said no more. Turning her head away from him, Maggie
pressed the token to her lips. On the Indian’s rising to go, she
entreated him to stay. Her brothers were at the camp, but her father
was only at the rear end of the lot stooking corn, and he might go and
see him. Hemlock, who had the dislike of his race to manual labor, said
he would wait, and catching up the fishing-rod of her younger brother,
prepared it to beguile the denizens of the river that flowed past the
shanty, and continued fishing until the old man returned, who sat down
beside Hemlock and got into an engrossing conversation, which was ended
by Maggie’s calling them to supper. When the meal was fairly under way,
the father said:

“Hemlock wants us to leave. He says the Americans will be here in a day
or two. He offers to bring Indians with enough of canoes to take you
and Maggie to Montreal.”

“Leave my hame for thae Yankees!” exclaimed Mrs Forsyth; “no a step
will I gang oot o’ my way for the deils.”

“Hemlock says they may burn down the house and insult you, an’ ye wad
be better oot o’ their way.”

“I wad like to see the Yankee loon that wad try to set a low to oor bit
biggin; I wad ding some dacency into his heid.”

“Think o’ Maggie, guid wife.”

Before her mother could speak, Maggie declared “she wasna fear’t an’
wad bide wi’ her mither, thankin’ Hemlock a’ the same.”

“You see, Hemlock, hoo wi’ Scotch bodies stick by our hames. Down to
the women and bairns, we will fecht to the last gasp to haud them.”

Hemlock said nothing and helped himself to another piece of
johnny-cake. The subject, however, had excited Mrs Forsyth, who mingled
denunciations of the invaders with regrets at leaving Scotland.

“Toots, woman, Canada is a better country for the puir man than
Scotlan.”

“I am no denyin’ that, but eh, there was a couthie security there
that’s no here, an’ for a sicht o’ its bonnie howes an’ glens I’d gie
onything. The first an’ the last sicht each day frae my faither’s door
was the Pentlands, an’ no trees, trees, wi’ snaw an’ ice hauf the year.”

“Ye wadna gae back, mither, for a’ that.”

“Deed would I, gin we a’ went the gither.”

“But ye have aften tell’t me ye wad never cross the sea again, ye were
so sick in coming.”

“Na, neither I wad; nae boatie for me.”

“Then, ye canna gang.”

“Hoot, lass, what are ye sayin’; is that a’ ye ken? We could walk
roun’.”

“Providence, dear wife, has cast oor lot here an’ it’s oor duty to
be content. Please God, we will help to mak o’ Canada a country oor
children will be proud o’, an as for thae Yankees, wha come to rob us
o’ oor liberty, I am sure their conceit will lead to their fa’ an’ that
their designs upon us will come to naething.”

Hemlock rose and prepared to leave. “I will go with you,” said
Forsyth, “and hear what is the news in the camp.”

Getting into the canoe they arrived at the forks in due time, and found
great activity in erecting buildings, while carts were arriving every
few minutes from the Basin with supplies or leaving empty to reload.
In every direction were soldiers encamped, and the evening being cold
their fires crackled and blazed along the lines. The soldiers were
of all kinds, from habitants in homespun blouses and blue tuques to
regulars of the line. The noisiest were the volunteer regiments,
composed of young men, lumbermen and city tradesmen, whose exuberant
animal spirits the discomforts and privations of camp failed to tame,
and where they were, screams, laughter, and singing resounded. Hemlock
led the way to a large, white house, the home of an American settler,
named Baker, but taken possession of for headquarters, and passing the
guard as a privileged character, told the orderly he wanted to see the
General. On enquiry, the two visitors were admitted into a good-sized
room, in the centre of which was a large table, at which sat a
thick-set officer of foreign aspect, Gen. deWatteville, his secretary,
and Major Henry, who had succeeded Stovin as local commander. They were
evidently engaged in examining regimental reports.

“Hemlock, so you have got back? What news from the lines?” asked the
Major.

“Yankees will break camp tomorrow.”

“How do you know? Have you any despatches from our spies?”

“No, but I saw a waggon loaded with axes arrive at Fort Hickory.”

“Well, what about that?”

“The advance camp, nearest to here, is called Fort Hickory: the axes
are to chop a road from there to our outposts on the Chateaugay.”

DeWatteville became all attention. “How long would the road be?”

“Three leagues,” answered Hemlock.

“Pooh,” remarked the General, relapsing into indifference, “they cannot
cut a road that long through the woods.”

“You don’t know Yankee axemen,” said Hemlock, “they will do it in a day
and turn your flank.”

The General simply waved his hand contemptuously. Major Henry, knowing
from past acquaintance, Hemlock’s worth and intelligence, asked in a
respectful tone, “What do you advise?”

“Send me with all the Indians and we will cut them off.”

DeWatteville could not withhold a gesture of horror. “You would fall
upon these axemen, you say are coming, butcher them with your hatchets
and scalp them. Eh?”

“Every one of them,” answered Hemlock in an exultant voice.

“Faugh, that is not war; that is murder,” said the General, “we will
fight the Americans in no such way.”

“It is how they would deal with you,” said Hemlock, “but if you do not
want the Indian to fight in the way of his fathers, he will leave you.”

Henry here leant over and whispered into the General’s ear; who
answered aloud, “No, I will not hear of it: I will fight as a soldier
and will have no savagery.” The Major was evidently disconcerted, and
changed the subject by asking Hemlock what led him so far from the
lines as to visit Fort Hickory.

“I followed Morton.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the General, “poor fellow, what of him?”

“They were going to hang him, when Colonel Vanderberg took him from
Four Corners.”

“You see, General,” said Major Henry with a smile, “the savagery of the
invader against whom you would not use the services of Hemlock and his
braves in self-defence.”

The General twirled his heavy grey mustache and bit it nervously. “If
they hang him, I will let every redskin in the country loose upon them.”

“It would serve Morton better to do so before the rope does its work,”
suggested the Major. “Our remonstrances addressed to General Hampton
have been met with combined equivocation and insolence. ‘Give up,’ he
says, ‘the murderer of Major Slocum and I will set Morton at liberty.’
As much as to say we screen the murderer--a man I know nothing of and
for whose deed His Majesty’s service is not accountable.”

Hemlock said, “Read that again?”

Taking up General Hampton’s despatch in answer to that regarding
Morton’s treatment, the Major read it in full. The Indian listened
intently and made no comment, but Forsyth said quietly, he was sure Mr
Morton had no hand in murdering anybody.

“We all know that,” answered Major Henry, “a more humane and yet a more
gallant officer the King has not got. And now, Forsyth, what are you
and the settlers going to do when the Americans cross the frontier?”

“Ye’ll excuse me for saying so, but that is a silly question to ask o’
men wha hae gien their sons to serve as sogers and placed their horses,
and a’ their barns and cellars contain at your service.”

“You don’t understand me. I mean do you intend staying in your houses
should the enemy come, or will you seek safety in Montreal?”

“It wad be hard to gie up to the destroyer all we hae and that we
hae gaithered wi’ sic pains in years gane by. My ain mind is, and my
neebors agree, that we will stand by our property an’ tak chances.”

“It is the resolve of brave men,” remarked the General, “but it may be
in the interest of the campaign to waste the country and leave neither
supplies nor shelter for the enemy.”

“Gin sic should prove the case,” answered the farmer, “there’s no an
Auld Countryman on the river that wadna pit the fire to his biggin wi’
his ain hand. Gear is guid, but independence is sweet.”

“I hope you will not be asked to make such a sacrifice,” said the
Major, “we have reports here of reinforcements on the way that, if they
arrive in time, will enable us to meet the enemy.”

The General here intimated to them to retire. Hemlock started as if
from a reverie. Going close to the General, he stretched out his right
hand after the manner of Indian orators. “You meet the Yankees as
soldier meets soldier. The red man meets them as the robbers of his
lands, the destroyers of his villages, the slayers of his race. The
land was ours, and they have driven us to the setting sun and left us
not even standing-room for our lodges. You have called us savages. Who
made us savages? The Indian forgets no kindness and forgives no wrong.
The hand that has despoiled and struck at us, we will seek late and
early, in light and dark, to smite. Our enemy for generations, the
enemy we are always at war with, is your enemy today. You may make
peace with him tomorrow. We never will. When the Indian dies, he gives
his hatchet to his sons. We offer you our help. Tell me to go and do
what I will, and the Americans will not drink of the St Lawrence. Ten
score Iroquois will keep up the war-whoop along the frontier until they
turn.”

The General seemed annoyed and said sharply, “We take you as scouts,
not as comrades-in-arms. I will have no barbarian warfare.”

Hemlock drew himself up with dignity as he said: “We are your allies,
not your hirelings. Our tribes declared war against the Americans
before you did, and if you will not accept our aid we withdraw this
night from your camp and shall fight on our own hand.”

Major Henry perceived the mistake made by the General and hastened to
undo it. “King George,” he said, “is true to the treaty made with his
Indian allies and I am sure you will stand by it too. The General is
preparing his plans for receiving the Americans and the Indians will
have their place in it.”

Without apparently heeding these words, Hemlock approached close to the
General. “I warn you,” he said, “if you reject our aid, great soldier
as you may be across the sea, in the warfare of these woods your light
will go out like this,” and with a wave of his hand he put out the
light of one of the two candles on the table. Turning on his heel, he
walked with stately stride out of the room. That night he and his band
left the camp and ceased to receive orders from headquarters.


CHAPTER X.

“Well, Morton, our days of inglorious idleness are ended,” exclaimed
Col. Vanderberg. “I return from headquarters with orders for an
immediate advance.”

“Thank heavens!” ejaculated Morton.

“What! Do you rejoice at an attack on your country? Come, my good
friend, I see your judgment is overcoming your feelings, and you are
going to cast in your lot with us--the latest convert from monarchism
to republicanism.”

“No, no: you need not banter me. What I rejoice at is the ending of
a policy of inaction that has kept you, my friend, and your humble
prisoner alike in wearisome suspense.”

“It is ended: the die is cast, whatever the result may be. After dinner
squads of men begin to chop out a road from Smith’s, and tomorrow Izard
comes with reinforcements and under him we bear the banner of the
United States into Canada.”

“And what do you propose doing with me when you advance?” asked Morton.

“Hum! To leave you behind means your being returned to Four Corners,
with a chance of meeting the fate you twice escaped. It is against
all military rule, but you must go with us. I will not risk you in the
hands of these legal Sons of Mars--Spooner et al.”

“Thank you, Colonel; again you have placed me under an obligation I can
never repay.”

“I hope not,” answered the Colonel with a smile, “I’d rather not be His
Majesty’s prisoner even with Lieutenant Morton as my custodian.”

“No, never; I wish to pay my debt of gratitude in no such way.”

“Say no more, Morton, on that score. The happiest days I have spent
this summer have been since I made your acquaintance. If I did you a
good turn, I have had compensation. And now to work: there comes a
waggon creaking under its load of chopping axes.”

The conversation took place at an outpost of Hampton’s army, close
upon the frontier, styled Douglas camp in official documents but known
familiarly among the soldiers as Fort Hickory, from the character of
the trees that prevailed at this spot. Colonel Vanderberg, instead of
placing Morton in custody as he half anticipated, when he dismounted
after his ride from Four Corners, took him into the house where he
was quartered, and told him in few words he was again on parole and
his guest. Without farther allusion to the humiliating and perilous
position from which he had snatched him, Col. Vanderberg made him
his friend and associate and each passing day strengthened the bond
between them. Each had experiences of interest to the other. The
Colonel had tales of peril on the Pennsylvania and Ohio frontiers in
protecting the settlements from Indian attacks, and Morton, in return,
gratified his curiosity as to the organization and character of the
British army and English life and habits.

The following morning they had breakfast by candle-light, and on going
out, found the camp in a flurry of preparation, troopers ready to
mount, engineers with their tools over their shoulders, and a large
squad of brawny fellows in flannel shirts with axe in hand, drafted
from the various corps and hired from among the surrounding farmers to
clear a road to the Chateaugay. All was life, bustle, and confusion.
Jumping on horseback, the Colonel speedily got each man into his place,
and by the time this was effected, the drum-taps, by which they kept
step, of Izard’s column were heard, and that officer gave the word to
advance. Preceded by a squad of scouts and sharp-shooters to cover
them, the engineers and axemen moved on, then a body of infantry,
followed by the troopers, a few commissariat wagons bringing up the
rear. The Colonel and Morton were with the troopers. As the long and
picturesque cavalcade scrambled over the brow of a hill, the sun had
gained the ascendency, and the frost that had whitened everything now
sparkled on every stem and leaf as it melted in the sunbeams. The
atmosphere was clear and crisp, and the very odor that rose from the
fallen leaves added to its exhilarating quality. When the summit of the
ascent was reached, the declivity was abrupt enough to afford a lookout
over the tree-tops, and Canada lay outstretched a vast plain at their
feet. Far in the distance, could be seen a gleaming line, like a rapier
flung across a brown cloak. It was the St Lawrence. The Colonel drew
his horse to one side of the road, to permit the troops to pass, while
he scanned the inspiring scene.

“All looks peaceful,” he said to Morton, “no sign that under the cover
of these woods an enemy awaits us.”

“It is a grand view of a noble country,” replied Morton, “and you may
rely on it, there are men awaiting you who will shed the last drop of
their blood in its defence.”

The Colonel, drawing his bridle, joined in the march and the glimpse
of Canada was lost under overhanging vistas of trees. “Do you know,
Morton,” he said, “it seems strange to me that our armies should meet
resistance from the Canadians. We speak the same language; we are of
the same stock. Why should they fight to the death against uniting with
us as equal partners in a free government?”

“You forget, Colonel, that speech and origin are not the strongest
elements in national sentiment. You meet a woman with a big man
supporting her and bearing himself as if he were proud of her, and
you wonder at it, and say the man could find plenty whose faces are
pleasanter to look upon and which indicate more intelligence. The man
will admit all that, but he tells you the woman is his mother, and to
him she is better and more beautiful than all the women in the world
beside. In the same way, the British government may be inferior in
some points to your new Republic, may have made mistakes in the past,
and might be better in some regards, but then she is the mother of the
Canadians, and they will not desert her for bouncing Miss Columbia.”

“That won’t do, Morton; you forget that the British government was
once, as you term it, our mother also.”

“I did not forget that, and I hope I will not offend you, Colonel, by
saying that for that very cause the Canadians dislike Americans. You
turned upon your mother, you strove to compass her humiliation; the
very base of your patriotic feeling is hatred of her.”

“That is putting it strong, Morton.”

“I think not; the preamble of your declaration of independence is a
tirade of gratuitous charges against Great Britain.”

“Then you think Canada will never unite with the Republic?”

“I certainly think so, and those who live to see it, will find two
great English-speaking communities on this continent, with this radical
difference between them, that one reviles and seeks to injure the
mother-land from which they sprung and the other succors and honors
her.”

A commotion in front stopped the conversation and two scouts were seen
dragging an old man between them towards the Colonel.

“What’s this?” he asked sharply.

“We have taken a prisoner!” cried one of the men in an exulting voice.

“The divil take you,” interrupted the old man with contentious manner.
“Yees had no business wid me.”

“We found him hiding behind some brush watching our men. He is a spy,”
said the scout.

“Behind some brush! An’ whose brush was it? Me own, bedad.”

“You had no business there.”

“No business to be on my own farrum! Bad scran to ye, if I had yees in
Wixford I’d get the constable to arrist every man o’ yees for trispass.”

“Come, hold your tongue,” said a scout roughly.

“Hould yer own whisht. Ye havn’t mended yer manners since I saw yer
backs at Brandywine.”

Col. Vanderberg smiled as he said to the scouts, “I am afraid you
have been too hasty. We are now in Canada and must not molest its
inhabitants. The old man is a non-combatant, and, as he declares, was
on his own farm when taken.”

“If you had seen him kick and scratch and wriggle when we put hands
upon him, you wouldn’t say he was a non-combatant, Colonel. He swore
at the United States and said he kept one of our flags for his
pocket-handkerchief.”

“Tut, tut,” exclaimed the Colonel, “we have not come to fight old men;
let him go.”

“Ye’d betther,” remarked the old man with a grin, “or I’ll make ye
sorry.”

“Now, what could you do?” asked the Colonel with an amused smile.

The old man sidled up beside the bridle of the Colonel’s horse, and in
a tone of mock solemnity, while his eyes sparkled with fun, whispered,
“I’d put the curse of Cramwell an ye.”

“Say, friend,” said Morton, “there is something about you that tells me
you are an old soldier. Were you ever in the army?”

“Yis, but not in yer riffraff that ye’s call an army.”

“You are mistaken in me,” replied Morton, and drawing aside his cloak
showed the scarlet coat of the British service.

“An’ how did ye fall in wid dem rebels? A prisoner are ye, God save
us! You’ll be Leftenant Morton that was to be hanged, as I heard tell.
Well, well, since ye wern’t born to be hanged, it is drownded ye may
be. Av coorse I was in the army an’ got me discharge an’ a grant of
land from King George, an’ may the divil catch a hould o’ dem that
don’t wish him well.”

“Are all your neighbors of the same mind?” asked the Colonel.

“They are that same. Come wid me to my shanty an’ while I sind for ’im,
you will have an illigant dinner of praties an’ milk. There is not wan
on the frontier that does not say with Capt. Barron, God bless the King
an’ canfound his inimies.”

“Thank you,” answered the Colonel, “but I have other fish to fry today.
Tell me this, old man, What difference would it make to you and your
neighbors that you should eat your potatoes and milk under the Stars
and Stripes instead of the Union Jack?”

“Sure, that’s aisy answered. The differ between atin’ in an inimy’s
house an’ aitin’ in yer awn.”

“Come, Morton, we lose time. Good-bye, old man,” and putting spurs
to his horse the Colonel galloped to regain his place in the column,
followed by Morton.

By noon the scouts had reached the Chateaugay, which they forded
without hesitation and advancing on a shanty that stood on the bank,
surprised its inmates, a party of Canadian volunteers on outpost
duty, while taking an afternoon nap. This capture was of advantage to
the Americans, for it delayed by several hours intelligence of their
invasion being received at the British headquarters. Shortly afterwards
Col. Vanderberg arrived, who, without halting for refreshment,
accompanied Gen. Izard down the river some distance, examining the
country. On returning, men were set to work to prepare a camp for the
main army, which he knew was on the march. A thorough soldier, well
trained in bush fighting, the Colonel made his arrangements with an
acumen and decision that increased Morton’s regard for him. Before
sunset a line of scouts was established across the valley, a strongly
fortified post established, tents pitched, and a messenger sent with a
despatch to Hampton informing him all was ready. Not until then, did
the Colonel divest himself of his long-boots and draw up beside the
log-fire of the shanty of one Spears to discuss the fare his servant
had provided.


CHAPTER XI.

On the morning after the events narrated in preceding chapter, General
Hampton left his quarters at Four Corners for the new camp. Escorted by
20 cavalrymen, he and his staff rode rapidly over the newly-cut road,
and by noon reached the Chateaugay. Halting on the bluff that overlooks
the junction of the Outard with that river, and whence he had full
view of the camp in busy preparation on the other side of the river,
he awaited the arrival of his tents. A stout man and well-advanced in
years, the exertion of the journey had fatigued him, and he sat, or
rather reclined, on a log in front of a blazing fire, for the day was
chilly, and grouped around him were the officers of his staff. At the
foot of the bank and in the near distance, were the troopers tending
their horses and the officers’ servants preparing dinner.

From his elevated position, the General had a full view of the opposite
bank and he watched with complacency the arrival at the new camp, with
flutter of flag and tuck of drum, of frequent detachments.

“Everything bodes favorably for our enterprise,” he remarked, “the
despatches that awaited me tell of unprecedented success. At every
point attempted our battalions have entered the enemy’s territory
unopposed and advanced unmolested. The Rubicon has been crossed and
terror-stricken the foe flies before us. This afternoon a special
messenger shall bear to Albany, New York and Washington the tidings of
our triumphant progress--of our undisputed taking possession of this
country to which the British authorities make a pretended claim.”

“Your despatch will cause great rejoicing,” said an officer.

“Yes, it will be hailed with loud acclaim, and my enemies who clamored
against me, will now perceive that what they stigmatized as inaction
was the profoundest strategy. Sixteen miles have we marched into the
enemy’s territory and not a hostile bayonet has been seen. Ha, who is
this? Draw your swords.”

All eyes turned in the direction of the General’s, and a tall Indian
was seen standing immovably beside a giant pine. It was Hemlock. As he
remained motionless with folded arms, and was apparently unarmed, the
officers got over their alarm, and those who had laid their hands upon
their swords, dropped them.

“Sirrah, what do you here? How passed you our guards?” shouted the
General.

“I have come to speak with you. You are ten to one; your escort is
within hail of you, will you listen to me?”

“Go on,” said Hampton.

“You have a British officer held as prisoner. You wrote to Major Stovin
that you would set him free if the Indian who killed Slocum were given
in exchange. Do you stand by that offer?”

“Morton goes free when the Indian is sent in.”

“Give me an order for his release; the Indian goes to your camp at
once.”

“That will not do, Mr Redskin. The exchange must be effected through
the British commander. Let him send an accredited officer with a flag
of truce and we will treat with him.”

“Before that can be done, Morton may be dead. If you get the Indian
what care you for else? The Indian who killed Slocum passes into your
hands the moment Morton is given liberty.”

“This is altogether irregular,” remarked an officer, “General Hampton
cannot deal with an irresponsible redskin, who, for all he knows,
has come here on some scheme of deviltry. See here, was it you that
murdered Slocum?”

“I never murdered any man,” answered Hemlock proudly, “but I have
killed many in war. Had you the Indian who slew him, what would you do
to him?”

“Well, I guess, if the General let us have our way, we would hand him
to the men of Slocum’s old regiment and they’d make him wish he had
never been born.”

“The Indian might have had good cause for dealing with Slocum as he
did?”

“No, you red devil, he could have no cause. He carved him up out of
pure deviltry.”

“You are tired, General,” said Hemlock, with a courteous wave of the
hand, “and while you rest, will you listen to me, for I have heard
that Indian’s story? In the Mohawk valley lived an English family when
you Americans rose against King George. A neighbor, who had come from
Massachusetts, envied their farm, and, on the Englishman refusing to
forswear his allegiance, had it confiscated and took possession. The
Englishman had to fly and went through the woods, many days’ journey to
Canada, guided by a band of loyal Oneidas. When they reached Canada,
a young warrior of that band stayed with them and helped them to find
food in the wilderness until crops grew. That Indian gave up his tribe,
and lived with them and a daughter came to love him, and they were
married and were happy many years, until the mist rose from the lake
and she sickened and died. The Indian so loved her that he would have
killed himself to follow her to the spirit land, had she not left a
daughter, who was his joy and life. When she grew up, the Indian said,
She shall be the equal of the best, and he took her to Albany to be
taught all ladies learn. A young man saw her, met her, learned of the
Indian blood in her veins, and doomed her as his spoil. He was aided
by a companion in deceiving her by a false marriage, she lived with
him for a while, was cast off, and her deceiver married the governor’s
daughter. The Indian had gone on a far journey; he went to seek for
furs in the West to get money for his daughter. In two years he came to
Montreal with many canoe-loads, he sold them, he went to Albany, and
found his child dying of a broken heart. He took her away with him, he
nursed her by the Ottawa--he buried her there. He went back to Albany,
and was told the law could not punish Slocum or his friend, who had
gone away. Then he sought Slocum and twenty times he could have killed
him, but he would not. In his heart he said, Slocum must die not by the
knife or bullet, but by torture, and the chance came not until a moon
ago, when he met Slocum face to face in the Chateaugay woods about to
stab Morton. The Indian took Slocum, and for hours he made him feel
part of the pain he had caused him and his child--only a part, for you
who are fathers can guess what that Indian and his daughter suffered.
Was that Indian to blame? Did he do more to him than he deserved? Will
you give the father over to Slocum’s soldiers to be abused and killed?”

“A good yarn,” remarked an officer, “and a true one, for I lived at
Albany then and saw the girl; pretty as a picture and simple as a baby.
If Major Slocum had not got his hand in first, some other fellow would
and she would have been made a fool of anyway.”

“We will have nigger fathers running after us next,” sneered another
officer.

“Did you know Slocum?” asked Hemlock of the first who had spoken, with
a quaver in his voice he could not control.

“Guess I did. Slocum and Spooner were chums in those days, and by
----, I believe you are the father of the young squaw you make such a
bother about. Won’t we hold him, General?” So saying he rose, as if
waiting his assent to seize Hemlock. Before he could take a second
step, Hemlock, with a quick motion, snatched his tomahawk, which he had
concealed in his bosom, threw it, and leapt into the bush, where he was
lost to sight in a moment. The officer, without uttering a word, fell
on his back; the head of the tomahawk buried in his forehead. Stunned
by the event, the officers lost a few minutes in giving the alarm. When
search was made, it was in vain; Hemlock had not left a trace behind
him.

       *       *       *       *       *

The evening set in dismal and rainy, with a raw east wind that made the
soldiers seek every available shelter. In the Forsyth household there
was the alarm natural to the knowledge that the invaders were within
a short distance, but the daily routine of duty was not interrupted
and everything had gone on as usual. All had retired to rest except
Maggie, who sat before the fire, building castles in the flickering
flames and dying embers. While so engaged, the door, never fastened,
opened softly, and Hemlock stepped in. Regardless of his sodden
garments, he crouched beside the girl, without uttering a word. “Do you
bring news of the coming of the enemy?” she whispered.

“No: they are shivering in their tents.”

“It is a cruel night to be out of doors.”

The Indian nodded assent, and relapsed into silence. “Maggie,” he said
suddenly, “I may have to leave Morton to your care.”

“Dear me, Hemlock, what can I do?”

“I have done everything,” he went on to say, “that I could. I gave
him a chance to escape from his prison and today I offered Hampton to
surrender the Indian they want in exchange for him and he refused. He
will treat with the British General alone.”

“That is surely easy, Hemlock. When the Yankees say they will give up
Mr Morton for the Indian they blame for murdering their officer, our
General will be glad to give up the Indian, provided he can be got.”

“No: our General refuses, saying it would be an unheard of thing for
the British to give up an ally for an act of warfare, and he will not
listen to the Yankee demand.”

“May be he says that because he cannot get the Indian,” suggested
Maggie.

“I am the Indian,” said Hemlock curtly, “and I asked him to bind me
and send me to the American camp with a flag of truce, and all he said
was, ‘He would sooner hear of Morton being hung than be guilty of such
treachery to a faithful ally.’”

“My, Hemlock! What made you be so cruel? That you have a feeling heart
I know, for I have seen you cry over your daughter’s----”

With a quick gesture Hemlock stopped her.

“Speak no more of that. It was because of my love for my child that I
tortured the wretch to death.” Here he paused, his features working
with emotions that cast them into frightful contortions. “Oh, Maggie, I
thought if I could have my revenge I’d be happy. I had my heart’s wish
on the spoiler of my child and today I brained the villain that helped
him, and I am more miserable than ever. My vengeance has done me no
good. My child, my daughter, oh come to me!”

The heart of Maggie melted with sympathy. She rose and resting one hand
on his shoulder sought his with the other. “Take it not,” he said in a
whisper, “it is the hand of blood.”

“Hemlock, I dinna judge you as I would ane o’ oor ain folk, for the
nature born with you is no like oors, let alane your upbringing, but I
ken you to be an honest, and wronged man, with a kindly heart, and I
would share your sorrow that I may lichten it.”

The Indian was evidently touched. Grasping her hand he bent over it
and pressed it to his lips. After a long pause, Maggie added: “If you
would give up your heathen ways and turn to the Lord, your path would
become clear.”

“I once followed the Lord,” said Hemlock, “I learned of Him from my
wife, and I taught my daughter to love Jesus, but when the cloud came
and its darkness blinded me, I put away the white man’s God and went
back to the ways of my fathers.”

“Leave them again?” entreated Maggie.

“Too late: I die as I am.”

“But you are no going to die, Hemlock. You’ve many years to live.”

“I die before the new moon comes; my oki told me so in a dream last
night, and that is why I have come to talk with you about Morton. You
love him?”

Too honest to utter the “no” that came to her faltering tongue,
Maggie’s head drooped and her face flushed.

“I know you do,” Hemlock went on, “and I know he loves you, tho’ his
heart has not told his head yet. I know not where he is; if I did, we
would attack his guard and rescue him this night. They took him away
from Fort Hickory and I have not got his track yet. When they find
where he is I want you to give orders to my men when I am gone.”

“This is beyond me, Hemlock.”

“Listen: I have told my Indians they must save him and to obey you.”

“Tell my brothers or my father.”

“The Indians would not obey them: they believe what I told them, that I
have given you my medicine. If Morton is not saved this week, he dies.”

“If our men beat the Yankees will they not rescue him?”

“Yankees would shoot him before they would let him escape, and they
will hang him if they retreat. They have let him live hoping to get me;
when they know they cannot, they will kill him.”

Maggie shuddered. “And what am I to do?”

Hemlock answered: “The Indian has a good hand but a poor head. When
they come and tell you they have found where Morton is kept, you will
order them when and how to make the attack and into the messenger’s
hand you will press this medicine, and tell him it will make success
sure.” Here he took a pouch from his breast and selected a small
package--something sewed up in a bit of bird’s skin.

“I hope you will live to save your friend yourself,” said Maggie.

Hemlock gloomily shook his head, and rising walked towards the door,
which he opened and stepped out into the cheerless night. Maggie
followed and looked out. She could see nothing: he was gone. That night
she rested all the more comfortably, from knowing that within hail was
a faithful band of Indians.


CHAPTER XII.

Two days later Hemlock was one of a group standing on the north bank of
the river, where it broke into a short rapid, named from the settler
whose shanty overlooked it, Morrison’s rapid. The group included
representatives of the different corps that had been gathered together,
with several settlers. They were watching, in the fading twilight, a
thin line of moving red, emerging from the bush. It was a battalion
of the Canadian Fencibles that had come from Kingston to reinforce
deWatteville. The newcomers were soon among them, brawny Highlanders
from Glengarry, French Canadian lumbermen, and a number of farmers
from the English settlements in the east. They were greeted with the
earnestness men in peril welcome help, and assistance was given in
preparing such food as was available, while many sought rest after
their exhausting journey in the outbuildings of Morrison and in the
sheds that had been prepared for them. Their commander, Col. Macdonell,
a thin, wiry man, with a fair complexion that gave him the name of
Macdonell the Red, having seen his men disposed of, moved to the house.
At the door Morrison, himself a Highlander, bade his guest welcome in
the purest of Argyllshire Gaelic, and produced his bottle. After the
glass had passed round, Macdonell said, “We have come far to have a
tilt with the Yankees: will we be sure to meet them?”

“That you will,” answered Morrison, “they are within four miles of you
and will pay us a visit, maybe, the morn.”

“Ha! That news does me more good than your dram. When there is fighting
to be done, a Highlandman’s blood runs faster. Get us some supper
ready, and while we wait I’ll find out what has been done. Is there
none of the General’s staff here?”

“Not an officer: they are all busy at the making of barricades; but
here is an Indian with a longer head than any of them, and who can
speak good English, which, however, is not to be compared with our
mother-language.”

Resuming the use of the despised tongue--for he scorned to give English
the name of language--Morrison introduced Hemlock, and drawing him to a
corner of the hearth, Macdonell plied him with questions. The Indian,
using the ramrod of his musket, drew a plan of the country in the ashes
at their feet, explaining how the Americans were encamped a few miles
farther up the river and that to get to Montreal they must go down the
road that followed its north bank. To prevent him, General deWatteville
had caused the numerous gullies of creeks where they emptied into the
Chateaugay, to be protected by breastworks of fallen trees, behind
which the British would contest their advance. Six of these gullies had
been so prepared. In rear of them, was the main line of defence, placed
where the ground was favorable, and strengthened by breastworks and two
small cannon.

“Aye, aye!” exclaimed Macdonell, “all very well if the Americans keep
to the road: but what are we to do should they try to flank us?”

The Indian’s face darkened as he whispered, “deWatteville is a good man
but he is an Old World soldier who knows nothing about bush-fighting.
He would not believe me, when I told them there were bush-whackers in
the Yankee army who could march to his rear through the woods.”

“That they could!” agreed the Colonel, “and where would he be then? And
what good would his six lines of barricades be? My own lads today came
over ground where regulars would have been bogged. Then the river can
be forded opposite this house. Could the Yankees get to this ford?”

Hemlock said they could, when Macdonell answered he would see to it
that preparations were made to checkmate such a move. Finding Hemlock
acute and thoroughly acquainted with the field of operations, the
Highlander’s heart warmed to him as one of like soldierly instincts
as his own. Uncontaminated by the prejudice of race common to old
residents, he had no feeling against the red-men, and when supper was
ready he insisted on Hemlock’s sitting beside him, and in treating him
as his equal. As the evening wore on, officers from the neighboring
encampments dropped in to exchange greetings with the new-comers, and
an orderly brought instructions from the General. When Hemlock left to
join his band in their vigils along the enemy’s lines, he felt he had
not passed so happy an evening for a dozen of years.

The night passed quietly and in the morning the enemy showed no
disposition to move, so that the preparations for their reception
went on, and the troops worked all day, the woods re-echoing the
sound of their axes as they felled trees to roll into heaps to form
rude breastworks. In the afternoon General de Watteville rode up
and carefully inspected all that had been done, and returned to his
quarters satisfied, and altogether unwitting that the attack was to be
made from another direction in a few hours.

The day had been cloudy, cheerless, and cold, and as it faded, rain
began to fall. The men sought such cover and warmth as they could find
and the officers assembled to spend the night in carousing. So raw,
dark, and uninviting was it that not one in the British camp supposed
the enemy would be astir. But they were. At sunset, 1500 men left the
American camp, marched down to the river, forded the rapids, and began
their march down the south bank with the intent of capturing the ford
at Morrison’s at daylight.

Next morning, the eventful 26th October, 1813, the Forsyths,
unsuspicious of what was passing under the woods around them, were at
breakfast, when the door was dashed in and Hemlock appeared, dripping
wet. “I want a messenger to go to Macdonell to tell him the Americans
are on their way to him,” he shouted.

“Confound them,” exclaimed Forsyth, “I’ll gang at ance.”

“An’ leave us twa women bodies oor lane?” complained his wife, “No, no,
you maun bide, an’ proteck us.”

Hemlock was disconcerted. “Maggie,” he appealed, “won’t you go? Take
the canoe and you will be at the ford in a few minutes.”

“Yes,” she responded, with quiet decision, “and what am I to say?”

“Tell the Colonel that the Americans in strength are marching through
the woods on this side of the river, intending to surprise him and
capture his position. Their advance will be on him in half an hour. Say
to him, to send over men to meet them and I will join with my band. I
go to watch them.” Without another word, he left and rushed back into
the forest.

Maggie stepped lightly to where the canoe was moored, loosened the
rope, and paddled down the river with all the strength she had. When
it struck the bank at Morrison’s she was glad to see so many astir
and hastened to the door. “You, Maggie, at this early hour,” cried Mrs
Morrison, “naething wrang I hope?”

“I must see the Colonel,” she said, catching for breath.

“There he is,” said Mrs Morrison, pointing to an officer engaged in
reading a letter by the fire.

Maggie repeated Hemlock’s message. Macdonell listened with sparkling
eyes, and when she had done said, “Thank you, my bonnie lass, you have
done the King a service, and when the Yankees come they will find us
ready to gie their lang nebs a smell o’ oor claymores.”

Hastening out, he gave his orders in quick succession, and with
surprising alacrity for a volunteer force, the men fell in. Two
companies were soon complete. “Now, Captain Bruyére, if your men do as
well as you will yourself all will be well; and for you, Captain Daly,
I know by long experience what a loyal Irishman is. Hold your ground
until I get up to you with the other companies.”

The men quietly descended the bank and plunged into the river, which
took them nearly to the middle, for owing to the recent rains it was
deep. Gaining the opposite bank, they were swallowed up in the woods.
Gazing over the tree-tops, which looked peaceful in the calm of a dull,
moist, autumnal day, Maggie wondered what was going on beneath their
cover--wished she could see the advancing Americans and the men who
had just gone to meet them. There was an interval of suspense. Then,
suddenly, there was a sharp volley and the quiet air became filled
with shouts, and yells, and cries of frightened men. All at once there
burst from the bush on to the river bank, a good way up, a string of
habitants, flying in terror, their blue tuques streaming behind them,
and few of them having muskets, for they had thrown them away to aid
their flight. “The cowardly loons,” muttered Macdonell, “it would serve
them right to give them a taste of shot.” On reaching the ford, they
tumultuously dashed in. As the foremost came up the bank the Colonel
demanded an explanation. They had been surprised by the unexpected
appearance of a great host of Americans and ran to save themselves.
Attention, however, was now attracted from the fugitives by the
recommencement of the firing, which was sharp and continuous, relieved
by the yells and whoops of the Indians.

“Hasten!” shouted Macdonell to the troops who were lining up, “do you
not hear the firing? Our comrades need us.”

The head of the column had reached the water’s edge, when there was
a burst of cheering. “That’s our lads,” said the Colonel, “they must
have won the day. Halt! We will not seek to share the credit of their
victory.” In a few minutes a body of the Fencibles reappeared, with
several prisoners and bearing a few wounded men. Their report was that
they had encountered the advance guard of the American brigade, which,
although elated at the rout of the outpost of habitants, fled at the
first fire. The Colonel ordered the men to retire and wait behind the
breastworks that commanded the ford. “It is not likely,” he remarked
to his adjutant, “that the Americans will now attack us, seeing their
design to surprise us has miscarried.” Half an hour later, Hemlock
arrived with his braves, at whose girdles hung several fresh scalps.
He told Macdonell that the Americans had given up their intention of
gaining the ford and had gone into camp nearly two miles above, in a
grove beside the river. Seeing how slight was the prospect of more
fighting on that side of the river, he was going to join the main-body.
On hearing this reassuring news, Maggie slipped away to her canoe and
paddled homewards.

On coming in sight of the shanty she was amazed and alarmed by the
change that had taken place in her short absence. American soldiers
were clustered around it, and a few horses picketed. Fearing the
worst, she drew near. Seated by the fire were several officers warming
themselves and drying their clothes, and with whom her mother was in
altercation.

“Come to free us, say ye? What wad ye free us frae?”

“From the tyranny of European monarchy,” answered an officer with a
smile.

“It maun be a licht yoke that we never felt. Mak us free, dootless,
like that blackamoor servant that’s cooking yer breakfast.”

“Waal, no,” said another officer, “yer a furriner, ye know, but yer
white.”

“A foreigner!” exclaimed Mrs Forsyth, “hae I lived to be ca’ed in my
ain house, a foreigner! I belang to nae sic trash. Manners maun be
scarce whaur you come frae, my man.”

“That’s all right, old woman; the old man will understand how it is. We
have come to make you independent.”

“Auld man! Auld woman! God forgie you for haein’ nae respeck for grey
hairs. My guid man, sir, taks nae stock in ye or your fine words. Nicht
and mornin’ does he pray for King George an’ that his throne may be
preserved. You’re a set o’ land-loupers, wha hae nae business here an’
its my howp afore nicht you may be fleein’ back to whaur ye cam frae.”

“Canada folk are not all like you.”

“Ay, that they are. There’s no an’ Auld Country family from here to the
Basin that winna gie you the back o’ their hand, an’ no ane that wadna
suner lose a’ than come unner yer rule.”

Afraid that further controversy might result unpleasantly, Maggie left
her attitude of listening outside the door and entered. One or two of
the younger officers rose and bowed; the others stared.

“Oh, Maggie, I wish you had stayed where you were,” said her mother,
“you have come into the lion’s den, for your father is no maister here.”

“I am sure, mother, these gentlemen will not harm us.”

“Not at all,” interrupted one of the strangers, “and in a few hours we
will leave you alone again.”

“The sicht o’ your backs will be maist welcome,” remarked Mrs Forsyth.

“Where is father?”

“Helpin’ thae Yankees to get a haud o’ his ain property. They took him
oot to get fodder for their horses.”

There was a bustle outside and presently two soldiers carried in a
young lad, in lieutenant’s uniform, whose white face told that he had
been wounded. They were about to lay him down in front of the fire,
when Mrs Forsyth darted forward: “No, na; dinna pit the puir chiel on
the floor; tak him to my ain bed,” and she helped to place him there.
Two surgeons took off his coat and shirt, when the wound appeared; a
bullet had gone through the fleshy part beneath the arm-pit, causing
some loss of blood without doing serious injury. When the surgeons
said he would recover, Mrs Forsyth’s face beamed and she bustled
about to get the requisites needed to clean and dress the wound,
while, under her orders, Maggie made gruel to revive his strength.
While thus engaged, officers came and went, and the house was never
without several of them. There came a tall, square-built man, whose
shoulder-straps indicated high rank, and his quiet, resolute face one
accustomed to command. He advanced to the bed where the wounded lad
lay, asked a few questions, and spoke encouragingly to the sufferer.

“It is too bad that Dingley, of all our corps, should have had this
luck,” remarked an officer.

“Yes, and to no purpose. I fear the miscarriage of our plan to surprise
the ford will lead to the abandonment of the purpose to capture
Montreal.”

“There is not a man in the army that does not wish we were in
winter-quarters. To fight in such a country at this season is more than
flesh and blood can stand.”

“Yet to go back will disgrace us,” said the superior officer, who
withdrew.

“Who is that?” asked Maggie of one of the surgeons.

“That is Col. Purdy, and if he had been in command we would not have
spent all summer doing nothing and come here in the end of October.”

“Yet he failed in capturing the ford,” remarked Maggie, with a sparkle
in her eye.

“He could not help the weather and the dark night that kept us standing
in the woods until daybreak. After all, we would have surprised the
guard and taken the ford had it not been for somebody, perhaps a
traitor among ourselves, who carried word of our coming.”

“Maybe,” said Maggie demurely, “but you did not get the ford and what
can you do now?”

“Nothing, I am afraid. The failure of our brigade to carry the key of
the enemy’s position may cause the General to give up the enterprise.”


CHAPTER XIII.

On leaving Morrison’s, Hemlock hurried to the front, followed by
his braves. As he reached each successive line of defence he paused
briefly to scan it, but when he came to that which had been entrusted
to the Indians, and which was within sight of the front, he halted to
fraternize with his brethren and share their fare, for it was now noon.
The urgent requests of the chiefs, that he should stay with them and
aid in the threatened conflict, he declined, saying he wanted to be
with the first line, and his dusky comrades afterwards recalled that
he parted with more than usual ceremony and that when he and his small
band gained the eminence on the other side of the ravine, he looked
back and waved his hand in farewell. A tramp of a few minutes brought
him to the advance line, where he found men still busy felling and
rolling trees to strengthen the abattis. Inquiring for the officer in
command he came upon him, a short, broad-shouldered man, engaged in
swearing at one of his men for neglect of duty. On seeing the Indians
he turned, and with hearty gesture grasped Hemlock’s extended hand.
“Ha, bon camarado, have you come to help?”

“Will there be a fight?” asked Hemlock.

“Yes, yes; stand on this stump and you can see for yourself.”

With cautious movement Hemlock scanned the scene. In front of the
abattis there was a narrow clearing that skirted the river bank as far
as the view extended. On the road and adjoining fields were masses of
American troops, with the smoke rising from the fires at which they
were cooking dinner. “You see, Hemlock,” said Colonel deSalaberry,
“they may make an attack any minute. Those mounted officers looking at
us from the road are the General and his staff.”

Hemlock gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Where will we stand?” he asked.

“Get into the woods and cover our flank,” deSalaberry replied. Without
another word, Hemlock motioned to his men and led the way to where
the line of defence ended in the bush. Here he spread out his men and
awaited the onset. Half an hour passed when the roll of drums was
heard, and Hemlock saw a brigade falling into rank on the road. When
all were in place, the column moved slowly, for the road was a canal of
mud intersected by pools of water. As they approached within range the
order to deploy was shouted, and the men streamed on to the clearing
until a line the length of the field was formed. Then they faced round,
and Hemlock heard the command to advance, when the Americans came on, a
solid wall of humanity, moving with slow and steady step. Instantly,
the bushy abattis, behind which the British lay, silent as the grave
until now, became alive with the puffs of musket-shots and the shouts
of those who fired them. On the Americans came with even step until
well within blank range, when they were halted and the order given
to fire by platoons. The regular roll of musketry that ensued spoke
well for their nerve and discipline. The shower of bullets they sent
streaming into the bush in front of them had no effect in checking
the opposing fire, which was irregular but lively. It soon became
apparent that firing by platoons was a waste of ammunition, a mere
flinging of bullets into the tree-tops, and there was a movement in the
companies in the column next the woods, which were swung forward, in
order that they might gain a position which would enable them to pour
a cross-fire into the British position. The men moved steadily, all
the while pouring in volleys, that caused the defenders of the upper
end of the British line to leave and go lower down. It was a critical
moment. The British line was in danger of being flanked, and Hemlock
saw its peril. He with his band were concealed in the woods that edged
the clearing, and so far had not fired a shot, for Hemlock, who knew
the futility of irregular troops engaging in a musketry duel with a
disciplined force, had determined not to show where they were until the
Americans came to close quarters. Now he saw his opportunity. Signing
to his men to follow, he stealthily crept until he was close behind
the American companies that were edging to flank the British line.
When near upon the unsuspecting Americans, he sprang to his feet, gave
the war-whoop, and fired his musket, his followers doing likewise. The
Americans looked round in terrified astonishment, and saw the Indians
leaping towards them with ear-piercing yells and brandishing their
tomahawks. They wavered, broke rank, and fled towards their supports,
who were a short distance behind. Hemlock bounded among the fleeing men
and two had fallen under his hand, when a volley of bullets from the
supporting column came shrieking through the air. All save one passed
harmlessly over the heads of the red-men--that one struck Hemlock in
the breast, and he sank upon his right knee. Alarmed at his fall, his
men desisted from following the fleeing enemy, and seizing hold of him
hurried into the shelter of the woods. They laid him down and were
about to loosen his jacket, for he was in a faint, when there rose a
burst of cheering from the British line, on seeing the success of the
Indians’ diversion. The sound caught the ear of the dying chief. His
eyes opened as from slumber, rolled wildly for a moment, and his breast
heaved convulsively. He staggered to his feet, and lifting aloft his
tomahawk, dripping with the blood of its last victim, he raised the
war-whoop, suddenly stopped short, rolled unsteadily, and then fell
as a pine-tree falls. An Indian knelt down beside him and raised his
head while he pressed his hand on his forehead. There was no responsive
throb. Hemlock was dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

“I would swear that was Hemlock’s whoop,” said Morton to himself. He
stood amid a group of cavalrymen who were watching intently what was
going on from a field within easy view. He had followed the engagement
with intelligent interest; had noted how the American infantry had
advanced, deployed, formed line, and opened fire on the British
position. What followed provoked him. When he saw how ineffectual
the British fire was upon the American ranks, though standing in
the open and within easy range, he ground his teeth in vexation.
“Those militiamen could not hit a barn; a hundred regulars would have
decimated the American column with half the ammunition that has been
spent,” he muttered to himself. When the upper end of the American
line swung forward, his thoughts changed. “Ah, they are going to fix
bayonets and carry our position by assault. God help our lads.” He
was mistaken; the movement was to gain a point whence to rake the
British position with an enfilading fire. As he saw the Americans move
forward unopposed and the British fire slacken from the bush opposite,
his heart sank. “The day is lost: in five minutes the Americans will
have possession of the far end of that bushy entrenchment, and it
will be untenable.” Suddenly the war-whoop of the Indians was heard,
then came their wild assault, and the flight of the Americans. “Well
done, Hemlock!” exulted Morton, “no other lungs than yours could have
raised that shriek and your timely move has certainly checked the
attempt to flank the British position. What next?” Having ascertained
so unpleasantly that the wood to their left was held by Indians, the
Americans did not try again to turn the British position, and the
companies that had broken in disorder were reformed and placed in
rear, while the battalions in line continued to pour volleys into the
bush heaps in front of them. Hampton and his staff were on horseback,
watching the progress of the contest from a bit of rising ground by
the river. At this juncture Morton observed him signal with his hand
to some one on the other side of the river, and from that quarter,
soon after, came the rattle of musketry. It did not last long and when
it died away, an orderly was detached from the General’s staff and
came galloping to deliver a message to Izard, who instantly gave the
order to cease firing. The column fell back a few paces and the men
stood in rank, awaiting orders. To Morton’s surprise, firing from the
British line also ceased, and the two combatants simply looked at one
another. “Can it be,” asked Morton, “that our General does not want
to provoke an engagement and would be content to see the Americans
leave?” The brief October day was drawing to an end, and still the
American brigade stood immovable and there was not a sign of life
along the British line. When the grey clouds began to be tinged by the
setting sun, and it was apparent nothing more could be done that day,
Izard received the order to fall back. As if on parade, the evolutions
requisite were gone through and the column began its march to the camp,
three miles in rear.

“Hillo, Morton, you seem stupefied. Lost in amaze at the gallantry of
your comrades-in-arms permitting a brigade to file off under their nose
without an attempt to molest them. Eh?” The voice was that of Colonel
Vanderberg.

“I confess you interpret my thoughts,” answered Morton. “I am glad to
see you back.”

“I have had a fatiguing day’s duty and am not yet done. I have just
left the General, who instructed me to go over and see Purdy and
arrange for the withdrawal of his force. Will you come with me?”

“That I will; I am tired of standing here.”

As they approached the river, Morton noted that the bank was strongly
picketted by infantry and that a body of cavalry were bivouaced in a
field beside the road. Stepping upon a raft that had been extemporized
to form a ferry with the other side, the Colonel and Morton were landed
in the midst of Purdy’s men, who were making themselves as comfortable
as possible before their campfires. They looked tired and dejected.
The Colonel was told Purdy had gone to remain until morning with his
outposts, as a night attack upon them was looked for. Accompanied by
a soldier to show them the way they went on, now floundering thru’
marshy spots and again jumping little creeks, alternating with bits
of dry bank and scrubby brush, until they emerged into a clearing.
Morton caught his breath with astonishment. In front was the shanty
of the Forsyths! He had had no idea it was so near. The door was
open and he could see it was full of officers. Around the house were
resting a strong body of troops. Col. Vanderberg pushed in and was
soon in earnest conversation with Purdy, who sat smoking by the fire.
Morton remained at the door and scanned the interior, which was filled
by a cloud of tobacco-smoke and reeked with the odor of cooking and
of steaming wet clothes. In the corner, where the bed stood, he saw
Maggie leaning over a recumbent youth, whose white face and bandaged
shoulder told of a wound. Morton’s heart jumped at sight of her and
his lips twitched. The next moment, as he saw how gently she soothed
the sufferer, a pang of jealousy succeeded, and he clenched his teeth.
Pulling his cloak more tightly around him he entered and drew up behind
Colonel Vanderberg, who was saying, “Then I am to tell the General from
you, that you will not join him tonight.”

“Yes, tell him I cannot; that the river is too deep to ford and too
wide to bridge and that it is out of the question to cross 1500 men on
rafts. At daylight we will march back the way we came and join him at
Spears.”

“It will be an unwelcome message, for he counted on your rejoining him
tonight.”

“I care not,” bluffly retorted Purdy, “I am a soldier and know a
soldier’s duty and have to think of those under me. I’ll risk no lives
to humor his whims.”

“He fears a night assault upon your brigade.”

“So do I,” replied Purdy, blowing a cloud of tobacco smoke, “and would
fear it more if assailed while on the march through these woods or in
the endeavor to cross the river. The General should have ordered us to
retire while there was daylight.”

“Ah, well, I have delivered my message and must go back with my answer.
Come, Morton.”

At the sound of the familiar name Maggie looked round, and when her
eyes fell on Morton, she blushed deeply. To hide her confusion from
the roomful of men, she turned her back and bowed her head close to
the pillow whereon lay the head of the patient. More nettled than
ever, Morton started to move quickly away, when there appeared at the
doorway the frail form of Mrs Forsyth. “God be gude to us, if this is
no Morton. Oh but I’m gled to see you and sae will the gudeman. I went
out to look for him, an’ hav’na found him, but he’ll sune be here an’,
onyway, you’re going to bide wi’ us.”

“I am sorry that I cannot.”

“But ye maun. Ye dinna ken hoo yer takin’ awa’ concerned us and pit us
aboot.”

“You forget I am a prisoner.”

“Prisoner! You are nae prisoner. You’re noo in oor hoose an’ you’ll
just bide here an’ let thae Yankees gae awa.”

“I am afraid they would insist on taking me with them.”

“Hoots, man, I’ll haud ye. Maggie, do you ken Morton’s come?”

“Yes, mother; I saw him.”

“Weel, come ower and mak him stay an’ no gang back to be bullyragged by
a wheen Yankees.”

Maggie made no reply, but turned to avoid the gaze of the Americans
attracted by the scene at the door and her mother’s words. Morton also
felt mortified at the situation. “Thank you, Mrs Forsyth, but I must
go, and tell your husband and sons I have never forgot them and never
will.” Eluding her grasp he followed Colonel Vanderberg, who stood
outside the door with laughing countenance. He had not gone far when a
swift step was heard behind and his name was uttered. Turning he saw
Maggie, who held out her right hand. “Take this,” she said, “I may
not see you--again.” There was a sob as she uttered the last word. He
grasped what she held to him and before he could say a word she had
turned and fled back to the house. Morton held the object up to the
light of the nearest camp-fire. It was his signet-ring.

More perplexed than ever, angry with Maggie and angry with himself,
he braced himself and followed the Colonel in silence until the camp
was reached. Supper awaited them, and that disposed of, the Colonel,
wearied with his day’s exertion, flung himself on the ground and fell
asleep. Morton tried in vain to do likewise.

At daybreak the army was astir and the expectation of the men was
an order to renew the assault upon the British position. No such
order came, and it was wearing well into the forenoon when the
commanding-officers were summoned to attend at the General’s tent to
hold a council-of-war. Among others Colonel Vanderberg went. Morton
watched eagerly his return, and when he came his questioning eyes told
what his tongue, from courtesy, would not ask. “Well, Morton, you would
like to know what has been decided upon, and as it is no secret, I will
tell you. The campaign has been abandoned and the army goes back to the
States to go into winter-quarters. We marched into Canada to co-operate
with Wilkinson. Last night the General received a despatch that he had
not yet left Sackett’s Harbor, while we supposed he was now steering
his triumphant way down the St Lawrence, and might even be at the mouth
of the Chateaugay waiting for us. It was argued that, as Wilkinson had
not moved, and it was uncertain if he would, nothing was to be gained
by our army going on, for, without the flotilla, we could not cross
the St Lawrence to take Montreal.”

“And what of the disgrace of retiring before an enemy whom you have
burnt powder with for an afternoon?”

“There you have us, Morton. I urged that, before we fell back, the
honor of our flag required our routing the enemy in front of us, but
the General showed that he has had all along complete information of
its position and strength, obtained from spies and deserters--that
there are six lines of wooden breastworks, held by Indians and light
troops, and that only after storming them would we come in face of
the main position, where the regulars are entrenched with cannon and
commanded by Sir George Prevost in person. When there was nothing to
be gained, it was asked, what was the use of further fighting? The
miscarriage of the attempt under Purdy to flank the enemy’s position
discouraged our officers, who, altho’ they do not say it, want to get
away from this miserable condition of cold and wet and mud.”

“So we go back whence we came?” remarked Morton moodily, as he thought
of the stable at Chateaugay.

“My dear fellow, bear up; I will do my best to have you exchanged.”

Morton shook his head as he said, “I am not held as a prisoner of war.”

The Colonel bit his lip. “I have not told you all. The carrying of the
decision of the council to Wilkinson was entrusted to me.”

“And so you leave me!” exclaimed Morton sadly.

“I start after dinner, and cheer up, man; we will have a good one as a
farewell feast.” Then, with evident hesitation, the Colonel went on,
as delicately as possible, to show Morton that he had better withdraw
his parole and go again under a guard. Removed from his protection, it
would not be safe to move among men soured by an unfortunate campaign.
Morton assented and expressed his thanks for advice he knew it pained
the Colonel to give. Dinner over, the Colonel’s horse was brought, and
with a warm grasp of the hand he bade Morton good-bye, leapt into the
saddle, and galloped out of sight. Morton saw him not again.

In a despondent mood Morton turned away and sought the guard-tent,
when he gave himself up to the officer-of-the-day, who accepted his
surrender as a matter of course. The soldiers took little notice of
him, being in high spirits at the prospect of going back to the States
and busily engaged in the preparations to leave. That afternoon part
of the baggage-train left and went floundering along the muddy road
to Four Corners. As evening drew nigh, the rain, accompanied by a raw
east wind, recommenced, flooding the level clearances upon which the
tents were pitched and making everybody miserable. The captain of the
guard sought shelter from the blast and the water by causing the tents
he controlled to be pitched on the slope of a hollow scooped out by a
creek, and in one of them Morton lay down along with seven soldiers.
Sleep soon came to relieve him of his depression in mind and discomfort
of body, and the hours sped while he was so unconscious that he did
not hear when his companions left to take their turn on duty and those
they relieved took their places in the tent. His first deep sleep was
over when he felt that some furtive hand was being passed over the
canvas to find the opening. When the flap was drawn aside, so dark was
it that he could not distinguish who stood there. He supposed it was
some belated private seeking cover from the pelting rain and he was
about to turn and resume his slumber when a flint was struck and the
tent was lit for a moment by its sparks. Somebody lighting a pipe, he
said, too drowsy to look. A minute afterwards he felt that the curtain
of the tent where his head lay was being cautiously lifted and soon a
hand reached in, touched his face, and then catching the collar of his
coat began pulling. He made a motion to resist, when a voice whispered,
“Hemlock.” In a flash he realized he was about to be rescued, and,
guided by the hand that grasped him, slowly crept out. No sooner was he
upon his feet, than he felt men were gliding past him into the tent.
All at once there was a sound of striking, as of knives being driven
into the bodies of the sleeping inmates, a slight commotion, a few
groans, and then all was still. Morton’s flesh crept, as he guessed
at the horrid work in which the Indians were engaged. So intensely
dark was it, that he could see nothing. There was a slight shuffling
of feet and he was grasped by the arm on either side and hurried
forward. He knew they were following the course of the ravine, for he
could hear the wash of the creek. Suddenly his conductors came to a
halt and there was a pause, until a faint chirrup was heard. Then the
bank was climbed and, emerging on a clearance, Morton saw the tents of
the American camp some distance to his left, lit up by the smoldering
fires that burned dimly between the rows. Looking round, he for the
first time saw his companions, who were, as he suspected, a band of
Indians. Taking advantage of every available cover the Indians glided,
in single file, across the bit of open that intervened between where
they stood and the bush. When its shelter was gained, they halted on
a dry knoll, and squatted, when they began to giggle and to chatter
in their native tongue, plainly exulting over the success of their
raid. Morton tried to communicate with them, but found they could not
speak English, and the only word they uttered which he recognized was
“Hemlock,” altho’ that great chief was not among them. One of them
could speak a little French, which, however, Morton did not understand.
When daylight began to creep in upon the darkness, they became alert,
and as soon as it was clear enough to see where they were going they
started; Morton had no idea in what direction. All he knew was, that
their course led them over a swampy country intersected by stony
ridges, and that had it not been that the leaders of the file broke a
path he could never have followed. The exertion was exhausting and he
would have succumbed at the end of the first hour had it not been that
the spirit of freedom elated him, and the knowledge that every mile
he overtook increased the distance between him and the hated bondage
from which he had escaped spurred him on. On the edge of an apparently
limitless swamp they paused before entering upon it to have a smoke.
It was apparent that they carried no food. Morton sank upon a pile of
leaves that had drifted against a log and stretched his wearied legs.
Refreshed by the rest, he faced the swamp with courage, soon finding,
however, that, without the help of the Indians, he could have made
little headway. With the light step and agility of cats they stepped
over quaking surfaces and sprang from log to log until solid land was
reached, and with it came the sound of rushing water. Escaping from the
brush, a broad river, dashing impetuously over a rocky channel, burst
in view. Following its bank in single file, Morton saw it grew wider,
until it expanded into a lake, when he knew it was the St Lawrence.
On coming opposite the promontory that marked the inlet of the river
from the lake, the Indians eagerly scrutinized it. Gathering some damp
leaves they made a smoke. The signal was seen by those opposite, for
a long-boat was launched from under the trees and rapidly approached
them. Morton’s heart leapt with joy when he distinguished that the
steersman had a red-coat on, and as the boat drew nearer and he
could make out the ruddy countenances of the crew, frank and open in
expression, and catch the sound of their hearty English speech, he
could not resist the impulse to swing his hat and wake the echoes with
a lusty cheer. The Indians grinned and one clapped him on the back in
high approval.

The corporal in charge of the boat informed Morton that he belonged to
the garrison of Coteau-du-lac and was, for the week, with the party
on the point, to guard the south channel. There were so many Indians
that the boat had to leave part for a second trip. On landing at the
point Morton was warmly welcomed by the officer in charge, and given
the best he had, which proved to be fried pork and biscuit. At noon
the boat that daily brought supplies from Coteau arrived, and in it
Morton with the Indians embarked. As soon as he stepped ashore, he
made for the commander’s quarters and was shown into the presence of
Col. Lethbridge. On announcing who he was, the Colonel welcomed him
as one from the dead and impatiently demanded to hear when and how he
had escaped. When he came to tell of the exploit of the preceding
night, and that the Indians who had performed in it were waiting in
the barrack-yard, the Colonel thumped the table and swore each man of
them would take home all the tobacco and pork he could carry. Going out
to see them before they left, Morton learned through an interpreter
of Hemlock’s death and that his rescue was in fulfilment of an order
he had left. They were going to Oka to join the party who were on the
way from the Chateaugay with his body, to bury it beside that of his
daughter, and hold a funeral lodge. Morton was deeply moved. “Faithful
soul,” he exclaimed, “would to heaven he had lived that I might have
shown him my gratitude.” Applying to the paymaster he obtained an
advance, and in parting with the Indians pressed a big Mexican dollar
into the hand of each of them.

Colonel Lethbridge insisted on Morton’s being his guest, and after
leaving him in his bedroom sent his servant to wait upon him, and who
brought a fresh suit of clothes. Morton was the hero of the garrison,
and when he appeared at the mess-table, so many complimentary speeches
were made, so many songs sung, and so many toasts drank that it was
nigh midnight when he got to bed. He rose next morning intent on
entering harness again, and over a late breakfast discussed with Col.
Lethbridge as to how he could rejoin his regiment, which had been
called to the Niagara frontier, and it was agreed he should go by the
next convoy, always provided Wilkinson did not come, which, after what
Morton reported of Hampton’s army returning to the States, Lethbridge
doubted. Each day tidings of Wilkinson’s leaving the shelter of
Sackett’s Harbor had been looked for, and the feeling was that unless
he left within a week he would not come at all, for the season was now
well-advanced, and already on several mornings had ice formed round
boats while lying at Coteau. Col. Scott had been sent to Cornwall
to superintend the preparations there, and Lethbridge had taken his
place at the less important point. The following week the unexpected
happened--late one afternoon a gunboat came down the lake under press
of canvas, with word that Wilkinson had started--was descending the
river with a flotilla of 300 boats bearing 7000 men. A few days of
excitement and wearing suspense succeeded, and then, came word of the
battle of Crystler’s Farm--how a strong brigade of Americans had landed
at the head of the Long Sault rapids to clear the north bank of the
batteries the British had planted to prevent the flotilla descending
and been routed by General Boyd. Treading upon the heels of the news
of that decisive victory came the announcement that Wilkinson had
abandoned his undertaking and had gone back to the United States by
sailing into Salmon river with his beaten army. The campaign was ended
for the season, and troops were ordered into winter-quarters. The day
the news reached Coteau of Wilkinson’s flight to French Mills, a string
of boats came up loaded with military stores for Upper Canada and a few
troops. To Morton’s astonishment, among them was the detachment he had
conducted to the Chateaugay. The camp there having been broken up, they
were on their way to join the regiment, and hoped to reach it before
navigation closed. Gladly Morton resumed command and six days later
reported at Niagara.


CHAPTER XIV.

After a night of excitement from wild alarms, the Americans left the
Forsyth household at daylight, leaving not one behind, for even the
wounded officer they carried with them in a litter. Utterly worn out
the family sought rest, and it was late in the day when the father
arose, and leaving the others, sleeping, went out to see what of his
property had been left. The more closely he examined the more fully
the unwelcome fact was forced upon him, that he was left destitute,
and when he came upon the black head of his cow, which the soldiers
had slaughtered for beef, he sat down in a despairing mood. “It’s no
for mysel’ I’m troubled,” he exclaimed, “but for my ailin’ wife and
puir Maggie! To face a Canadian winter wi’ a bare loof is awfu.” And
he gave way to a fit of despondency. “This winna do,” he said with a
rueful look at the devastation around him, “a stout heart to a stey
brae, and wi’ God’s help, I’ll mak the best o’t.” When Maggie sometime
afterwards appeared at the door he was industriously laboring to bring
his surroundings into order. “Weel, lass, an’ hoo are ye after oor big
pairty?”

“No so ill; but, father, what are we to do, there’s no a bite in the
house? The cellar is rookit as clean as if a pack of wolves had visited
it.”

The old man approached and taking his daughter by the hand drew her to
the seat by the door-step. “Maggie, I ken ye hae a brave spirit and can
bear the worst. I am a ruined man. The Yankees have eaten us oot o’
house an’ hold. The very boards o’ the byre hae been torn awa’ to licht
their fires. Oor coo, the young beasts, the pigs, hae a’ been eaten.
There’s no even a chuckie left.”

“O but there is,” interrupted Maggie, “see to Jenny Tapknot over
there,” pointing smilingly thro’ tears to a favorite chicken that had
eluded the soldiers and was eyeing them from a branch.

“Weel, weel, we hae one leevin’ thing left us. O’ a’ oor crop there
is naething to the fore but the unthreshed wheat, an’ mickle o’t is
useless from the sojers using it to lie on.”

“Was it right, father, for them to take your property without paying
you?”

“Pay me! The thocht o’ paying a subject o’ the King never entered their
heids. Micht is richt wi’ them. What we are to do is no just clear to
me yet, but we’ll trust in Him wha has never failed to supply oor bite
an’ sup. Only, Maggie, ye maun for yer mither’s sake put a cheerfu’
face on’t an’ mak the best o’t.”

“Hoot, father, what gars ye doot me? We hae aye been provided for an’
sae will we yet, says the auld sang. You take the canoe an’ go down to
Morrison’s an’ see what you can get there to keep us going until the
morn, an’ while you’re away I’ll red the house an’ hae a’ ready for
supper gin mither wakens.”

With brightened face and hopeful step the old man did as asked and
did not return empty-handed. Over the frugal meal the situation was
discussed and both the husband and daughter were glad to see that the
calamity that had overtaken them so far from overwhelming Mrs Forsyth,
roused her, and revived the active and hopeful spirit that had been a
feature in her character before ailments and age had overtaken her.
Long and earnest was the consultation by the fireside that night, and
many a plan proposed to tide over the long months that must intervene
before another harvest could be reaped. As bed-time drew near, the
father lifted down the book, and after they had sung the 23rd psalm,
he read the 17th chapter of First Kings, and poured out his heart in
thanksgiving for the unnumbered blessings bestowed upon him and his,
and, above all, for the departure of the invader.

Two days afterwards, when it had become assured that Hampton was in
leisurely retreat whence he came, those of the militia, at Baker’s
camp, who wished were given leave to go to their homes, and the Forsyth
lads returned. They were much exasperated at the plundered state
of their home, and more provoked than before at the policy which
permitted the enemy to journey back over 24 miles of Canadian territory
without attempt to harass him. Leaving the scanty pay they had received
as soldiers, it was arranged they should go lumbering for the winter,
their wages to be sent home as they got them. The winter proved a hard
one. The presence of so large a body of troops had consumed much of
the produce the settlers needed for themselves, and although they had
been paid what they considered at the time good prices they now found
it difficult to procure what they wanted from Montreal. The result to
the Forsyths was, that their neighbors were unable to give them much
help and had it not been that the miller at the Basin gave credit, they
would have been sometimes in actual want. Despite the bareness of the
cupboard, the winter was a happy one: the very effort to endure and
make the best of their hard lot conducing to cheerfulness. When the
snow began to melt, the sons returned, and the new clearing at which
the father had worked all winter was made ready for seed, so that more
land than before was put under a crop. The pinch was worst in July and
until the potatoes were fit to eat. After that there was rude plenty
and an abundant harvest was reaped.

With returning comfort Mrs Forsyth began to fail. Whether it was the
effects of the lack of usual food, or the strain to help the family
having been beyond her strength, signified little. With the coming of
the snow she began to lose strength and, as her husband saw with deep
sorrow, “to dwine awa.” She accepted her lot uncomplainingly, studying
how to give least trouble, and spending her days between her bed and
the easy chair by the fireside, generally knitting, for she said she
hoped to leave them a pair of stockings apiece. The New Year had passed
and the days were lengthening when it was plain her rest was near.

It was a beautiful day when she asked that her chair be moved so that
she could see out at the window. The brilliant sunlight fell on the
snow that shrouded the winding course of the Chateaugay and flecked the
trees, while a blue haze hung in the distance that prophesied of coming
spring. “A bonnie day,” she remarked.

“Ay,” replied Maggie, “warm enough to be a sugar day.”

“It’s ower fine to last and there will be storms and hard frost afore
the trees can be tapped,” said Mrs Forsyth, “an’ I’ll no be here to
help.”

“Dinna say that, mither; the spring weather will bring you round.”

“Na, na, my bairn. The robin’s lilt will no wauken me, nor will my een
again see the swelling bud, but through the mercy o’ my God I trust
they will be lookin’ on the everlasting spring o’ the bidin’ place o’
his people.”

“Oh, mither: I canna bear the thocht o’ parting wi’ you.”

“It’s natural to feel sae; my ain heart-strings were wrung when my
mither deed, an’ yet I see noo it was for the best. I have become a
cumberer o’ the grund, unable to labor even for an hour a day in the
vineyard, and sae the Maister o’t is goin’ to gie me the rest o’ which,
lang since, I got frae His hand the arles. Ae thing ye maun promise me,
Maggie, and that is ye maun never leev your faither.”

“What makes you think sae o’ me, mother? I hav’na even a thocht o’
leevin’ him.”

“I ken ye hav’na a thocht the noo o’ sic a thing, but the day will come
when you micht--when your love for anither would incline you to forget
your duty. Sweet the drawing o’ heart to heart in the spring o’ youth,
an’ the upspringing, when you least expec’ it, o’ the flow’r o’ love.
The peety is, sae mony are content with the flow’r an’ pu’ it an’ let
the stem wither. Your faither an’ I werna o’ that mind. The flow’r grew
into a bauld stalk in the simmer o’ affection, an’ noo we reap the
harvest. It’s no like Scotch folk to open their mous on sic maitters,
but I may tell you, my lassie, that sweet an’ warm as was oor love when
your faither cam a coortin’, it’s nae mair to be compared to oor love
since syne an’ to this minute, than the licht o’ lightnin’ is to the
sunshine. I thocht to hae tended him in his last days, to hae closed
his een, an’ placed the last kiss on his cauld lips, but it’s no to be,
an’ ye maun promise me to perform what your mither wad hae dune had she
lived.”

“I promise, mother; I promise never to leave him.”

“Weel does he deserve a’ you can dae for him; he’s puir, he’s hamely in
looks, he’s no sae quick in thocht or speech as mony; but he is what
mony great an’ rich an’ smairt men are not--an honest man, wha strives
in a quiet way to do his duty by his fellowman an’ his Maker.”

“What makes you speak so, mother? I am sure I never gave you cause to
think I’d leave the family.”

“Your brothers will gang their ain gate by-and-by an’ their wives micht
na want to hae the auld man at their ingle; only o’ you may I ask that
whither you go he shall go an’ drink o’ your cup an’ eat o’ your bread.
Dinna marry ony man unless sure he will be kind to your faither an’ let
you do a dochter’s duty by him.”

“I hav’na met ony man, mother, that will hae me, except auld Milne.”

“Dinna mak fun o’ me, Maggie; you ken what I mean. The lad Morton will
come some day--.”

“Wheesht, mother: he’s nothing to me.”

“I ken different: you loe him deep an’ true an’ he loes you. Whether he
will pit pride o’ family an’ station aside to ask you to be his wife
some wad doot, but I div’na. He’ll be back, an’ when he does dinna
forget what I have said.”

The heavy step of the father was here heard outside; the door opened
and he came in. Drawing a chair beside his wife he sat down, and,
without uttering a word, surveyed her wasted and furrowed face with
tender gaze. She returned his affectionate look and placed her hand
in his. As she looked at them, sitting in the afternoon sunshine with
clasped hands, and that radiant expression of mutual love, Maggie’s
heart, already full, was like to burst. She hastened out and falling
beneath a tree wept bitterly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning when they awoke the sad truth became apparent, that the
mother of the family had had a change for the worse in her sleep. Her
mind wandered and her strength had completely left. The only one she
recognized was her husband, and when he spoke she smiled. The spells
of unconsciousness grew longer as the day wore on and towards evening
it could be seen her last was near. As often happens in the Canadian
winter, a pet day had been followed by a storm. A piercing blast from
the west filled the air with drift and sent the frozen snow rattling
on the window-panes. They were all gathered round her bed, when she
woke, and her eyes wonderingly looked upon them, tried to make out what
it all meant, and gave it up as hopeless. “Eh, sirs, a bonnie day,”
she said, as if speaking to herself, “the westlin win’ blaws saft frae
the sea an’ the bit lammies rin after their mithers on the hill-side.
Sune the kye will be comin’ hame an’ after milkin’ I’ll snod mysel’,
for somebody’s comin’ to see somebody, an’ we’ll daunner doun e’e the
gloamin’ by the burn. Isna he a comely lad! Stracht an’ supple, and
an e’e in his heid that a bairn wad trust. Tak him? I’d gang tae the
warl’s end wi’ him.... What’s that! The kirk bell. I didna think it was
sae late. Sure eneuch, there’s the folk strachlin’ ower the muir an’
the laird riding on his powny.... Surely it’s growin’ mirk. Mither,
tak me in your airms an’ pit me to sleep. What will you sing to me?
The Flowers o’ the Forest, the nicht, mither. Kiss me noo, I’ll be a
better bairn the morn an’ dae what you tell me.... Na, na, pick yer ain
flowers: this poesy is for my baby brither.... Faither, dinna lift your
haun’ to me: I’m sorry. I’ll no dae it again. Whaur am I?... Faither,
dinna you hear me? Oh come quick an’ save me, the tide is lowpin’ fast
ower the rock. There’s the boatie rowin’ to us: it’ll be here enow an’
we’ll be saved.... Did you hear that? It’s Sandy the piper come to
the toun. Let’s rin an’ meet him.... I’m tired o’ daffin’ an wad hae
a rest. Let’s creep into the kirk-yaird an’ sit doun by granfaither’s
grave. Hoo sweet the merle sings, an’ tak tent to the corn-craik ower
yonner.... Weel, weel, I canna understan’ it. His ways are no oor ways,
but I’ll lippen to Him tae the end. Maggie, Maggie, whaur are ye? I’m
gaun awa’, an’ I want you to rin an’ tell the goodman o’ the hoose to
hae a chamber ready for me. What am I saying? God forgie me, my mind
wanders; he’s had ane waitin’ for me this mony a day.... I see you
noo, my bairns. Guid nicht, tae we meet again.”

There was a long silence. The father rose, and closed the drooping
eyelids that would never be lifted and laid down the weary head which
would never move again.


CHAPTER XV.

One July morning Mr Forsyth was working in the field beside the river
when he saw a canoe shoot in sight. It drew up to the bank and its
occupant walked towards him.

“Man, it is you!” he exclaimed, grasping the extended hand. “At the
first look I didna ken you. Hoo ye hae changed since last I saw you.”

“I know I have,” answered Morton, “the months since we parted have
aged me more than half as many years would in ordinary course of
life. The hardships of war, the strife between life and death on the
battle-field, develop fast what is good or bad in a man.”

“Ye’ll hae had your share o’ the fechtin?”

“Yes; our regiment took part in all the movements in the Niagara
district, and during the campaigning season there was not a week we did
not exchange shots with the enemy or have to endure a toilsome march to
check his plans.”

“And were you hurt at a’?”

“Nothing to speak of; scratches that did not keep me off duty over a
few days. I may be thankful to have got off so well, for many a pretty
fellow will never see home again.”

“War’s a gruesome trade.”

“It is that: I have seen scenes of horror that I try to banish from my
memory. The carnage at Lundy’s Lane was sickening, and the cries of the
wounded for help heart-breaking, for, from the darkness and the enemy’s
pressing us, we could not reach them.”

“That brither should butcher brither is awfu’ proof o’ total depravity.
After a’, thae Yankees, though their ways are not oor ways, are flesh
o’ oor flesh, an’ we should live aside are anither in peace.”

“In this war, at least, Mr Forsyth, they are to blame. They declared
it and if ever war is justifiable it is surely one like that we have
fought and won, where a people rise to defend their native land against
the invader.”

“I dinna dispute you, but as I creep near to my end, my heart softens
to my fellow-men o’ a’ creeds and races and I wish to see peace and
good-fellowship the warld ower.”

“So do I, but sure and permanent peace is not to be won by surrender of
right. It is better for all that the best blood of Canada and Britain
has soaked the fields within the sound of the roar of Niagara, than
that Canada should have become a conquered addition to the United
States.”

“You’re richt in that: the sacrifice is sair, but trial bitter, but a
country’s independence maun be maintained. Canadians will think mair o’
their country when they see what it has cost to defend it. Noo that the
war is ended, you’ll be leaving Canada?”

“That depends on what your daughter says. My regiment sails from Quebec
by the end of the month.”

“What mean ye, sir, by Maggie hae’in’ aucht to dae wi’ your going?”

“Simply this, that if she will take me as her husband and you will give
your consent, I shall sell my commission and remain in Canada.”

“You are surely no in earnest? What has the dochter o’ a backwoods
farmer t’ dae wi’ an officer?”

“Since I landed in Canada I have had many false notions rudely torn
away, and one of them is, that there is any connection between worth
and station in life. I have found more to admire in the shanty than I
ever did in the parlors of the Old Country.”

“That’s repeatin’ what Rabbie Burns wrote, the rank is but the guinea
stamp.”

“I have proved it true: for the first time in my life I have become
intimate with those whose living depends upon the labor of their hands,
and my Old World notions have melted away, when I found them better
than those whose boast it is they never soiled their fingers with
manual toil.”

“Aye, aye; nae guid comes o’ tryin’ to escape the first command to
fallen man, ‘in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread.’”

“What say you?” asked Morton.

“To your asking Maggie? Oh, dinna speak o’t. She’s my ae ewe lamb and I
canna pairt wi’ her.”

“I do not mean you should; we would go to Upper Canada together.”

The old man paused and leant upon his hoe and Morton stood respectfully
behind him. After long silence he raised his head. “I canna answer you.
It’s no for me to put my ain selfish will against her good; gang and
let her choose for hersel’.”

“Thank you,” said Morton with emotion.

“We have had a backward spring; frost every week a maist to the middle
o’ June, an’ sic cauld winds since syne that naething grows. We hae
sown in hope, but I’m fearfu’ there will be little to reap. Sic a
spring the auldest settler canna mind o’. Look at thae tatties! What
poor spindly things they are, an’ this the first week o’ July.”

“It has not been so bad in the west.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Weel, this being the first real warm day we’ve
had, I tell’t Maggie to busk hersel’ and gang and veesit the neebors,
for she’s been in a sad and sorrowfu’ way since her mither deed. She
said she had nae heart to veesit, but wad tak a walk alang the river
and be back to mak my denner. Her brithers we expect hame every day
from takin’ rafts to Montreal.”

“I’ll go and seek her,” remarked Morton, as he turned, and the old man
went on hoeing. Morton had gone about a mile, when his eye caught the
flutter of the linen kerchief Maggie had pinned round her neck. She did
not see him and as she sauntered before him, he marked her graceful
carriage, and muttered to himself, “A woman worthy to woo and win.”
Unwilling to startle her by going too near, he cried “Miss Forsyth.”

She paused, turned in astonishment, and as her color came and went
said, “Is it you?”

“Yes, and surely you will not shrink from me as you did when last we
met.”

She held out her hand and as he pressed it, simply said, “I’m glad
you’re safe and well.”

“Have you no warmer greeting for me?”

“What warmer do you deserve?”

“My deservings are nothing, but your own kind heart might plead for me.”

“Oh, dear: the conceit of some men, who think they can pick up hearts
on the banks of the Chateaugay as they would acorns.”

“And what of women who pitch back rings as if they stung them?”

Maggie laughed and replied, “The gift is measured with the giver.”

“When a gift is a token of the hour of peril, what then, my lady? Is it
a thing to be scorned?”

“Something to be restored to the sender when he gets out of the trap,
that he may bestow it on somebody else.”

“I swear I never cared for anybody else.”

“Who asked you? If you must needs confess, you should have visited the
fathers at the Basin on your way here.”

“I’m Puritan enough to desire to confess direct to the one I have
offended.”

“So you have offended me!”

“You know I care for you.”

“How should I? From your many messages these last twenty months?”

Morton felt vexed and Maggie observed and enjoyed his perplexity.
“Come,” she said, “it is wearing on to dinner-time and I know what
soldiers’ appetites are. We had some soldier visitors who left us
nothing. We will go home.”

“Not until I have said what I want to tell you,” he said warmly.

“Oh, you have something to tell me! You must have. Soldiers and hunters
have always long stories to tell about themselves. Keep them until you
have had some of our backwoods fare.”

“Tease me no more, Maggie; my heart is yours whether you accept it or
not. That I have been neglectful and ungrateful I confess. How much I
owe you I did not know until some months after I saw you.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“I owe you my life.”

“You owe it to Hemlock; not to me.”

“I know all, brave heart. I met Mrs Scott at Kingston and she told me
of your journey to Oka, but for which Hemlock would never have known of
my peril. As she spoke, the smouldering love I had for you burst into
flame and your image has never been absent from my mind an hour since.
When my comrades caroused and spoke loosely, I thought of you and
turned away and tried to live worthily of you.”

“You know how to praise yourself.”

“No, no, my Maggie: I speak it not in praise of myself but in proof of
my devotion, for how can a man show his love for a woman better than by
forcing himself to live as he knows she would wish him to do?”

“And if you so loved this somebody of yours, why did you not write her?”

“You forget a soldier’s life is uncertain; I knew not the hour when I
might fall. I said to myself a thousand times, if my life is spared I
will seek her I love and plead my cause. When the bugle sounded the
call to prepare for action I never failed to breathe an ardent prayer
that Heaven’s blessing might rest upon you. I have been spared, the
supreme hour in my life has come, and I await your answer.”

Maggie stood still. Her eyes fell to the ground and her fingers
unconsciously plucked to pieces the flowers they held.

“Will you not speak?” pleaded Morton.

In a low voice she replied, “I cannot marry.”

“Why?”

“I will never leave my father.”

“I do not ask you should. I value his honest worth, and he shall be my
father too, for I never saw my own, he died when I was a child. Say you
will make me the happiest man on the Chateaugay and we will never part.”

“I say it is time to go and get dinner ready. Father, poor man, will be
starving. Mr Morton, did you ever hoe potatoes for a forenoon?”

“Nonsense; speak the word and end my anxiety.”

“Oh, I’m not anxious. If you had hoed for half a day you would know
what hunger was.”

“My hunger today is of another sort.”

“Ah, well, boys ought to learn to restrain their appetites.”

“Play with me no more. Let me know my fate. Give me my answer.”

“Won’t it be time enough when the minister asks?”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not much of a dinner that Maggie cooked, for she boiled the
potatoes without salt and fried the pork to a crisp. It did not much
matter, however, for of the three the father was the only one who had
an appetite, and he did not complain. When done, he left to resume
his task, and the young couple were alone. At supper he was told all,
when he quietly rose, gripped Morton by the hand and said nothing.
Next day the two sons arrived, and, on learning the news, by way
of congratulation, slapped Maggie on the back until she declared it
was sore. There were long discussions over Morton’s plans. He told
them he had obtained promotion after Lundy’s Lane, and as captain
his commission was worth a good deal; he would sell it, and then, as
a retired officer, he would be entitled to a grant of land in Upper
Canada. He proposed they should all leave and go with him. To this
father and sons were much inclined, for the fact that the place they
occupied was subject to seigniorial rent they did not like. It was
arranged Morton should go to Quebec and sell his commission and by the
time he returned they would be ready to join him.

Four days after he had left, Maggie received a letter from him,
enclosing one from Mrs Scott. He said he found that Colonel Scott had
arrived in Montreal, and, after winding up some ordnance business
there, meant to sail for England with the Fall fleet. Mrs Scott sent a
pressing invitation to Maggie to come and stay with her until Morton
returned from Quebec. Maggie went, expecting to stay ten days or so,
but her visit lengthened out to the end of August. They were happy
weeks, spent in enjoyable society and in the delightful task of the
preparation that is the prelude to a happy marriage. Morton at last
got back, and had not merely the money obtained for his commission,
but a patent for a large tract of land on the shore of Lake Ontario,
obtained by him in a personal interview with Sir George Prevost, the
gallant Gordon Drummond, his old commander, accompanying him and
pressing his claim to generous recognition. Leaving Maggie in Montreal,
he went again to the Chateaugay to tell all was ready. While there,
he took a run up to Four Corners, his business being to visit the
poor widow whose only son had been slain in the skirmish that led
to his imprisonment. He found her and not only made sure she would
be cared for but instituted steps to secure a pension, for congress
was considering the question of relief to those who had suffered by
the war. During his stay at Four Corners, he lived with Mr Douglass,
and repaid with earnest gratitude the advances he had made him while
living in misery in the stable, which sad abode he looked into with a
swelling heart. On the morning after his return, they were ready to
embark in the three canoes that were in waiting to convey them and
their belongings, when the old man was missed. Morton, guessing where
he was, went to seek him, and found him kneeling by the grave of his
wife. Reverently approaching, he whispered the boatmen were anxious to
start, assisted him to rise, and, leaning heavily on his arm, led him
to the canoe where he was to sit. One last look at the shanty his hands
had built and the fields they had cleared, and a bend in the river
shut them out from his sight forever. Resuming his wonted contented
cheerfulness, he adapted himself to the change, and rose still higher
in Morton’s esteem. When they reached the Basin, the wind was favorable
for the bateau that was waiting to leave on her trip to Lachine, and
there they arrived late in the evening. The following morning Morton
left for Montreal with Mr Forsyth, the sons remaining to stow away
the outfit in the bateau, which done, they also journeyed to the same
place. That evening there was a quiet little party at Colonel Scott’s
quarters, and next morning a larger assemblage, for every officer off
duty in the town was present, to see the army chaplain unite the happy
pair. When all was over and Maggie had gone to prepare for the journey,
Morton received congratulations that he knew were sincere. “Why,” said
Major Fitzjames, “she is fit to be a Duchess.”

“She is fit for a more difficult position,” interjected Colonel Scott,
“she has a mother-wit that stands her well alike in the circles of
polished society and in the hour of danger and hardship.”

“Who is this that is such a paragon?” asked Mrs Scott, who had just
come in.

“Mrs Morton.”

“Oh, say she is a true woman, and you say all. Mr Morton you have got a
treasure.”

“I know it,” he replied, “and I will try to be worthy of her. She will
be the benediction of the life I owe her.”

The day was fine and, for a wonder, the road was good, so that a
large party, many of them on horseback, escorted the newly married
pair to Lachine. As they drove past King’s Posts Morton recalled his
first visit to it, the spy, and all the painful complications that had
ensued, and now so happily ended. As they stood on the narrow deck of
the bateau, and the wind, filling the huge sail, bore them away, a
cheer rose, led by Colonel Scott. It was answered from the receding
boat, and Maggie waved her handkerchief.

The journey was tedious and toilsome, but when they sailed into the
bay on which Morton’s land was situated, saw its quality and fine
situation, they felt they had been rewarded for coming so far. That
Maggie proved an admirable help-mate need hardly be told, but what
was remarkable is, that Morton became a successful farmer. Willing to
put his hand to whatever there was to do, under his father-in-law’s
tuition, he quickly became proficient, and when there was work to be
done he did not say to his helpers “Go” but “Come,” and set them an
example of cheerful and persevering exertion. Having land and enough
to spare, he induced a good class of immigrants to buy from him, so
that, before twenty years, his settlement was known as one of the most
prosperous on Lake Ontario. Influential and public-spirited, Morton, as
his circumstances grew easy and did not exact the same close attention
to his personal affairs, took a leading part in laying the commercial
and political foundations of Upper Canada, and Maggie was widely known
in its best society. That they were a happy couple everybody knew,
and their descendants are among the most prominent subjects of the
Dominion.




ARCHANGE AND MARIE.


I.--THEIR DISAPPEARANCE.

During the revolutionary war a number of Acadians left the New
England States for Canada, preferring monarchic to republican rule.
The British authorities provided for these twice-exiled refugees
with liberality, giving them free grants of lands and the necessary
tools and implements, also supplying them from the nearest military
posts with provisions for three years, by which time they would be
self-sustaining. Some half dozen families asked for and received lots
in the county of Huntingdon and settled together on the shore of the
St Lawrence. Accustomed to boating and lumbering in their old Acadian
homes, they found profitable exercise in both pursuits in their new,
and after making small clearances left their cultivation to the women,
while they floated rafts to Montreal or manned the bateaux which
carried on the traffic between that place and Upper Canada. The shanty
of one of these Acadians, that of Joseph Caza, occupied a point that
ran into the great river near the mouth of the LaGuerre.

It was a sunny afternoon towards the end of September and the lake-like
expanse of the river, an unruffled sheet of glassy blue, was set in a
frame of forest already showing the rich dyes of autumn. It was a scene
of intense solitude, for, save the clearance of the hardy settler, no
indication of human life met the gaze. There was the lonely stretch
of water and the all-embracing forest, and that was all. Playing
around the shanty were two sisters, whose gleeful shouts evoked solemn
echoes from the depths of the forest, for they were engaged in a game
of hide-and-seek amid the rows of tall corn, fast ripening in the
sunshine. They were alone, for their father and brothers were away
boating and their mother had gone to the beaver-meadow where the cows
pastured. Breathless with their play the children sat down to rest, the
head of the younger falling naturally into the lap of the older.

“Archange, I know something you don’t.”

“What is it?”

“What we are to have for supper. Mother whispered it to me when she
went to milk. Guess?”

“Oh, tell me; I won’t guess.”

“Wheat flour pancakes. I wish she would come; I’m hungry.”

“Let us go and meet her.”

The children skipped along the footpath that led through the forest
from the clearance to the pasture and had gone a considerable distance
before their mother came in sight, bearing a pail.

“Come to meet your mother, my doves! Ah, I have been long. The calves
have broken the fence and I looked for them but did not find them.
Archange, you will have to go or they may be lost. Marie, my love, you
will come home with me.”

“No, mother, do let me go with sister.”

“No, you will get tired; take my hand. Remember the pancakes.”

“I won’t be tired; I want to go with Archange.”

“Ah, well; the calves may not have strayed far; you may go. But haste,
Archange, and find them, for the sun will soon set.”

The children danced onwards and the mother listened with a smile to
their shouts and chatter until the sounds were lost in the distance.
On entering the house she stirred up the fire and set about preparing
supper.

The sun set, leaving a trail of golden glory on the water, and she was
still alone. The day’s work was done and the simple meal was ready.
The mother walked to the end of the clearance and gazed and listened;
neither sight nor sound rewarded her. She shouted their names at the
highest pitch of her voice. There was no response, save that a heron,
scared from its roost, flapped its great wings above her head and
sailed over the darkening waters for a quieter place of refuge.

“It is impossible anything can have befallen them,” she said to
herself; “the calves could not have gone far and the path is plain.
No, they must be safe, and I am foolish to be the least anxious. Holy
mother, shield them from evil!”

Returning to the house, she threw a fresh log on the fire, and placing
the food where it would keep warm she closed the door, casting one
disconsolate look across the dark water at the western sky, from
which the faintest glow had departed. Taking the path that led to
the pasture, she hastened with hurried step to seek her children.
She gained the pasture. The cows were quietly grazing; there was no
other sign of life. Her heart sank within her. She shouted, and her
cries pierced the dew-laden air. There was no response. She sank upon
her knees and her prayer, oft repeated, was, “Mother of pity, have
compassion on a mother’s sorrow and give me back my little ones!”

The thought suddenly seized her that the children had failed to find
the calves and, in returning, had not taken the path, but sought the
house by a nigh cut through the woods. She sprang to her feet and
hastened back. Alas! the door had not been opened, and everything was
as she left it.

“My God!” she cried in the bitterness of her disappointment, “I fear
me the wolf garou has met and devoured my children. What shall I do?
Marie, my pretty one, wilt thou not again nestle in thy mother’s bosom
nor press thy cheek to mine? Holy Virgin, thou who hadst a babe of
thine own, look on me with compassion and give back to me my innocent
lambs.”

Again she sought the pasture, and even ventured, at her peril, to
thread in the darkness the woods that surrounded it, shouting, in
a voice shrill with agony, the names of the missing ones, but no
answering sound came. Heedless of her garments wet with dew, of her
weariness, her need of food and sleep, she spent the night wandering
back and forth between house and pasture, hoping to find them at either
place, and always disappointed. The stars melted away one by one,
the twitter of the birds was heard, the tree-tops reddened, and the
sun again looked down upon her. She resumed the search with renewed
hope, for now she could see. With the native confidence of one born
in the bush she traversed the leafy aisles, but her search was in
vain. There was only a strip of bush to be examined, for a great swamp
bounded it on one side as the St Lawrence did on the other, and into
the swamp she deemed it impossible the children could have gone. She
was more convinced than before that a wild beast had killed them and
dragged their bodies to its lair in the swamp. Stunned by this awful
conjecture, to which all the circumstances pointed, her strength left
her, and in deep anguish of spirit she tottered homewards. On coming
in sight of the shanty she marked with surprise smoke rising from the
chimney. Her heart gave a great leap. “They have returned!” she said
joyfully. She hastened to the door. A glance brought back her sorrow.
She saw only her husband and her eldest son.

“What ails thee? Your face is white as Christmas snow. We came from
Coteau this morning and found nobody here. What is wrong?”

“Joseph,” she replied in a hollow voice, “the wolf garou hath devoured
our children.”

“Never! Thou art mad. There is no wolf garou.”

“I leave it all with the good God: I wish there was no wolf garou.”
Then she told him of the disappearance of the children and of her vain
search. Husband and son listened attentively.

“Pooh!” exclaimed Caza, “they are not lost forever to us. Get us
breakfast and Jean and I will track them and have them back to thee
before long. You do not know how to find and follow a trail.”

An hour later, shouldering their rifles, they set forth. The day
passed painfully for the poor mother, and it was long after sunset
when they returned. They had found no trace of the wanderers. They had
met the calves, which, from the mud that covered them, had evidently
been in the swamp and floundered there long before they got back to
solid land at a point distant from the pasture. The father’s idea was
that the children had been stolen by Indians. Next day the search
was resumed, the neighbors joining in it. At nightfall all returned
baffled, perplexed and disheartened; Caza more confident than before
that the Indians were to blame. After a night’s rest, he set off
early for St Regis, where he got no information. Leaving there, he
scoured the forest along Trout River and the Chateaugay, finding a few
hunting-camps, whose dusky inmates denied all knowledge of the missing
girls. He pursued his toilsome way to Caughnawaga and came back by
the river St Louis without discovering anything to throw light on the
fate of his children. The grief of the mother who had been buoying
herself with the expectation that he would bring back the truants, is
not to be described; and she declared it would be a satisfaction to
her to be assured of their death rather than longer endure the burden
of suspense. Again the father left to scour the wilderness that lies
between the St Lawrence and the foot-hills of the Adirondacks, hoping
to find in some wigwam buried in forest-depths the objects of his eager
quest. On reaching Lake Champlain he became convinced that the captors
were beyond his reach, and, footsore and broken-hearted, he sought his
home, to make the doleful report that he had not found the slightest
trace.

The leaves fluttered from the trees, the snow came in flurries from
the north, the nights grew longer and colder, and, at last, winter set
in. When the wind came howling across the icy plain into which the
St Lawrence had been transformed, and the trees around their shanty
groaned and wailed, the simple couple drew closer to the blazing logs
and thought sadly of their loved ones, pinched with cold and hunger, in
the far-away wigwams of their heartless captors.

“They will grow up heathens,” murmured the mother.

“Nay, they were baptized,” suggested the father, “and that saves their
souls. I hope they are dead rather than living to be abused by the
savages.”

“Say not that, my husband; they can never forget us, and will watch a
chance to come back. Archange will sit on thy knee again, and I will
once more clasp my Marie to my bosom.”

When bedtime came they knelt side by side, and in their devotions the
wanderers were not forgotten.

Time rolled on, and Caza and his wife became old people. Each year
added some frailty, until, at a good old age, the eyes of the mother
were closed without having seen what she longed for--the return of her
children. The husband tarried a while longer, and when he was laid
to rest the sad and strange trial of their lives grew fainter and
fainter in the memories of those who succeeded them, until it became a
tradition known to few--as a mystery that had never been solved.


II.--THEIR FATE.

Archange, holding Marie by the hand, on reaching the pasture, followed
the fence to find where the calves had broken out, and then traced
their footprints, which led to the edge of the swamp. Here she
hesitated. “Marie, you stay here until I come back.”

“No, no; I will go with you; I can jump the wet places, you know.”

“Yes, and get tired before you go far. Wait; I’ll not be long in
turning the calves back.”

Marie, however, would not part from her sister, and followed her steps
as she picked her way over the swamp; now walking a fallen tree and
anon leaping from one mossy tussock to another. The calves were soon
sighted, but the silly creatures, after the manner of their kind, half
in play and half in fright, waited until the children drew near, when
they tossed up their heels and ran. In vain Archange tried to head
them. Cumbered by Marie, who cried when she attempted to leave her,
she could not go fast enough, and when it became so dark that it was
difficult to see the sportive animals, she awakened to the fact that
she must desist.

“Marie, we will go home and leave the calves until morning.”

“But if we don’t get them they will have no supper.”

“Neither will you; let us haste home or we will not see to get out of
the swamp.”

“There is no hurry; I am tired,” and with these words Marie sat down
on a log, and, pouting at her sister’s remonstrances, waited until
the deepening gloom alarmed Archange, who, grasping the little hand,
began, as she supposed, to retrace the way they had come. Marie was
tired, and it now being dark, she slipped repeatedly into the water,
until, exhausted and fretful, she flung herself on the broad trunk of
a fallen hemlock and burst into tears. Archange was now dreadfully
alarmed at their situation, yet it was some time before she was able
to persuade her sister to resume their journey. They moved on with
difficulty, and, after a while, the sight of solid green bush rising
before them gladdened their strained eyes. “We have passed the swamp!”
joyfully exclaimed Archange. They reached the ridge and scrambled up
its side. The heart of the elder sister sank within her for she failed
to recognize, in the starlight, a single familiar landmark. Could it be
that, in the darkness, she had pursued the reverse way, and, instead of
going towards home, had wandered farther away and crossed an arm of the
swamp?

“Are we near home, Archange? I’m hungry.”

“My darling, I fear we will have to stay here until daylight. We’ve
lost our way.”

“No, no; mother is waiting for us and supper is ready; let us go.”

“I wish I knew where to go, but I don’t. We are lost, Marie.”

“Will we have no supper?”

“Not tonight, but a nice breakfast in the morning.”

“And sleep here?”

“Yes, I will clasp you and keep you warm.”

“I want my own bed, Archange,” and the child broke down and softly wept.

Finding a dry hemlock knoll, Archange plucked some cedar brush, and
lying down upon it, folded Marie in her arms, who, wearied and faint,
fell asleep. It was broad daylight when they awoke, chilled and hungry.
Comforting her sister as best she could, Archange descended to the
swamp, confident that they would soon be home. She had not gone far,
until she was bewildered. The treacherous morass retained no mark of
their footprints of the night before, and she knew not whither to
go. Long and painfully they struggled without meeting an indication
of home, and the fear grew in Archange’s breast that they were going
farther and farther away from it. Noon had passed when they struck
another long, narrow, stony ridge, which rose in the swamp like an
island. Gladly they made for it, and seeking an open space, where the
sunshine streamed through the interlacing foliage, enjoyed the heat, as
it dried their wet garments and soothed their wearied limbs.

“If we only had something to eat,” said Marie, wistfully.

“Oh, we will get plenty of nuts here. See, yonder is a butternut tree,”
and running; to it Archange returned with a lapful, which she broke
with a stone as Marie ate them. They satisfied her craving, and laying
her head on the sunny bank she fell asleep from fatigue. As soon as
her breathing showed that she was sleeping soundly her sister stole
from her side to explore the ridge and try to discover some trace of
the way home. She found everything strange, and the conviction settled
upon her mind that they were lost and that their sole hope of escape
was in the searching-party, which she knew must be out, finding them.
Little did she know that the morass their light steps had crossed would
not bear the weight of a man, and that they were hopelessly lost and
doomed to perish in the wilderness. Had she been alone she would have
broken down; the care of her sister sustained her. For her she would
bear up. On returning, she found her still asleep, and as she bent over
her tear-stained face and lightly kissed it, she murmured, “I will take
care of Marie and be her little mother.”

The thought of home and mother nigh overcame her. Repressing the rising
lump in her throat, she busied herself against her sister’s waking.
She increased her store of butternuts, adding beechnuts and acorns as
well and broke them and arranged the kernels on basswood leaves, as on
plates. She drew several big branches together and covered them with
boughs which she tore from the surrounding cedars, and when the bower
was complete she strewed its floor with dried ferns. She had finished
and was sitting beside Marie when the little eyes opened and were
greeted with a smile.

“Oh, I have been waiting ever so long for you, Marie. We are going to
have a party. I have built a bower and laid out such a nice supper. We
will play at keeping house.”

The child laughed gleefully on seeing the arrangements, and the forest
rang with their mirth as the hours sped on. When evening approached
Marie grew wistful; she wanted her mother; she wanted to go home, and
Archange soothed her with patient care.

“Look at the bower, Marie! See what a nice bed; won’t you lie down on
it? And what stories you will have to tell mother of our happy time
here!”

The child, charmed by the novelty, crept in, and laying down her curly
head fell asleep to the crooning of her sister. The stars as they hung
over the tree-tops gazed downwards in pity on the little girls clasped
in each others’ arms in the sleep of innocence, and the soft south
wind sighed as it swept by, sorrowing that it could not save them. A
murmuring was heard in the pine-tops.

“Must they perish?” asked the guardian angel.

“They must; no help can reach them,” answered Nature with a sigh.
“Unwittingly they have strayed from the fold into the wilderness, these
poor, helpless lambs, and must suffer. Only to man is given the power
to help in such extremity.”

“Can you do nothing?” pleaded the angel.

“Yes; I shall lighten their last hours, give them a speedy death, and
prevent the tooth of ravenous beast or crawling worm touching their
pure bodies. Think me not cruel. I cannot perform the acts allotted to
mankind, but am not, therefore, as some deem me, cruel and stolid; my
spirit is tender, and what is in my power I’ll do.”

Sad of countenance the angel turned and glided to the side of the
sleeping children. Stooping over them he whispered in their ears, and
they smiled in their sleep and dreamt of home, of dancing on their
father’s knee, of being tossed to the rafters by their brothers, and
they felt the touch of their mother’s hand and heard the sound of her
voice, and they were very happy.

       *       *       *       *       *

When they awoke the song of a belated greybird, perched overhead,
greeted them, and they lay and listened and watched the movements of a
brilliantly colored woodpecker, as it circled the trunk of a spruce.
Looking into the face of her sister, Archange saw that it was pale and
pinched and that her smile was wan and feeble.

“Will father be here today?”

“I hope so, Marie; are you tired of me?”

“Oh, no; I do love you so, but I do want mother and--and--a drink of
warm milk and a piece of bread.”

“Well, perhaps you will get them soon, and we will be happy until they
come.”

They rose and Archange busied herself in setting forth breakfast, but
both, though very hungry, now loathed the sight of nuts. Wandering,
hand in hand, to find something more acceptable, they found in a
raspberry thicket a bush with a scant crop of second-growth berries.
Making a little basket of the bark of the white birch they nearly
filled it, and returning to their bower, sat down to enjoy them,
fashioning out of reeds make-believe spoons and asking each other if
they would have cream and sugar. The play went on and faint laughter
was heard. When the last berry was gone, the gnawing hunger re-awoke
and the feverish heat of tongue and palate, which the acid juice had
allayed, returned. Marie would not be comforted. She wanted to go
home; she wanted her mother; she wanted food, and burying her face
in her sister’s lap sobbed as if her heart would break and she would
not be comforted. Archange felt as if she must give way to despair,
but she repressed the feeling and bore up bravely. The trials and
responsibilities of the past thirty-six hours had aged her, and, child
as she was in years, she acted like a woman towards her sister, whom
she alternately soothed and tried to divert. While leaning over her, in
affected sportive mood, something soft brushed past her face and crept
between them. It was a grey squirrel. Marie opened her weeping eyes,
looked wonderingly for a moment, and then, with delighted gesture,
grasped the little creature, and beaming with joy, pressed it to her
lips.

“It is Mignon; my own clear little Mignon! What caused you to run away
from me, you naughty boy?”

It was a tame squirrel, Marie’s pet, which, a week before, had
scampered off to the woods. There was no doubt as to his identity, for
beside its evident recognition of Marie, it retained the collar of
colored yarn she had braided and tied round his neck. Hunger, home and
mother were forgotten in the delight of recovering her pet, for whom
she busied herself in getting breakfast, and he was soon sitting before
her gravely disposing of the nuts she handed him, one by one.

“Cannot Mignon guide us home?” she suddenly asked.

“Oh, yes; Mignon knows the way; but we would have to follow him over
the trees. I am afraid you could not jump from branch to branch; I know
I could not.”

“Oh, I will tie a string to him and make him walk before us,” and with
pretty prattle she entered into a conversation with the squirrel,
telling him how they were lost and he was to guide them home, for she
wanted to take dinner with mother. Mignon gravely listened and nodded
his head as if he understood it all. Then he ran up a tree or two by
way of exercise, frisked with another squirrel, peeped at Marie from
all sorts of unexpected places, and ended his capers by jumping on
to her shoulder when she was not expecting him, and pretended he was
going to nibble her chin. Marie was delighted; Mignon had diverted
her mind from her sufferings and Archange assisted by suggesting they
should make a little house for him. Of sticks and reeds they framed it
and plucking from the swamp lapfuls of ripe cat-tails they lined it
with them, making a nest soft as velvet. This done, they had to fill
a larder for him, and had a great hunting for all manner of nuts, and
in this part of their work Mignon took great interest and pretended to
assist, tho’, despite all warnings from Marie, he persisted in clasping
in his forepaws the biggest butternuts and running away to bury them in
out-of-the-way places. When she became tired with her exertions, Marie
took a nap and Mignon curled himself up on her breast and snoozed with
one eye open.

Weak in strength and sick from hunger, Archange, no longer requiring
to keep up appearances, flung herself down near by and wept bitterly.
Why did not father come? Were they to die there alone and from want of
food? Should she not try again to find the way home? She stood up, as
if to consider which way to try, when her head grew dizzy and she sank
down and knew no more until she was aroused by Marie climbing over her
and kissing her. She knew by the sun that it was late in the day, and
rising, the sisters walked slowly and unsteadily seeking berries. They
found a few only and they again tried to eat nuts. They could not.
Tracing the edge of the swamp they looked for blueberries, but their
season was past. Suddenly a low bush, dotted with red berries, caught
their sight. They found the berries small and of so peculiar a taste
that, had they not been ravenous for food, they could not have eaten
them. They picked the bush bare and went to their bower, where they
ate them. A feeling of satisfaction followed, and Marie grew quiet and
contented.

“Sing to me, Archange: do?” and the little maid laid her down to rest
and listen. Her sister sang one after another the chansons her parents
had brought with them from Acadia. She ceased and marked the satisfied
expression that had overspread Marie’s countenance. Her eyes were
closed and her hands folded. “Sing the Cedars’ song?” she whispered, in
the voice of one about to sleep. By that name was meant a hymn Archange
had heard at Christmas tide, when for the first time to her knowledge
she had been in a church, having accompanied her father to the small
village of the Cedars. She knew not the words of the hymn, but had
carried away the tune. High and clear rose in the air and floated far
away across the desolate swamp the song in which so many generations
of believers have expressed their love for the Holy Babe--the ancient
Latin hymn, Adeste Fidelis. She sang the strain over and over again
until a strange torpor crept upon her, and her voice grew fainter until
it ceased and her head sank beside that of Marie’s.

All nature was hushed. The remains of trees, long since burned, now
gaunt and white, stood in the swamp as sentinels to guard the sleeping
babes, and the giant pines, beneath whose cover they rested, seemed to
lift up their hands to Heaven in silent pleading. Slowly yet surely the
berries of the dread ground-hemlock did their work; stealthily as juice
of mandrake or of poppy. The leaden hours of the long September night
passed and inky clouds blotted out the stars, and when the sun rose he
shot out a shaft of purplish light, which revealed the faces of the
sisters, calm and cold in death, with Mignon whisking his head against
the whitened cheek of his sweet mistress.

There was a roll of distant thunder; nearer and nearer it came; it grew
darker and the air was hot and stifling. The forest groaned, and then
there was an appalling crash and a blaze of lightning clad the scene
in dazzling sheen. There was the red glow of fire; the bolt had struck
a dead pine and instantly the surrounding trees, covered with withered
leaves, that caught like tinder, were in a blaze. The storm shrieked,
the thunder made the earth tremble, the rain fell in torrents, but
higher and higher mounted the flames. It was the funeral pyre of
Archange and Marie, and when it died out not a vestige of them was to
be found.




THE SETTLER’S FIRST GRIST.


CHAPTER I.

Late in the fall of 1817 seven families of immigrants settled on the
banks of the St Lawrence in Dundee, close to the St Anicet line and
nearly opposite the village of Lancaster. With one exception, they
had come from the Isle of Skye, and they named their settlement after
their Scottish birthplace, which was not altogether inappropriate, for
the strip of territory they had taken possession of was so surrounded
on the land side by swamps as to be, in a sense, an island. Apart
from two or three of their number who knew a little English, they
spoke Gaelic and Gaelic only. They brought naught beyond strong arms
and great endurance of privation, for their training as crofters and
fishermen was of little use in their new surroundings. An untrodden
wilderness of forest hemmed in their shanties, which were placed on
the bank of the St Lawrence, and on the other side of the great river,
which here expands into a lake two miles in width, were their nearest
neighbors, who had shown them the greatest kindness. Highlanders like
themselves, the people on the Glengarry side of the river had taken a
lively interest in the newcomers, had made bees to give them a fresh
start in life; crossed over the river to show them how to fell trees,
build shanties, and make potash, and when spring came had, with true
Highland generosity, lent them seed and assisted in brushing it in or
planting it amid the stumps of their clearings. In the black mould of
the virgin soil the potatoes grew with an abundance that surprised
the Skyemen, though their astonishment was greater at the luxuriance
of the Indian corn, which they saw for the first time, and at the
excellence of the wheat. When the latter was threshed the next step
was to get it ground. Their nearest mill was at Williamstown, in the
county of Glengarry, and to reach it involved a fatiguing journey. It
was a bright morning in the first week of October, 1818, that one of
the settlers placed a bag of wheat in a canoe to take to this mill. It
was his first grist--the first in his life of wheat--and he looked at
the bag, as he deposited it carefully in the bottom of the canoe, with
satisfaction not unmingled with honest pride, which was shared in by
his wife and children, who came to the water’s edge to see him off.
Assisted by his son, a handsome young fellow, the paddles were dipped,
and the boat was soon skimming lake St Francis, for so the expansion
of the St Lawrence between Cornwall and Coteau is named. When half-way
across they paused to rest, and as they viewed the noble sheet of
water, embedded in a setting of bush whose bright colors glowed in the
shimmering sunshine of a true Canadian fall day, they thought they had
never seen anything more beautiful. “And the best of it is, Allan, that
the water is fresh and not salt, and,” fixing his gaze on his shanty,
which he could discern beneath the trees, “the land is our own, and
there will be no rent to pay at Martinmas.”

When they got to the mill they found there were other customers before
them, and having to wait their turn, it was nearly dark when their
canoe passed out of the river Raisin into lake St Francis on their
homeward journey. The sun had set behind a cloud, and the lake, though
calm, had an oily appearance--both signs of a coming change. They had
gone far enough to lose sight of the shore they had left, when a slight
swell of the waters was noticed, and immediately afterwards the hollow
sound of approaching wind. Both practised boatmen of the Old World,
they knew what these signs meant. “Had we our old boat, Allan,” said
the father, “I would not care for the squall that’s coming, but this
cockle-shell will not stand a rough sea. It may soon blow over. Yonder
I think I see the light your mother has set in the window to guide us.
We will hurry before the waves get big.” Urged by their strong arms,
the canoe flew over the lake, but swifter came the storm, and before
many minutes a violent gust of wind, accompanied by pelting rain, burst
upon them. Like all shallow sheets of fresh water, the lake was quickly
beaten into a fury, and before long waves large enough not merely to
toss the boat but to drench its occupants were coursing over it. The
danger of swamping was imminent when the father’s skill averted it.
Directing his son to stretch himself full length in the bottom of
the canoe, using the bag of flour as a pillow, it steadied under the
living ballast. Then, taking his place at one end, the father brought
the other bow-on the wind and skilfully kept it, by vigorous use of
the paddle, in a line with the waves, so that the canoe breasted and
slipped over them, hardly shipping a drop of water. The fury of the
squall soon passed, and was succeeded by a gale which blew steadily
from the west. With that fine respect for parents which characterizes
Highlanders, Allan had offered no suggestion, obediently doing what his
father ordered. When he heard him say to himself “My God, we are lost!”
he exclaimed: “No, father, the storm will blow by, and we will then
make our way home this night yet.”

“Yes, the storm will blow over, but where will we be then? You forget,
my poor boy, that the lake ends in rapids, and we are hurrying towards
them as fast as wind and wave can drive us. Your mother and your
sisters and brothers will have sore hearts tomorrow.”

Allan had not thought of the rapids. On their way from Montreal he had
seen them, watched their foaming surges, and knew their canoe could
not live a moment among them. The thought of death was bitter to him,
and as the hours passed and they went drifting downwards, amid the
storm and darkness, towards the jaws of the dreaded danger, his heart
was filled with anguish, not alone for his mother, his brothers and
sisters, but for her with whom he had secretly plighted troth.

“Allan, I will shout to you when I see the rapids. Jump and try to make
the shore, for it may be near; do not trouble with me, or we both may
be lost. Be a good lad to your mother, and tell her and your brothers
and sisters my last thoughts were of them.”


CHAPTER II.

Mrs McDonald had tidied up the one and only room of the shanty, and
was expecting momentarily the arrival of her husband and son, when she
was terror-struck by the unlooked for sound of the squall among the
trees. Hurrying from the house, she stood on the beach, on which the
waves were beginning to break, but the darkness and rain prevented
her seeing many yards. In her agony of apprehension she shouted, in
the hope that the missing ones were near: from the stormy waters came
no reply. Bidding her children, who had followed her, to go and alarm
the neighbors, very soon every soul in the settlement was by her side,
talking rapidly in Gaelic and excitedly suggesting what ought to be
done. They were all agreed that if the canoe was on the lake when the
storm burst she was lost, and their sole hope was she had not left the
other shore. The only other canoe they had was no larger than the one
that was gone, and to launch it in order to search the lake, would be
to add to the calamity. All that could be done was to build a bonfire
on the most prominent point, to guide the missing canoe if within
sight, and hope for the best. Laying his hand on Mrs McDonald’s arm,
as she stood wistfully gazing on the now foaming waters of the lake,
the oldest man of the settlement said, “Come with us out of the cold
and wet; we can do no good here.” Gathered in the shanty, the fire was
replenished until it roared in the ample chimney, and the neighbors
talked hopefully to the family and despondently among themselves. When
the hope that the storm was only a passing squall was dissipated by its
settling into a gale, under the influence of which the waves lashed the
sandy beach with a roar so appalling that it stifled the groanings
of the forest, the men agreed among themselves that McDonald and his
son were at the bottom of the lake, and their hearts grew sore for
those whom they believed to be widowed and orphaned by the calamity.
Fighting with her fears, Mrs McDonald tried to persuade herself all
would come right, and assumed a complacency she was far from feeling.
“Often,” she remarked, “has my husband been out worse nights than this
in Scotland, and surely he who could fight the Atlantic is not going
to be drowned in a bit freshwater loch in Canada. To be sure there was
a winding-sheet in the candle last night, but that did not signify,
seeing that it was made from the fat of a wild deer, and not from that
of a Christian sheep. Not one of my family, and it goes far back, Mrs
McGillis, ever died without the wraith of Ian Ban, our forbear, who was
laird of Glenish, being seen, and it is not to be said he failed to
warn me when my husband and oldest son were near their end. I am not
afraid of them. They will be here tomorrow--Donald, like a good man,
go and see that the fire is blazing on the point--and we must keep our
composure. What is that?”

Close to the dwelling rose a prolonged howl, beginning at a low pitch
and rising to a piercing climax, the sound of which blanched every
face. Those nearest the door opened it; none ventured out. Every ear
was strained. In a few minutes the howl was repeated. “Pooh!” said a
young man, “it is only a wolf.”

The incident broke the tension of suspense, and one after another began
telling stories of their old life in Skye, having more or less bearing
on the situation of those they waited for. Thus the hours wore away,
and it was noted with satisfaction that at the turn of the night the
gale broke and speedily died away. The waves still ran too high for
the canoe to be launched to attempt to gain the other side of the lake
and make enquiries, but they were falling fast. When it was agreed it
would be safe to go, the settlers again gathered on the beach, which
was reddened by the beacon fire that still blazed. There was unexpected
delay; a paddle was found to be broken, and another had to be made,
and ere all was ready a faint whitening of the eastern sky told of
the coming day. It was now a beautiful night, calm and still, the
glassy swells of the lake reflecting the sparkle of the stars. Many a
searching glance was cast across the broad lake for the missing boat,
and dreadful apprehensions filled each bosom as to the secret its dark
waters kept. The canoe was about to start, the two men going with her
had dipped their paddles, and the group on the beach clustered closer
to see her off, when, faint and from afar, came over the surface of
the lake a plaintive murmur. Not a word was uttered, but every ear was
strained to catch the sound. It came again fitfully. Neighbor looked
with agony into the blanched face of neighbor. The one idea possessed
them, that it was the dirge of the spirits of their departed friends
as they were journeying to the place of souls. The mother impulsively
sprang forward until the water laved her feet and cried, “My Allan, my
first-born, is it you that is calling? Oh speak to me and tell where in
the cold deep I will find you.”

There was a shriek behind her which froze every heart. A young woman,
the winsome daughter of one of the settlers, had fallen senseless on
the sand.

The patriarch of the settlement who, at the first sound, had knelt
and placed his ear close to the lake, soon rose in stern reproof. “Is
it thus you welcome God’s mercy? Your son, Mrs McDonald, and your
lover, Flora, for so you have just revealed to us he is, is alive and
well. It is his voice singing the boat-song of the Isle of Mist, and I
hear the plash of oars.” And so it was, for now clear and strong came
from the lake the words of the song, and soon keen eyes could see the
approaching canoe. There was a shout of joy, and tears streamed from
every cheek. A few minutes more and the lost were among them.

When they had re-entered the shanty and the cup of rejoicing had gone
round, Mr McDonald told his story. As time passed, and the canoe
drifted farther down the lake, he had given up all hope and expected
every moment to feel it caught in the strong current that leads to the
rapids, and to hear their dreadful sound. “I was praying for you in my
heart,” he said, “when I heard the sound of breaking water. Allan, I
shouted, here they are at last; make ready to jump and swim for your
life. No sooner said than my paddle struck bottom and I saw trees
before me. Quick, Allan, jump and we will drag the canoe ashore. We
both sprang out at the same time, and catching hold of the canoe ran
her through the breakers and high on to the bank. We were wet and so
cold, but, oh, we were thankful that we were saved. After a while we
got up and moved round to see if a house was near, when we found that
we were on one of the small islands that lie at the head of the rapids.
A few rods one way or the other and we would have swept past it and
been lost. It was God’s own hand that had steered our canoe. Well, we
waited patiently till the gale went down, and as soon as we dared we
launched out again and paddled homeward. And a long pull we had, but it
warmed us.”

The bag of flour was opened. The water had caked the outside layer,
leaving the interior quite dry. The flour was examined with interest,
being the first from wheat grown in the settlement.

“Well,” exclaimed the patriarch, “it is time we were in our beds,
though it be now good daylight, and we will go to sleep with thankful
hearts that our good neighbor is with us and not at the bottom of the
lake. And you, Mrs McDonald, we wish well to, for you have this morning
found not only the son that was lost, but a daughter you knew not of,
and a good girl she is too. There is plenty of land here for all, and
we will build them a house and hold our New Year in it, and, please
God, we will not again risk life in these French cobbles of canoes, but
build a big boat.”

And so it came to pass. The New Year beheld Flora and Allan made one
with a merry-making that became a tradition in the settlement, their
Glengarry friends driving over the icy bosom of the lake to it in a
drove, and bringing two pipers to supply the music, and when spring
came a boat, large enough to carry half a dozen bags of flour, built
after the best Isle of Skye design, was launched in the creek beside
the shanty of William McPhee, and served the settlement many a long
year.




ABNER’S DEVICE.


“Abner, I want you to go a message for me after breakfast.”

“Yes, mother. Is it to Four Corners?”

“No; you are to go to the Blands, with a basket for old Mrs Whiting.”

“Why, that’s in Canada, and they’re our enemies.”

“Our governments are at war, but we old neighbors are not.”

“But the Indian guard may catch me.”

“If they do, they’ll not harm a boy like you.”

“Yes, they would, mother. They’d scalp anything that’s Yankee, and I
hate them and every Britisher. I don’t see why you want to do a good
turn to those who’ve been trying these two years to cut our throats and
burn our houses.”

“Abner!” exclaimed Mrs Smith reproachfully.

“I want to hit them every time, mother, and if I have got to go, you’ll
let me take father’s rifle.”

“No, Abner; you’ll go as you are, and if the Indian guard fall in
with you, their captain will let you go when you tell your errand. If
congress want to fight king George, that’s not to say we are to hate
and hurt those we have lived beside so long and who’ve done us many a
kindness.”

This conversation took place in the log shanty of a first settler in
northern New York in the fall of 1813. War was then in progress, and
a few days before General Hampton had returned from his attempt to
reach Montreal, and with his withdrawal to winter quarters the settlers
along the frontier supposed hostilities were ended for the season.
When war had been declared the settlers on the American side of the
lines were in terror of being visited by the Indians, whom the British
government had enrolled to watch the frontier, but as time proved their
apprehensions groundless, they were little affected by the contest that
was being waged, beyond having their intercourse with the settlers
on the Canadian side restricted, and that intercourse had been close
and frequent, for the difference in allegiance had not affected their
friendship. In the bush distance goes for little, and though five miles
apart, the Blands were Mrs Smith’s nearest neighbors to the north,
and their relation had been of the warmest kind. Unable, owing to the
presence of Hampton’s camp at Four Corners, to do their trading there,
Mrs Smith knew that the Blands must be without groceries and even
flour, and, at this, the first opportunity, she was eager to send them
some little comforts to vary their coarse fare, especially for Mrs
Whiting, the grandmother of the household, who was often bedridden from
rheumatism.

The basket was ready for Abner by the time he had finished breakfast.
His imagination had been fired by seeing the soldiers at fort Hickory
and at Four Corners, and to carry the basket in the usual way was out
of the question. Securing thin withe-ropes, made from the bark of the
moosewood, he slung the basket on his shoulders like a knapsack, and
catching up a cedar pole he grasped it as if it were a musket, and
shouting to himself the order, “Eyes front; right foot forward; quick
march!” off he set, fancying himself one of Colonel Purdy’s crack
brigade. Mrs Smith as, from the door, she watched her boy depart on his
errand, while she smiled at his wayward fancy, could not help feeling
a thrill of pride in his lithe, active figure, giving promise of a
handsome man. That he was shrewd and quick-witted, as well as tall and
strong, for his years, she well knew.

The weather had been extremely wet for the season; the ground was
soaked and the leaves had long ago been washed from all the trees
except the beech. During the night the rain had ceased, and the
morning, dull and hazy, gave promise of a dry day. Once out of his
father’s clearance, Abner’s way lay through the bush. There was a
foot-track that led to the Blands, but now it was so hidden by the
litter of leaves that it was indiscernible. That did not signify. Born
in the woods, they were so familiar that Abner could find his way in
any direction he chose, with as much ease as the dwellers in cities
traverse their intricacies of streets and lanes. As he threaded his
way among the trees, the chatter of the chipmunk, the whirr of the
partridge, and the tapping of a belated woodpecker were the only sounds
that fell on his ear, and no sight more unusual than an occasional
grey-squirrel or troop of deer. When he had crossed the line that
divides Chateaugay from Hinchinbrook, and was fairly on Canadian
territory, he became more circumspect, and his fancy changed. He was
no longer the right-hand man of a file of soldiers, but a scout, sent
into the enemy’s country to get information. Keeping under every cover
that offered, looking furtively around before venturing to cross any
open that came in his way, treading on the hardest ground he could
find, and doubling on his track where the soil treacherously retained
his footprints, he found playing at Abner the spy much more exciting
than that of Abner the soldier. Suddenly a crackling sound arrested his
footsteps. It was, he knew, no noise made by any denizen of the forest,
and he turned towards whence it came. Soon he caught the faint odor of
smoke, and then he knew there was a fire near--probably the camp-fire
of the British guard. Prudence whispered to him to turn away and pass
on; curiosity, to go and have a peep at the camp. He was only a boy
of fourteen, and curiosity carried the day. Slowly he stole towards
the point whence the crackling sound of blazing branches came, and so
noiselessly that even the squirrels failed to start at his approach
until he passed their perch. Now he could see the smoke, and next
the glare of the embers. He thought he saw the figure of a man, but
as, when he looked again, the shape was gone, he thought he had been
mistaken. He paused to listen. There was no sound save the drumming of
a partridge behind him. Redoubling his caution, he crawled towards the
spot whence the smoke rose, and when he slowly lifted his head from
behind a thicket, he was startled to find himself looking into a camp
of the dreaded Indian guard, of whom he had so often heard but never
seen. There they were, 21 in number, lying prostrate in sleep in a
circle around the fire and the pale autumn sunshine streaming down upon
them. Uncouth looking men they were, with daubs of paint on their faces
that made them hideous. Beside each one lay his musket, and some even,
in their sleep, grasped their hatchets, prepared, if surprised, for
immediate combat. Their captain Abner recognized from his being white
and wearing the sword and crimson sash of a British officer. With eager
eye Abner scanned the unexpected scene, and when the first feeling
of fear died away, he grew bold and thought of what he might have
accomplished had his mother allowed him to take his father’s rifle
with him. The exploits of Robert Rogers and Ethan Allen floated before
his mind’s eye and he planned how, had he been armed, he might have
shot the captain through the heart and have disappeared before any of
the sleeping group knew what had happened. Satisfied with the sight, he
moved to withdraw and resume his journey. At the first attempt to turn
around, his arms were seized with a grasp of iron, and, looking up,
he saw he was in the hands of an Indian, whose painted visage glared
with ferocity. Appalled for a moment, Abner stood still, then he made
a wrench to get away. It was in vain. Drawing the boy’s arms together,
the Indian grasped them by the wrists with his left hand, and when the
right hand was thus released he thrust it into the folds of his belt
of wampum. Abner’s eyes followed the movement, and when the hand was
withdrawn grasping a short, thick knife, which he recognized as the
scalping-knife he had heard so much of, a paroxysm of terror smote him,
and he gave a piercing shriek. With a diabolical grin, as if he enjoyed
the boy’s terror, the Indian passed the knife before Abner’s eyes and
tried its edge on his soft chubby cheek, then flourished it before
plunging into his scalp. As he made the motion, a billet of wood came
hurtling past, and striking the Indian on the head, he fell, dragging
Abner down with him. He was lifted up by the captain, whom Abner had
seen asleep a minute before, and as he passed his hand over him to make
sure he was unhurt, he poured forth a torrent of angry words, in his
own language, at the Indian, who gave no sign that the knockdown blow
he had received had hurt him. As the captain led Abner into the circle
of Indians, who had been awakened by his shriek, he told him he had
been scolding his assailant for attempting to scalp him, and said in
apology that he was a heathen Indian of the far west, a Blackfoot who
had strayed to the Ottawa, and joined a band of the Iroquois. “I do not
allow my men to be cruel; my orders be to watch the frontier to prevent
invasion by your soldier, and not to hurt anybody.” Then he asked
Abner who he was and why he had come nigh their camp, and was answered
frankly.

“Ah, my leetle man,” said the captain, who spoke with a French
accent, “if you tell me true you get away; but I’m afraid you carry
letter,--despatch--eh!” Taking the basket from his back, the captain
lifted out its contents, among which were half-a-dozen apples, then a
luxury in the new settlement, where the few fruit trees planted had not
begun to bear. An Indian snatched up one and took a bite, laughingly
saying, “Yankee apple better nor Yankee bullet.” The other contents
were of as innocent a description: a few little luxuries that might
tempt an invalid, a small bag of flour, and a bottle of liniment.
The captain, satisfied there was no letter in the basket, carefully
replaced its contents, and then examined Abner’s clothing, making him
even take off his shoes. While thus engaged an Indian slouched up
beside the captain and, throwing down his musket, began to speak to
him, and Abner listened to the guttural sounds with awe.

“Dis man,” said the captain, “tell me he see you leave clearance and
follow you. He say, when you come to Canada side you act as ’fraid,
hide behind bush, and walk ve-ray fooney. Why you no want to be seen?”

Abner blushed at this description of his enacting the role of Indian
scout and perceived how his conduct could be misconstrued. He
remembered, also, his mother’s repeated injunction that truth is better
under any circumstances, and, with a shamed smile on his face, he told
what he was doing. The captain grinned as he listened and patting Abner
on the back said: “I know; boy once myself and now fadder of four; you
play one leetle game of Indian spy, not tinking real Indian watch you.
You one good, honest-faced boy. Pity you Yankee.”

The Indian who had tracked him, smiled as the captain spoke, showing he
understood English, and, like all his race, enjoyed banter. “You smell
smoke, eh?” he said, “hold up nose and go on. Then you hear partridge
drum (here he imitated the sound) me partridge and signal to Joe; Joe
steal up behind, catch arms, pull out knife, you--squeal,” and here, as
if overcome by the ludicrousness of the scene, the Indian grinned from
ear to ear without emitting a single sound of laughter, and poked Abner
in the side.

“You make big mistake tink you come to Indian camp without we know,”
remarked the captain, “when we sleep, sentinel all round like fox.”
Changing the subject, the captain tried to get from Abner what he knew
of the movements and whereabouts of the American army, particularly
of the number still in camp at Four Corners, which Abner admitted he
had visited the day before. It was without avail. The boy realized the
information he would give might be used against his countrymen, and he
answered evasively. “Ah, well,” exclaimed the captain, “it no matter;
we’ve our spies in your camp so well as in de bush.”

The Indians were now busily preparing breakfast, and Abner watched them
with curious eyes as they placed potatoes and pieces of pork to cook
upon the hot embers, while a copper-kettle with tea was slung on a
crooked stick. Their duties required them to be on the patrol along the
frontier during the night, which accounted for their sleeping so late.

“Vell,” said the captain, “what you tink of dese Indian? Yankee able to
catch ’em? Eh? You tell, when you get home, what great fellow Indians
be. Now you may go, and give Mrs Bland de compliment of Captain de
Versailles and say he will do her de honor of taking supper with her.”

Thus permitted to resume his journey, Abner struck into the bush, and
in half an hour had reached the house of the Blands. He was hailed
with an uproarious welcome from every member of the large household,
for there was the delight not only of resuming long-suspended friendly
intercourse, but the proof in his appearance that the warfare waged
between the two governments had not lessened the goodwill of their
neighbors. Unpacking the basket, it was found to contain a little of
everything they had been so long deprived from being shut out from the
American stores. On the cork being drawn from the bottle of liniment,
granny declared that the very smell had done her rheumatics good. As
the contents of the basket lay spread on the table, a sudden thought
seemed to strike Mrs Bland, which she communicated in a whisper to her
husband. There was a quiet consultation, and then she addressed Abner.

“We have something strange to tell you, and mum’s the word. Night
before last, when we were asleep, a knock came to the door and then it
was pushed open. Father rose, stirred the fire, and got a light, when
we saw it was an American soldier. He was drenched to the skin, for it
was pouring rain, and, oh, what a pale, thin ghost he looked! He crept
up to the fire and sank in a heap beside it, muttering, ‘Thank God.’ I
saw he was perishing, and got some hot drink for him, and after a while
he told his story. He had been with Hampton’s army in the battle, where
he had received a flesh wound in the side, and when Purdy’s brigade
fell back he was unable to keep up with them, got separated from his
company, and, in the dark, lost his way. Next morning he tried to find
the trail of the army, but failed, and then, guided by the sun, struck
south, knowing he would in time reach the States. Too weak to carry
them, he threw away his musket and ammunition, and crawled, rather
than walked. When the last biscuit in his haversack was eaten, he had
to trust to beech and butter nuts, though he was not hungry, for his
wound fevered him. Often he lay down, thinking he would never rise
again, but he was young and strong, and when he revived a little he
pushed on, until, to his great joy, he struck our clearing. He thought
he was in the States, and when we told him our house was on the Canada
side he was dreadful afraid we would give him up, and he would be sent
to Montreal as a prisoner. We soon eased him on that score; our big
trouble was to hide him from the Indian guard until we could get him
sent across the lines.”

“Yes, mother,” interrupted one of her sons, “they came to our house the
next day, and are close by yet.” Abner shivered.

“Well,” resumed Mrs Bland, “I made the poor Yank take off his wet
clothes and lie down in our warm bed. I dressed his wound for the first
time, and it was raw and nasty, I can tell you, and then he fell asleep
like a baby, poor fellow. I cleaned and set his clothes to dry, and as
I sat mending them next morning father and I consulted. To keep him in
the house was to give him up to the Indians, and he was too weak to
travel farther. Where to hide him until he was able to leave bothered
us, when, all of a sudden, father thought of the big platform that
stands near the spring in the bush, two acres back, which the Indians
raised last year for still hunting. It was late in the day when he
awoke, and he found himself weak as water but the fever had left him.
We told him what we intended, and, after he had eaten something, father
and the boys carried him to the platform, rolled him in a blanket and
covered him with elm bark and cedar brush. We have taken him victuals
after dark, and last night, seeing it was wet, we fetched him over and
gave him a night’s rest in bed. He eats little, for his stomach is
turned against our common food, and he’ll be glad of what your mother
has sent. Now, Ab, can’t you think of some plan to get this poor fellow
across the lines?”

He could not think of any, for the woods were full of Indians, but he
would like to visit the wounded soldier. Preparing as tasty a repast as
she could out of the victuals sent by Mrs Smith, Abner and Mrs Bland
started for his place of concealment. As is their custom, the Indians
had raised the platform in a thicket, which commanded a runway, and was
therefore well concealed, and, what was of equal consequence at that
season, sheltered from the wind. On coming beneath it, Mrs Bland spoke,
when there was a movement above, and a face, so ashy pale and wasted
that Abner felt a creeping feeling pass over him, peered from beyond
the edge. “Here’s a boy from Yankeetown and a dinner cooked from the
provisions he has brought.”

“He’s welcome,” faintly whispered the soldier. “I wish I could go back
with him.”

Taking the basket in one hand, Abner climbed up to the platform with
the agility of a squirrel, and helped the soldier to raise himself and
arrange the food. When he saw the wheaten bread, he said it put him in
mind of home, and he fell to and made the best meal he had partaken of
since the fatal day on the Chateaugay. His strength returned with the
grateful food and he asked Abner many questions, what Hampton had done
after the battle, where he was now, were many killed, did the British
follow him up, and were there many Indians in the woods. When he heard
of Abner’s encountering the Indians that morning, he shuddered, and
Abner could not help thinking of what his fate would be did one of them
ferret out his retreat, a reflection that increased his desire to save
him. Leaving the soldier in a cheerful and hopeful mood, he slipped
back to the Blands, puzzling his head to devise some plan of rescuing
his countryman.

After dinner, which consisted of corn boiled in milk, and potatoes
with fried venison, the Bland boys proposed to go partridge shooting,
and Abner agreed, as he was in no hurry to return home. So off they
went. In beating the woods, a coon was started, and it supplied the
idea Abner had been seeking for. Before they returned home he had
worked it out and determined to submit it to Mrs Bland. On approaching
the door they heard peals of laughter, when one of the boys remarked,
“The captain has come; he’s a jolly one with the girls,” and on
entering, they found that personage entertaining the family in his
liveliest style. Abner bit his lip and saw he must bide his time.
Supper is an early meal in the backwoods, and after enjoying it to
the full, and diverting and flattering each of the household, Captain
Versailles, with many apologies for duty requiring him to leave such
delightful company, left to return to his Indians. No sooner had he
gone, than Abner asked abruptly, “These moonlight nights don’t you go
coon-hunting?”

“Don’t we, Ab,” answered one of the boys, “think you’d say so if you
saw the skins nailed on the barn-door.”

“Well, then, I’ve a plan to get the soldier away with me,” which he
proceeded to lay before them. Briefly it was, that the boys should go
with their guns a mile or so east and close to the boundary-line, when
they would begin firing and shouting. The Indians, thinking it was an
attack from Fort Hickory, would hurry to meet the invaders, leaving the
western part of the frontier unguarded, and let Abner slip across with
the soldier.

“It’s feasible,” said Mr Bland, “the trouble is the poor fellow isn’t
able to walk a rod, let alone five miles.”

“He’ll die from cold if left out longer,” remarked his wife; “we must
run some risk. He might be able to keep on the back of the old white
mare.”

“That’s so,” answered her husband, “we’ll try Ab’s plan.”

As no time was to be lost, it being essential to make the diversion
before the Indians were detailed by Captain Versailles to their posts
for the night, the boys caught up their guns and left, while Abner and
Mr Bland slipped over to the hiding-place of the soldier, told him
what was intended, and helped him down from his perch. The prospect of
speedy escape gave him unwonted strength, and leaning on his friends
he managed to walk to the house, where Mrs Bland, after dressing his
wound, insisted on washing his face and tidying him up. “For sure,” she
said, “you’re going home to your friends, and you mustn’t give Canada a
bad name.”

“That I never will,” murmured the grateful soldier, “God has anointed
the hearts of both peoples with the same oil of kindness, and it’s only
the politicians and big men on both sides that make trouble between us.”

The evening was calm and mild for the season, and Mr Bland sat
listening by the open door. Presently, there burst from a remote corner
of the woods, a sharp volley, followed by such shouts and cries as
would lead the listener to fancy a fierce fight was in progress. “There
they are!” exclaimed Mr Bland, while the shots and uproar continued to
increase, “let ’em keep that up for five minutes, and there won’t be an
Indian within earshot who won’t be running to the spot.”

The noise did continue that long and longer too, while, with skilful
imitation, it subsided and increased, and passed from one part of the
woods to another, the cheers of soldiers mingling with equally good
imitations of Indian yells, giving the impression of a running fight
between a detachment of the American garrison and the Indian guard.
When Mr Bland considered all the Indians had left for the neighborhood
of the supposed fight, the old mare was brought to the door, which the
soldier was helped to mount, and Abner, grasping the bridle, led the
way. By this time the moon was high enough to be pouring down its rays
through the tree-tops, and though its light was useful in showing him
how to avoid obstacles and to go much faster than they otherwise could
have done, Abner would have dispensed with it for fear of its revealing
their presence to the Indians. His fear was groundless. His device was
a complete success. Not an Indian was met, the woods were traversed
in safety, and Abner exulted in the thought how he had tricked the
Indians, and almost laughed right out when he pictured to himself their
disgust, on reaching the scene of the supposed fight, to find it to
be only a coon-hunt. If they had trapped him in the morning, he had
outwitted them in the evening. When the light of his father’s house was
discerned, Abner relieved his feelings by a great shout of exultation,
that drew his parents to the door.

“Well, Abner, you see the Indians did not catch you?”

“Didn’t they mother! I feel the clutch of one of ’em at my scalp yet.
Won’t you help the stranger down, father? He is a soldier and wounded.”

“Wounded! Poor critter, I must get the bed ready,” and Mrs Smith darted
indoors.

Stiff and sore from the exertion and cold, the poor soldier was like
to fall when they helped him off the mare, and, gently, father and son
carried him to the bed.

“Poor man, ain’t he tuckered out!” exclaimed Mrs Smith, as she
approached him when his head had been laid on the pillow. Shading the
candle she glanced at him, started, looked again, and crying out,
“Blessed if it ben’t my own brother Bill from Varmont!” she fell on his
neck in a paroxysm of hysterical sobs. And so it turned out to be. He
had been among those last drafted to reinforce Hampton, and had been
unconscious that his sister lived so near the camp at Four Corners.
Abner was the hero of the night when the soldier told how he had been
the means of saving him. “No,” said the lad modestly, “it was mother’s
sending me against my will to the Blands that saved you.”

“That’s so, Abner, and you never forget it, that blood is thicker than
water, and in doing a kind deed to those you considered an enemy we
were serving ourselves.”




WHAT A SETTLER TOLD ME.


After the stifling heat and blinding glare of a Canadian summer day,
it is most refreshing to walk forth as the sun, shorn of its strength,
sinks, a glowing ball of fire, behind the forest that edges the
landscape. Vegetation, wilted by the day’s glaring heat, revives with
the dewy coolness of the hour, and from the neighboring bush comes the
song of the greybird. As the glow fades from the sky, nowhere else in
the world of tenderer blue or more translucent depth, the stars drop
into sight, and should Venus be in the ascendant, she burns with a
white flame unknown at any other season. Generally, with the setting
of the sun, a light breeze springs up from the west or northwest,
refreshing to the farmers who toiled throughout the sultry day, and
swaying the heads of timothy until the meadows seem to be swept by
billows. The eye of the saunterer takes in the scene, passing over the
great flat fields of grain and grass, until ended by the recurring
belt of bush; the snug farm-houses set amid shade-trees and orchards;
the pond-like reaches of the Chateaugay, sleeping peacefully in the
hollows of its rounded banks, unruffled save as the wing of one of the
swallows, that skim its glassy surface, frets it for a moment, or from
the leap of an inhabitant of its clear waters; and, in the finished
beauty of the picture, he finds it hard to realize that he is looking
upon the results of the labor of scarce half a century, that underneath
a few of the roofs before him still live men and women who saw the
country when a wilderness of forest and swamp, and who are survivors
of the generation who wrought the wondrous change--men and women who
underwent privations the most painful and labors the most exhausting
in making the country what it is. To give those who have inherited
the fruits of their sacrifices some idea of what the first settlers
underwent, I here submit the narrative of one of them, as nearly as may
be in the words I was told it:

You have driven a long way to see me, sir, and I am afraid I can
tell you little worth the hearing. It is strange you should go to
so much trouble to gather these old-time stories, but if I can tell
you anything that will be of use to you I am willing. You want me to
begin with our leaving the Old Country and go on in order, as you can
recollect best that way. Very well, only you will have to come and
see me again, for it is a long story, and if you print any of it, you
are to change it so that nobody will know who told you. I don’t mind
myself, but some of my children might not like it.

We belonged to the Border, and the first sight that met my eyes every
morning was the Eildon hills. My husband was a shepherd and we lived
well enough until our family began to grow large, and then we thought
it would be well for their sake to try Canada. We had a little saved
and that, with what we got from the roup of our furniture, paid our
passage and plenishing. We sailed from the Solway, into which a big
ship from Liverpool called for a party of emigrants. We were rowed
out in small boats, and when I got on to her deck my heart failed
me, for such dirt and confusion I never saw the like, crowded as she
was with 242 emigrants from county Kerry, who had gone on board at
Liverpool. This we never expected, but it was too late now, and we
had to make the best of it. The sight below was worse than above, and
I turned fairly sick when I went down the ladder to our berths; the
noise was bad enough but the smell was just awful. The mate, a swearing
character, was not without a show of decency, and did the great favor
of allotting to us Border folks, who numbered an even six dozen, the
row of berths aft the main hatchway, so that we were kept together. We
slipped out of the firth that night with the tide, and next morning,
which was a most beautiful day, we kept tacking off and on the coast
of the North of Ireland. As we got out on the ocean I grew sea-sick,
and for a few days I was just in misery; having to attend the children
yet hardly able to raise my head. The ship’s provisions were scanty
and very bad, which did not matter much to us, for we had taken a good
deal with us, but the poor Irish, who had brought nothing, were always
wanting to borrow, and as we, not having more than enough to serve
ourselves, had to refuse, they abused us for being proud, and tried to
pick quarrels, but both the Scotch and English of us kept our tempers
and gave them no offence. Their jealousy and ill-feeling grew, and one
morning they banded together to prevent our getting hot water at the
galley. This we could not stand, for the water was bad and only fit to
drink when boiled and made into tea or gruel. The captain refused to
interfere, being afraid, we thought, of having trouble with the Kerry
men, and when we told the mate he only swore at our lads for a cowardly
lot of sheep-tenders. When dinner-time came, our men got out their
crooks, and, going quietly on deck, formed in a column and, laying
about them right and left, cleared a road to the galley. There were
fearful threats made, but nothing came of them, and after that we were
respected and left alone.

The ship made little headway owing to the wind keeping in the west,
and it was on the eighth day of our voyage that it became known to
us that a woman, who had been sick for some time, was ill of the
fever. On that day she got delirious and her people could not hide the
truth longer. Four of the oldest men of our party were sent to tell
the captain. He made light of their news and said they were mistaken
about the disease, but he refused to come and see the woman or to
erect a partition across the hold to separate us from the rest of the
passengers. We took his treatment sore to heart. When ship-owners get
his passage-money, they don’t care what becomes of the poor emigrant,
and would just as soon he would die on the voyage as land him. We went
to sleep that night sad and frightened, for we knew, by reading the
papers, what ship-fever meant. Well, next day the woman was worse, and
on the evening of the third she died. We were all anxious that the
corpse should be buried at once, so that the infection might not be
spread by it, and two of our folk, taking some things that might be
useful in preparing the body, went over to where it lay to advise that
that be done. The poor creatures got angry at once, and drove them
back, and cursed us for a set of heretics, who would put the decent
woman out of sight without waking her. They laid the corpse on top
of some chests in the centre of the ship, surrounded it by candles,
and then the keening began, which drove me nearly into hysterics. The
captain, hearing what was going on, sent down a keg of rum, and made
matters worse. Towards morning, when the drink had taken effect, they
began to quarrel, and the noise and confusion was terrible. There being
no partition, we could see the whole length of the hold, with the rows
of berths on either side, and towards the far end, in the middle of the
ship, was the white heap formed by the corpse and lighted by candles,
with the women sitting around it, wailing in the most unearthly way,
and taking no heed of the men and children who swarmed outside of them,
talking, shouting, pushing, and fighting. A candle was knocked down
and there was a cry of fire, but an old woman smothered it with her
cloak. As we could not sleep, and were afraid they might come to our
end of the ship and give us trouble, we went on deck to wait till all
was over. It was a cold, raw morning, with not enough of wind to keep
the ship from pitching, but anything was better than being below. When
the eight o’clock bell struck, the Irish came swarming up, bearing the
corpse. They rested it awhile by the bulwarks, when all, even to the
smallest child, fell on their knees in prayer. Then it was lifted over
and let drop into the ocean. The sailors would not help, keeping by
themselves on the forecastle, for they were afraid of the infection.
As four days passed without a new case, we were beginning to hope the
danger was passed, but on the fifth three children took ill, and before
the week was done there were 17 down. After that the disease had its
own way, and deaths became so frequent that it was impossible to hold
wakes. We pitied the poor creatures, and gave more than we could spare
to help them. The worst want of the sick was water and though it smelt
so that a horse would not have touched it and not worth the saving,
for there was plenty on board such as it was, the captain would not
order that the allowance be increased, but he encouraged the steward to
sell liquor, in the profit of which he shared. I cannot begin to tell
you of the scenes we had to endure; it was of God’s mercy that they
did not take away our senses. If the ship was dirty before the fever
broke out, it was worse now, and the smell, as you stepped from the
deck, was like to knock you down. None of our folk, with one sorrowful
exception, took the disease, which was not considered strange by the
Irish, for they accounted the taking away of the sick, especially of
the young, as a sign of favor by the saints, who carried them to glory.
The exception was my husband. When about to raise a tin of tea to his
lips one morning, he saw a child looking at him from her berth with
such entreating eyes, that he went over and held the vessel to the
girl’s mouth. When she was satisfied, he drank what was left. Three
days after he complained of a racking headache, which was followed
by a chill, after that the fever set in. Just because he was such a
lusty man the disease went hard with him, and on the tenth day of his
illness I saw there was no hope. It was in the afternoon as I sat by
him, listening to his ravings, that he suddenly sat up, and pointing
to the shaft of sunshine that poured down the hatchway into the dark
and loathsome hold, he said, “It fa’s on the Cheviots and glints on
the Tweed e’noo; let me bask in’t once mair.” We carried him over and
laid him in the sunlight. The delirium left him, and a sweet smile came
to his face. “Hae ye onything to say?” I whispered in his ear. “No,
Mailie,” he answered softly, “I am quite happy an’ feel the grip o’ my
Saviour’s han’: God will be wi’ you and the bairns.” He never opened
his een mair, but the smile lingered on his lips until the sun began
to sink, and as he felt the glow leave his cheek, he muttered, “It’s
growin’ late and the nicht will be ower cauld for the lammies; I’ll
ca’ the ewes frae the knowes,” and so saying he slipped awa wi’ the
Great Shepherd o’ the Sheep to the lown valley and the still waters.
Though my sorrow was like to rive my head, I kept my composure, for
there was work to be done, and nothing can excuse neglect of duty.
I prepared him for burial, and when all was ready, an old friend, a
brother shepherd of my husband from a boy, gave out the 90th psalm,
and when it had been sung, he read the 14th chapter of John, and
offered up a most soul-striving prayer, so that, when the corpse was
lifted, there was not a dry cheek. We followed as it was carried to
the deck. The ship was on the banks of Newfoundland, and the ocean was
a dead calm, the new moon lighting up the thin haze of mist that lay
upon it. I had wrapped my husband in his plaid, and thrust his crook
lengthways through the outer fold. Holding each an end of it, two of
the strongest of our men swung the body well out from the ship’s side.
As it disappeared I felt that my love for man as wife had gone with it,
and such a sense of desolation came over me as words cannot tell.

Five days after we came to quarantine, where the sick were landed, and,
just five weeks and two days from the time we left Scotland, we sailed
into Quebec harbor. We were a small and heartbroken handful. Our chests
had been brought on deck and we sat on them, waiting for the steamer
to come alongside that was to carry us to Montreal. None of our folk
had asked me what I was going to do, and I knew the reason. It was not
that they were unwilling to help me, but because they had more than
they could do to mind themselves. They felt for me sore, but they could
not take the bite out of their own children’s mouths to give to mine.
Indeed, there was hardly one of them who knew what they were going to
do, for they had come to Canada to seek new homes on chance. I had had
my own thoughts and had marked out what I would try to do.

“There’s the steamer; get yer bairns thegither and I’ll look to yer
kists.”

It was a hard-favored man that spoke, a shepherd named Braxton from
Cumberland, who all the voyage had hardly said a word. Glad of his help
I followed him. He bought milk and bread for us when the steamer called
at Three Rivers, but never saying aught until Montreal was in sight.

“What beest thou gaun to do?” he asked. I said I was going to bide in
Montreal and try to get something to do. I was strong and had a pair of
good hands. He gave a kind of snort.

“Ye canna mak eneugh to keep five bairns; ye’d better come wi’ me.”

“Where till?” I asked.

“I dinna knaw yet, but I’se get lan’ somewhere near and ye’se keep
house for me.”

“Are ye a single man?” He nodded. I sat thinking. He was a stranger to
me beyond what I had seen of him on the ship. Could I trust him? Here
was a home for my children in the meanwhile. For their sake would I do
right to refuse the offer? My mind was made up, and I told him I would
go with him.

“I canna offer thee wages,” he said.

“I dinna ask any.”

“Very well,” he replied, and no more was said.

By this time they had yoked the steamer to a string of oxen, which
helped it up the current into the harbor, and in course of an hour we
were in Sandy Shaw’s tavern. In answer to Braxton, the landlord told
him of there being bush land easy to be had near to the city. Next day
at sunrise he left to see it, and it was after dark on the third day
when he came back. He had got a lot on the Chateaugay, and we were to
start for it early next day. I had the children dressed soon after
daylight, and the three youngest rode on the French cart that was hired
to take our chests to Lachine. The rest of us followed on foot. It was
a fine morning, but very warm, and the road was deep with dust, which
the wind raised in clouds like to choke us. When we got to Lachine we
were disappointed to find that the ferryboat was unable to leave her
wharf owing to the strong wind blowing down the lake and which had
raised a heavy sea. We sat on our boxes and spent a weary day, my head
being just like to split with the heat and the shouting and jabbering
of the bateau men. There were several hundred emigrants waiting besides
ourselves, for the Durham boats could not start until the wind changed.
We could not get a bite to buy, for the Canadians were afraid of us
on account of the fever, and they had reason, for among those waiting
were many who had been sick of it, and there were some who were so
white and wasted that you would say the hand of death was upon them.
Towards sunset the wind fell and the lake got calmer, so the ferry
boat started. Her paddles were not driven by a steam-engine but by
a pair of horses, which went round and round. It was going to be
moonlight, so when we were put off at the Basin, we thought we would
push on to Reeves’s, for it would be cooler than to walk next day, and
we might thereby catch the canoes Braxton had bespoke. A cart was hired
to convey our chests and the younger children, and we set off. We got
along very well for about five miles, when we heard distant thunder,
and half an hour after the sky was clouded and we saw a storm would
soon burst. We knocked at the doors of several houses, but none would
let us in. As soon as the habitants saw we were emigrants, they shut
the door in our face, being afraid of the fever. When the rain began to
fall, the boy who was driving halted beneath a clump of trees by the
river-side, and I got under the cart with the children. It just poured
for about half an hour and the lightning and thunder were fearful. We
were soon wet to the skin, and I felt so desolate and lonesome, that I
drew my shawl over my head, and, hugging my youngest child to my bosom,
had a good cry. Those born here cannot understand how castdown and
solitary newcomers feel. For months after I came, the tear would start
to my eye whenever I thought of Scotland. Well, the storm passed, and
the moon came out bright in a clear sky. It was much cooler, but the
roads were awful, and we went on, slipping at every step or splashing
through mud-holes. Had I not been so much concerned about the children,
I could never have got through that night; helping and cheering them
made me forget my own weariness. It was getting to be daylight when the
cart at last stopped in front of a long stone house, in which there was
not a soul stirring, though the doors were all open. The boy pointed us
to where the kitchen was and turned to unyoke his horse. I found four
men sleeping on the floor, who woke up as we went in. They were French
and very civil, giving up the buffaloes they had been sleeping upon for
the children. I sat down on a rocking-chair, and fell at once asleep.
The sound of somebody stamping past woke me with a start. It was the
master of the house, a lame man, whom I found out after to be very
keen but honest and kind in his way. It was well on in the day, and
breakfast was on the table. I was so tired and sore that I could hardly
move. Braxton came in and asked if we were able to go on, for the
canoes would be ready to start in an hour. I was determined he should
not be hindered by me, so I woke up the children, washed and tidied
them as I best could, and then we had breakfast, which did us a deal
of good. There were two canoes, which were just long flat boats, with
two men in each to manage them. Our baggage and ourselves were divided
equally between them, and we started, everything looking most fresh
and beautiful, but the mosquitoes were perfectly awful, the children’s
faces swelling into lumps, and between them and the heat they grew
fretful. For a long way after leaving Reeves’s there were breaks in
the bush that lined the river banks--the clearances of settlers with
shanties in front--but they grew fewer as we went on, until we would go
a long way without seeing anything but the trees, that grew down to the
water’s edge. Getting round the rapids was very tiresome, and it was
late in the day when the men turned the canoes into a creek and pulled
up alongside its west bank. This was our lot and where we were to stay.
Placing our boxes so as to form a sort of wall, the canoemen felled
some small cedars for a roof, and, lighting a fire, they left us. I
watched the boats until they were out of sight and the sound of their
paddles died away, and then felt, for the first time, what it is to be
alone in the backwoods. There was so much to do that I had no time to
think of anything, and the children were happy, everything being new to
them. The kettle was put on and tea made, and we had our first meal on
our farm--if you had seen it, with the underbrush around us so thick
that we could not go six rods, you would have said it never could be
made a farm.

We slept that night under our cover of cedar bushes and slept sound. In
the morning Braxton and my oldest boy started down the track, for it
was no road, that followed the bank of the Chateaugay, to see if the
settlers below would help to raise a shanty, and while they were gone
I did my best to get things into order. For all I had come through,
there was lightness in my heart, for there is a freedom and hopefulness
in living in the woods that nothing else seems to give one, and I made
child’s play of discomforts that would have disheartened me had I been
told of them before leaving Scotland. It was nigh noon when Braxton
came back. He had been made welcome everywhere, all were glad to have
a new neighbor, and the promise given that word would be sent to all
within reach to come to a bee next day. After dinner he took the axe
and tried his hand at chopping. He began on a tree about half a foot
thick and was nicking it all round, we looking on and admiring.

“Ye’ll kill somebody with that tree,” said a voice behind us, and
turning, to our astonishment we saw a tall woman, in a poke-bonnet,
looking on. Explaining that it was necessary to know how a tree would
fall, she pointed how any direction could be secured by the way it was
chopped, and, seizing the axe, she showed how, and, under her strokes,
the first tree fell amid the shouts of the children. She was the wife
of our nearest neighbor, and, on hearing of our arrival, had come over
to see us, “Being real glad,” as she said, “to have a woman so near.”
She stayed an hour, and after finding out all about us, showed me how
to do a great many things needful in bush-life. Among the rest, how
to make a smudge to protect us from the mosquitoes, which was a real
comfort.

Next morning six men came and spent the day in clearing space for the
shanty and in making logs for it. The day after, Braxton with two of
the men went to Todd’s to buy boards and rafted them down the river.
On the third day the raising took place, and that night, though it was
not finished, we slept in it, and proud we were, for the house as well
as the land was our own. It was quite a while before Braxton could
finish it, for there was more pressing work to do, and for a month
and more our only door was a blanket. The fire was on the hearth with
an open chimney made of poles covered with clay. And here I must tell
of my first trial at baking. We had brought a bag of flour and, once
established in our shanty, I resolved to make a loaf. As you know, in
Scotland there is no baking of bread in the houses of the commonality,
and though nobody could beat me at scones or oat cake, I had never seen
a loaf made. I thought, however, there was no great knack about it. I
knew hops were needed, and sent one of my boys with a pail to borrow
some from my neighbor, who sent it back half full. I set to work, and
after making a nice dough I mixed the hops with it, and moulded a
loaf, which my oldest son, who had seen the process while visiting
round, undertook to bake. He put it into a Dutch oven, or chaudron, and
heaping hot ashes over it, we waited for an hour, when the chaudron was
taken out and the cover lifted. Instead of a nice, well-raised loaf,
there was at the bottom of it a flat black cake. “Maybe it will taste
better than it looks,” says I, thrusting a knife at it, but the point
was turned, and we found our loaf to be so hard that you could have
broken it with a hammer. And the taste! It was bitter as gall. Well,
that was a good lesson to me, and I was not above asking my neighbors
after that about matters on which I was ignorant.

No sooner had shelter been provided for us, than we all turned to with
hearty will to clear up a bit of land. My boys were a great help, and
the oldest got to be very handy with the axe, which was well, for
Braxton never got into the right hang of using it, and spent double
the strength in doing the same work my boy did. There is quite an art
in chopping. It was exhausting work clearing up the land, being quite
new to us and the weather very hot. Often had Braxton to lay down his
axe and bathe his head in the creek, but he never stopped, working from
dawn to darkening, and when it was moonlight still longer. I helped to
brush and log, as much to encourage my boys to work as for all I could
do. When ready to burn, three neighbors came to show us how to do it
and, the logs being large and full of sap, it was a slow and laborious
job. The men looked like Blackamoors, being blacker than any sweeps,
from smoke and the coom that rubbed off the logs, while the sweat just
rolled down them, owing to the heat of the fires and the weather. We
came on to our lot on the 29th of May and it was well on in June when
the remains of the logs were handspiked out of the way and the ground
was kind of clear between the stumps on half an acre. In the ashes we
planted potatoes, and a week after, when a bit more land was taken in,
we put in a few more. This done, we turned to make potash. Except along
the creek there was no timber on our lot fit for making ashes but on
its banks there was a fine cut of swale elm. The chopping of the trees
was the easiest part of the work, the getting of the logs together and
burning them being difficult, the underbrush being very thick and we so
short of help in handling the felled trees. A neighbor showed us how
to make a plan-heap and skid logs, but from inexperience we did not
work to much advantage that summer. We, however, wrought with a will
and kept at it, even my youngest, Ailie, helping by fetching water to
drink. Young people nowadays have no idea of what work is, and I don’t
suppose that one in twenty of them would go through what their fathers
and mothers did. Although it was a dry summer, the banks of the creek
were soft, so our feet were wet all the time and we had to raise the
heaps on beds of logs to get them to burn. Our first lot of ashes we
lost. Before they could be lifted into the leaches, a thunderstorm came
on and in a few minutes the labor of a fortnight was spoiled. After
that, we kept them covered with strips of bark.

The neighbors were very kind. They had little and had not an hour to
spare, but they never grudged lending us a hand or sharing with us
anything we could not do without. There was no pride or ceremony then,
and neighbors lived as if they were one family. One of them who had
a potash kettle lent it to us, and it was fetched on a float or sort
of raft, which was pushed up the creek as far as it would go. Then
the kettle was lifted out and carried by main strength, suspended on
a pole. We had thought the chopping, the logging, and the burning bad
enough, (the carrying of water to the leaches and the boiling of the
lye was child’s play) but the melting of the salts was awful. Between
the exertion in stirring, the heat of the sun and of the fire, flesh
and blood could hardly bear up. How we ever managed I do not know,
unless it was by keeping at it and aye at it, but on the first week of
October we had filled a barrel with potash, and Reeves took it away in
one of his canoes and sold it in town for us, on the understanding
that we were to take the pay out of his store. He made thus both ways,
and everything he kept was very dear. I have paid him 25 cents a yard
for common calico and a dollar a pound for tea. We could not help
ourselves just then.

I should have told you our potatoes grew wonderfully. There is a
warmth in newly-burned land or a nourishment in ashes, I don’t know
which, that makes everything grow on new land far beyond what they do
elsewhere. The frost held off well that fall, and we lifted our crop
in good order, except a few that were very late planted, which did not
ripen properly. When we landed on our lot, Braxton used his last dollar
to pay the canoemen, and I had just 15 shillings left after paying
the boards we got at Todd’s mill, so all we had to put us over until
another crop would be raised, was the potatoes and what we could make
out of potash. We were in no way discouraged. The work was slavish,
but we were working for ourselves in making a home; the land was our
own, and every day it was improving. The children took to the country
and its ways at once and were quite contented. We were cheerful and
hopeful, feeling we had something to work for and it was worth our
while to put up with present hardship. I remember a neighbor’s wife,
who was always miscalling Canada and regretting she had come to it,
being satisfied with nothing here. She said to her husband one day, in
my hearing, “In Scotland you had your two cows’ grass and besides your
wage sae muckle meal and potatoes, and we were bien and comfortable;
but you wad leave, and dae better, and this is your Canada for you!”
“Can you no haud your tongue, woman,” he replied, “we hae _a prospect_
here, and that is what we hadna in Scotland.” That was just it, we had
a prospect before us that cheered us on to thole our hardships.

I counted not the least of the drawbacks of the bush, the lack of
public ordinances. There was no church to go to on Sabbath, and the day
was spent in idleness, mostly in visiting. Sometimes the young men went
fishing or hunting, but that was not common in our neighborhood, where
the settlers respected it as a day of rest, though without religious
observance of any kind. Accustomed from a child to go to kirk regularly
in Scotland, I felt out of my ordinary as each Sabbath came round. To
be sure, I taught the children their catechism and we read the story of
Joseph and the two books of Kings before the winter set in, but that
did not satisfy me. The nearest preaching was at South Georgetown,
and tho’ I heard no good of the minister I wanted to go. Somehow,
something aye came in the way every Sabbath morning I set. At last, it
was after the potatoes had been lifted and the outdoor work about over
one Sabbath morning in October, a canoe, on its way down, stopped to
leave a message for us. This was my chance, and getting ready I and
my two oldest children went, leaving the others in charge of Braxton,
and, for a quiet man, he got on well with children, for he was fond
of them. I remember that sail as if it were yesterday--the glow of
the hazy sunlight, the river smooth as a looking-glass, in which the
trees, new clad in red and yellow claes, keeked at themselves, and the
very spirit of peace seemed to hover in the air. Oh it was soothing,
and I thought over all I had come through since I left Scotland. Tho’
I could not help thinking how different it had been with me six months
before, yet my heart welled up as I thought of all the blessings
showered on me and mine and thanked God for his goodness. It was late
when we came in sight of the church, for the sound of singing told us
worship had begun. Dundee was the tune, and as the voices came softly
over the water my heart so melted within me to hear once again and in a
strange land the psalmody of Scotland that I had to turn away my head
to greet. Stepping ashore where the church stood on the river bank,
we went quietly in. It was a bare shed of a place, with planks set up
for seats, and there were not over thirty present. The minister was a
fresh-colored, presentable enough man, and gave a very good sermon,
from the 11th chapter of Second Corinthians. While he was expatiating
on what the apostle had suffered, something seemed to strike him, and
he said, “Aye, aye, Paul, ye went through much but you never cut down
trees in Canada.” He spoke feelingly, for he had to work like the rest
of his neighbors to earn his bread. One end of the church was boarded
off, and in it he and his wife lived. I will say no more about Mr
McWattie, for his failing was notorious. When worship was over, it was
a great treat to mix with the folk. That I did not know a soul present
made no difference, for all were free then and I made friendships that
day that have lasted to this. When he heard that I was from the south
of Scotland, Mr Brodie would take no refusal and I had to go with him
across the river to his house, where we had dinner, and soon after set
out to walk home. People now-a-days think it a hardship to walk a mile
to church, but I knew many then who went four or five, let the weather
be what it might. It was dark before we got home, and that night there
was a frost that killed everything. The weather kept fine, however,
until December, and we had no severe cold until the week before New
Year.

I cannot think of anything out of the common that first winter. Our
neighbors wrought at chopping cordwood to raft to Montreal in the
spring, but Braxton could not, for he had no oxen to draw the wood to
the river-bank, so we went on enlarging our clearance. I forgot to say,
that one of our North Georgetown acquaintances gave my oldest boy a
pig in a present, and we managed to keep the little creature alive with
the house-slop and boiling the potatoes that had not ripened well.

We all suffered from the cold, which was past anything we had any
conception of before coming to Canada. Our shanty was so open that it
did little more than break the wind, and water spilled on the floor at
once froze. We had plenty of wood, but it was green, and the logs were
fizzing and boiling out the sap the day long, and it took Braxton quite
a while to learn that some kinds of wood burn better than others. At
first he was just as likely to bring in a basswood or elm log as one
of maple or hemlock. Most of the heat went up the big chimney, so that
while our faces would be burning, our backs were cold. It was worst
in the mornings, for I would rise to find everything solid, even the
bread having to be thawed, and the blankets so stiff from our breaths
and the snow that had sifted in that I had to hang them near the fire
to dry. We kept our health, however, and after the middle of February
the weather moderated. In March a deer, while crossing our clearance,
broke through the crust, and while floundering in the snow was killed
by two of my boys. After that they were on the watch, and ran down and
killed two more with their axes. I salted and dried the hams, and but
for them we would have fared poorly. Having no kettle, we made only
a little maple sugar that spring by boiling the sap in the kailpot.
There was no sugar then like what is made now, it was black and had a
smoky flavor.

The spring was late and wet, which was a great disappointment, for
Braxton could not burn the log-heaps he had ready and make potash,
on the money for which he counted to buy provisions to put us over
until harvest. To make matters worse, provisions got to be very scarce
and dear, so that flour and oatmeal sold at $5 the quintal, and
sometimes was not to be had. One day, when quite out, I went down to
Rutherford’s, who kept a bit of a store, and he had neither meal nor
flour, but went into the kitchen and brought out a bowlful of the meal
they had for themselves. I went over the potatoes we had cut for seed,
and sliced off enough around the eyes to make a dinner for us. In June,
provisions became more plentiful, for the boats had begun to bring
supplies from Upper Canada to Montreal. It was the middle of that month
before Braxton had a barrel of potash ready, and the money it brought
did not pay what we were due the storekeepers. We were kept very bare
that summer, but had a prospect before us in the three acres of crops
which we had got in and which were doing finely.

I can never forget that summer from the fright I had about Ailie.
She was as sweet a wee dot as there was in the world, so loving and
confiding that she made friends with everybody at sight. I was never
tired of watching her pretty ways and listening to her merry prattle.
We were busy one afternoon leaching ashes, when suddenly my oldest boy
asked, “Where’s Ailie?” I started, and remembered that it was over an
hour since I had seen her. “She’ll have gone back to the house to take
a sleep,” I said, and I told one of her sisters to go and see. We went
on again, carrying water, when, after a while, the lassie came back
with the word that she could find Ailie nowhere. We threw down our tubs
and dishes, and I shouted her name as loud as I could, thinking she
was nearby in the woods. No answer came. “She’ll have fallen asleep
under some bush, and doesna hear us,” I said, and, with my children,
we went here and there searching for her, calling her name, and all
without finding Ailie. Braxton was an immovable man, who seldom spoke
or gave sign of what he was thinking about, but when we were together
again and all had the same report, his mouth quivered. Turning down
the wooden scoop with which he had been shovelling ashes, he said,
“We’ll dae nae mae wark till we find the bairn.” This time we went more
systematically about our search, but again it was without avail. It
was a hot afternoon, and the sunshine was so bright it lighted up the
darkest nooks of the forest, but in none we explored was Ailie. When we
met one another in our search and learned not a trace had been found, a
pang of agony went through our hearts. Braxton followed the creek and
looked well along the bank of the Chateaugay. It was not until it had
become too dark to see that our shouts and cries of “Ailie” ceased to
sound through the bush. When we had returned to the house, I stirred
up the fire and made supper. When we sat down, not one of us could
eat. Braxton bit a piece of bread, but could not swallow it, and with
a groan he left the table. We talked over what should be done next,
and agreed to warn our neighbors to come and help at daylight, which
Braxton and the boys went to do. None of us liked to speak of what may
have befallen the child, though we all had our fears, that she had
strayed down to the Chateaugay and been drowned or gone into the woods
and a wild beast had devoured her. Although they had not troubled us,
we knew there were bears and wolves in the swamps to the north of us
and there had been even talk of a catamount having been seen. While
there was hope I was not going to lose heart, and when I besought the
Lord to restore my last born to my arms I thanked Him that the night
was so dry and warm that she could come by no ill from the weather.
I did not sleep a wink that night, sitting at the door and straining
my hearing in the hope that I might catch the cry of my Ailie. Beside
the croaking of the frogs and the bit chirrup of some mother-bird that
wakened in its nest and tucked her young closer under her wings,
I heard nothing. When the stars were beginning to fade I set about
getting breakfast ready and wakened the children. I had no need to
call Braxton. Poor man, though he said not a word, I knew he had not
closed an eye. I insisted on their making a hearty breakfast so as to
be strong for the work before them, and in the pockets of each I put
a slice of bread and a bit of maple sugar for Ailie, should they find
her, for I knew she would be perishing from hunger. Soon after sunrise
the neighbors began to drop in until there was a party of over twenty.
All had their dogs and some of them had brought axes and guns. It was
arranged we should start out in every direction, yet keeping so near
as to be always within hearing. By spreading out this way in a circle
we would be sure to examine every part of the bush, while two men were
to search the river bank in a canoe. We started, some calling aloud,
others blowing horns or ringing ox-bells until the woods echoed again,
and all without avail, for no Ailie was to be found. What could have
become of the bairn? It was as if the earth had opened and swallowed
her up. After beating the bush for miles around we gathered together
at noon, as had been arranged. Not a trace had been found. We talked
it over and over and were at our wits’ end. One lad, new come out and
with his head full about Indians, suggested that one of them might have
stolen her, and, indeed, it looked feasible, did we not know that the
few Indians we had were civil and harmless. Had a wild beast taken her,
we would have found some fragments of her bit dress. I was dumb with
disappointment and sorrow, and had begun to think I would never see her
alive. It was agreed among the men it would be useless to spread out
farther, that we were now deeper in the woods than it was possible for
her to have wandered, and that we should use the afternoon in going
back over the ground we had passed, making a better examination of it.
We went back slowly, stopping to look at every log and going through
every hollow, and, though there was once a shout that her trail had
been struck, it proved a mistake, and our second scouring of the woods
was as fruitless as the first. The sun was fast westering when we drew
nigh our shanty. About four acres back of it there was a waterhole, a
low wet spot which all of us had gone round, nobody deeming it possible
for the child to have put foot upon it. As I looked at the black oozy
muck, half floating in water, the thought struck me, the toddler could
walk where a grown up person would sink, and without saying a word
to the lad who was with me, I drew off my shoes and stockings, and,
kilting my petticoat, stepped in. How I wrestled through I do not
know, but once in I had to scramble as I best could until I reached a
dry spot in the centre that was like an island, and on which there
was a thicket of bushes. Daubed with muck and wringing wet, I paused
when I got my footing. I heard a rustle. I was panting for breath, so
exhausted that I was about to sit down for a little, but that sound
revived hope in me. I peered through the bushes and saw a deer gazing
at me. The creature stared, without moving, which was strange for so
timid an animal. I slipped through an opening in the bushes and there,
on a grassy plot, lay my Ailie asleep, crusted with muck, and with her
arms clasped round the neck of a baby deer; her wee bit face black with
dirt and streaked where the tears had been running down. I snatched
her to my bosom and sinking down I hugged and cried over her like one
demented. Oh, had you heard her joyful cry of “Mammie, mammie!” and
seen her lift her bit pinched mou to mine, you would have cried with
us. The deer did not stir but stood looking on, startled and wondering,
while the fawn lay quietly beside me. This was a mystery, which I soon
solved, for I found the fawn could not move from having a broken leg,
and the faithful mother deer would not leave her young one. The shout
that Ailie had been found soon brought plenty of help, and the first
man that came made to kill the deer, but I prevented him and could not,
ever after, bear him near me. There are savages among us who cannot
see any of God’s creatures, however harmless, in a state of nature,
without trying to take their lives. Sportsmen, indeed! Useless louts,
who would do the country a service were they to use their powder and
shot in killing one another. The fallen tree, by which the deer got
across the swale to its well-hidden nest, was found, and I returned by
it, carrying Ailie, while Braxton took the fawn in his arms, the deer
following. There was much rejoicing at our humble shanty before our
neighbors left, and many attempts to account for Ailie’s wandering to
where she did. She was weak from want of food and I feared she might
be the worse of her exposure, but next day, beyond that she was pale,
she was well as ever. From what we could gather from her, we made out
tolerably plain how her disappearance had come about. While playing
near the house, she saw the deer come out of the woods, jump the fence
of our clearance, and begin to browse on the oats. Ailie seeing the
fawn ran to catch the bonnie creature, when the mother took the alarm,
and bounded back into the woods. In attempting to follow, the fawn
struck one of its hind feet against the top rail of the fence, and
broke the bone. Ailie caught the wee beastie, and held it in her arms,
when the doe returned, bunted her away, and managed to induce its young
one to hirple after it on three legs to its lair in the wee swamp.
Ailie, wanting to get the fawn, followed, which she could do, for they
must have gone slowly. When tired of fondling the creature, she would
have returned home, but could not find the way out, and cried and
slept, and slept and cried, croodling down beside the wounded fawn, as
it nestled under its mother, which, from its concern for its injured
offspring, never tried to drive Ailie away. Well, Braxton set the
broken bone and the leg got strong again, but before it did the fawn
had become so attached to Ailie that it would not leave her, and the
mother, which had watched over her offspring in the most touching way,
had become so accustomed to us and so tame that it did not offer to
leave, running in the woods where it had a mind, and making its home in
a shed my boys put up for her. She was torn to death, two years after,
by a hound that a Yankee neer-do-weel brought in, but the fawn lived
with us until she died of a natural death.

We had a fair harvest that fall, and, when it was got in, we had the
satisfaction of knowing that we would have enough to eat until another
was ready. There being no oatmeal-mill then in the country, Braxton
traded half of the oats for wheat with a neighbor who wanted them for
a lumber-camp. There was a grist mill convenient at the Portage, which
was burned the following summer, after which we had to send all the
way to Huntingdon, where there was a poor sort of a mill. Having no
horse, the bag was carried by Braxton on his shoulder. The want of a
yoke of oxen was so much against our getting on, that we determined
to run some risk in getting one, and saved in every way possible with
that in view. The week before New Year we hired a horse and traineau
from a neighbor, paying him in work, and Braxton went to Montreal
with two barrels of potash. On his way down he had the offer at the
Basin of a heifer that was coming in, and instead of buying the cloth
intended, he saved the money, and took her on his way home. She was
a real beauty, and, out of all the cows we had after, there was not
one to me like her, she was so kindly and proved such a grand milker.
We were all so proud of her that, for a week after she came, we never
tired looking at her, and the children were comforted for the want of
the clothing they needed by having her for a pet. You may not think it,
but the sorest want of our settlement was clothes. When those brought
from the Old Country were done, there was no money to spare to buy
others, and families who had plenty to eat were nigh half-naked, you
may say, and on very cold days could not venture out. I did the best I
could, patching and darning, yet we all suffered much from cold that
winter on account of want of sufficient clothing. Braxton, poor man,
had only a thickness of cloth between him and the weather, yet he never
complained and went to his work in the bush on the coldest days. The
exposure, together with hard work, told on him afterwards and shortened
his life. When the lumber-camps were breaking up, we had a chance of a
yoke of oxen within our ability to pay for, and they were brought home
to the barn that had been raised before the snow came. We had not straw
enough for three head, but managed to keep them alive by cutting down
trees for them to eat the tender ends of the branches. Many a pailful
of browse I snapped off for my bossie that spring. It was well for us
the grass came early.

I do not know that I have much more to tell that would interest you.
The oxen gave us a great start in clearing the land, and that season we
did more than all we had done before. We paid the seignior regularly,
and once we were a little ahead, it was wonderful how well we got on.
Then you must bear in mind, that, as my boys grew up, we were strong in
help, and our place improved quickly compared with the generality of
those beside us. That fall we got another cow and two sheep, so that we
never afterwards wanted for milk or yarn. It was a hard struggle, with
many ups and downs, much slavish work and pinching and paring, but in
course of time we had all we could reasonably wish and were content.

I was long concerned about the schooling of my children, of whom only
two had got any before leaving Scotland. We could not help ourselves
until the fourth year of our coming, when a man, lame of a leg, came
round and told us he was a schoolmaster. The neighbors consulted and
one of them gave a log stable he was not using, which was fitted
up as a schoolhouse, and the man set to work. He could teach his
scholars little, and tried to cover up his deficiencies by threshing
them unmercifully. He was got rid of and another hired, who was more
qualified but was given to drink. They were a miserable lot of teachers
in those days, being either lazy or drunken fellows who took to keeping
school without considering whether they were qualified. In course of
time we had a church at Ormstown, Mr Colquhoun, a proud Highlander,
being the first minister. When we came, there was only one (old Jones)
living where Ormstown stands, now it is a large village, with buildings
the like of which nobody could have expected to see. There has been
a wonderful improvement all over, and, when I first saw it, to have
foretold the country would become what it now is, nobody would have
believed. That the people have improved correspondingly I do not think.
The money, scraped together by the hard work of their fathers, I have
seen squandered by lads who despised the plow, and the upsetting ways
of many families are pitiful to see. Folk in the old times lived far
more simply and happily.

You want to know what became of Braxton. He died 14 years after we
came here. It was in the winter and I thought he had caught cold while
skidding logs in the bush. Any way, inflammation set in, and he died
within a week of his first complaining. We mourned sorely for him. A
more patient or truer soul never breathed, and to the example he set
my boys, who have all done well, I set down much of the credit. We
counted up his share of the property, and, adding £20 to it, sent it
to his sister in England, who was his only relative. I may say all my
old acquaintances are gone, for there are few now on the river who were
there when I came, and I wait patiently to follow them, living happily,
as you see, with Ailie and her children until the Lord is pleased to
call me.




JEANIE MORISON.


CHAPTER I.

Only those who have lived in a cold country like Canada can fully
realize the pleasurable sensations which attend the opening of spring.
The weary monotony of winter, with its unvarying aspect of white
fields, and steady frost, often so intense as to make exposure painful,
gives way to freedom and life, and with some such feelings as stir the
heart of the prisoner, when he exchanges his darksome cell for sunshine
and green fields, does the dweller of Canada hail the time when the
snowbanks disappear and when he can, without wraps, move whether he
will in the genial atmosphere. It was at that period of the year when
the simple incidents I am going to relate took place.

Amid the unbroken forest which covered the county of Huntingdon in
the year 1820, a log shanty stood on the west bank of Oak creek, at a
point where the beavers had by their industry formed a small meadow.
The shanty was rude as might be, of unsquared logs, with a roof of
basswood split into slabs, and a stick chimney. The interior consisted
of a single room, and a small one at that. The inmates were a mother
and daughter. The mother, engaged in spinning, sat in the sunshine
which streamed through the open door, brightening the few pieces of
furniture it fell upon and whitening still more the heaps of ashes in
the open fire-place, behind which smouldered a huge backlog. She had
evidently passed her fiftieth year, while the pressed lips and look of
patient reserve told of the endurance of a lifelong sorrow.

“Dae ye no see or hear ocht?” she asked, looking through the doorway to
the woods beyond, to which she often turned her eyes.

“No, mother,” replied the girl addressed, who was sitting on the
doorstep.

“What can hae come ower him!” said the woman in a low voice.

“Dinna fret; he’ll be here soon,” said Jeanie in a tone that spoke more
of a desire to comfort her mother than faith in her statement.

As if not heeding her, the mother resumed, “He said he would be back
last nicht, and he should hae been. I sair misdoot ill has befaen him.”

It was of her husband of whom she spoke. He had worked all winter for a
party of Americans, who were cutting the best of the timber along the
banks of the creek, and had gone Monday morning to aid them in driving
the logs to the point on the Chateaugay where they were to be formed
into rafts and thence taken to Quebec. His last words had been that he
would, at the latest, be back the following evening and it was now the
third day.

Jeanie strained her eyes and ears to catch the faintest sign of her
father’s approach. The quaver of the grey-bird and the chirrup of the
chipmunk came occasionally from the recesses of the woods, which lay
sleeping in the April sunshine that glorified everything, but no rustle
of branch or cracking of dried stick that would indicate an approaching
footstep. The usually silent creek, now swollen by melted snow, lapped
its banks in pursuing its tortuous course, murmuring a soothing lullaby
to the genial day; and that great peace, to be found only in mountain
recess or forest depth, brooded over the scene. But there, where all
the influences of nature were so soothing, were two hearts filled with
anxious care.

“Jeanie,” suddenly exclaimed the mother, after a long pause, and
staying the whirr of the wheel, “you maun gang and seek your father.
Gae down to Palmer’s and there you’ll find the rafts, and the men will
tell you whether he left for hame or no.”

“But I dinna like to leave you, mother, and I am sure you are taking
trouble without need. He will be here by dark.”

The mother understood the affectionate motive of her child in trying to
make light of her fears, but well knew her anxiety was no less than her
own.

“Say nae mair, my lassie, but gang while there is time for you to get
back. You ken the yarn for the Yankee wife at the Fort is ready and
there is no flour until he gangs there for it.”

Casting one long eager glance down the creek, along which her father
should come, the girl turned in from the door and made ready for the
journey. Her preparations were easily made. The slipping on of her
stoutest pair of shoes and throwing a plaid over her arm, as a hap from
the cold after sunset, comprised them, and bidding her mother not to
fret for she would bring back good news she started. She did not follow
the creek, but struck northward across the peninsula that forms the
township of Elgin, her design being to reach Trout river, as being more
fordable than the wider Chateaugay. The path was, probably, at first
a deer run, which the few who travelled it, chiefly lumbermen, had
roughly brushed. Only one accustomed to the woods could have kept the
track, for, to a stranger’s eye, it differed little from the openings
which ever and anon appeared among the trees. Jeanie, however, was no
novice to the path or to the bush, and she stepped quickly and with
confidence on her way. She had walked about an hour beneath the solemn
gloom of the primeval forest when she saw an opening ahead, and knew
she was approaching Trout river. On reaching it, she followed its bank,
until, with one end grounded in a little bay, she found a large log.
Grasping the first straight stick she saw lying about to serve as a
pole, she pushed the log from its anchorage, and stepping on it as it
moved guided it across the narrow river. From the liability of the log
to roll, such a mode of ferrying is dangerous to those unused to it,
but Jeanie knew how to place her feet and keep her balance and speedily
gained the other bank and resumed her journey. On reaching the place
where the two rivers unite, she could not, despite her anxiety, help
pausing to admire the beautiful expanse of water, which, unruffled by a
breath of wind, lay glassing itself in the sunshine, while the forest,
which rose from its margin on either side, formed no unfit setting.
Presently she saw a ripple upon its surface, and her keen eye perceived
the black head of a muskrat, which was making its way to the opposite
bank. While she followed the rapid movements of the little creature,
there was the flash and smoke of a gun before her, and, while the woods
were still echoing the report, a dog jumped into the water to bring
in the rat, which floated dead upon the current. A few steps brought
Jeanie to the marksman, a tall, wiry man, of rather prepossessing
appearance. His dog had returned and laid the rat at his master’s feet,
who was encouraging him with exclamations of “Good dog! good dog!”
when he caught sight of her.

“Waal neow, who would a thought it? Miss Jeanie herself and nobody
else. How do you do?” And stretching forth his sinewy arm, he grasped
her hand in a clutch that would have made a bear shed tears.

“Oh, I’m well, thank you, Mr Palmer, and my mother, but we’re in sore
trouble.”

“Don’t say the old man is sick?” and an anxious look passed over the
kindly face of the honest Yankee.

“Oh, dear sir, we dinna ken whether he’s sick or well. He left home
Monday morning and was to be back next night and he hasna come yet, and
I’ve come to ask after him and get help to find him if nobody knows
where he is?” As she spoke there was a tremor in Jeanie’s voice, and a
tear glistened on her drooping eyelashes.

“Ha, do tell; this is serious,” and the hunter leant upon his rifle
and gazed abstractedly upon the river, as if trying to conjecture what
could have become of the lost man, until, noting Jeanie’s evident
distress, he aroused himself, and, exhorting her to keep up heart, led
the way to his house.

“You see,” he said, as they picked their way along the rough path by
the river’s edge, “there ain’t much to shoot yet and what there is
ain’t worth killing, but I kinder felt lonesome to be about doors so
fine a day, and I took a stroll, tho’ all I came across was that
mushrat, which, darn it skin, ain’t worth the lead that killed it.”

“If the shooting is poor, the fishing will be good,” said Jeanie, who
humored the spirit of the sportsman.

“Couldn’t be better,” answered Mr Palmer, “I speared seven salmon at
the foot of the rapids last night, and this morning I drew my seine
full of as pretty fish as you would want to clap your eyes on.”

The sound of rushing water told of their approach to the rapids, at the
head of which, on a knoll a few rods to the left, stood Mr Palmer’s
house, which was a comfortable log one, overshadowed by majestic pines.
On entering, they found Mrs Palmer, a rather delicate-looking woman,
engaged in baking. Uttering an exclamation of surprise at the sight
of Jeanie, she wiped her dusty hands and gave her a cordial welcome,
as well she might, for the visits she had received from members of
her own sex, since she had taken up her abode by the Chateaugay,
might have been counted on her fingers without exhausting them. On
learning the cause of Jeanie’s journey, she received the tidings with
the same anxious look as her husband. Evidently both entertained the
worst forebodings, while both had a delicacy in speaking of what they
believed to be the cause of his absence. Neither had seen him, but
the gang of lumbermen he had helped were now forming a raft half a
mile below the house and it was arranged that Mr Palmer should go and
see them while Jeanie would wait. Her hostess resumed her baking, and
Jeanie, feeling the heat indoors oppressive on so fine a day, stepped
out and sat on a log, near enough to keep up the conversation yet
sufficiently far to enjoy the balmy atmosphere and the beauty of the
scene before her. And here, before attempting to describe it, let me
tell what manner of woman Jeanie was. She had that first quality of
a handsome girl, stature--she was tall, with a form instinct with
life--lithe and graceful, which, when matured by age, would become
dignified also. She had no pretension to beauty, beyond what the
liveliness of youth and a sweet temper can give to the countenance, but
still her well-formed mouth, gray eyes, a forehead broad though not
too high, and a wealth of light brown hair went to form a face that
was pleasant to look upon. She had been a visitor at Palmer’s house
before, but its surroundings were still sufficiently novel to engage
her even in her present distracted frame of mind, for, as became a
Scotchwoman, she had a keen relish for whatever is beautiful in nature.
Above, and until directly opposite her, the Chateaugay came sweeping,
with graceful curve, a wide, unruffled sheet of water, until suddenly
it fell over a rocky ledge and became a mass of foaming rapids, which
brattled between banks, covered by trees and overhung by hazel bushes,
until lost to sight by a sharp bend a considerable distance below.[A]
Being at flood height, the rapids were seen at their best, and Jeanie
never wearied admiring the graceful sweep of the smooth water as it
neared the ledge that preceded its fall, or the tumult of breakers into
which, a moment after, it was tossed. It flashed upon her that the
river was, perhaps, to prove a true type of her own and her mother’s
fate,--the even tenor of their life hitherto was about to be suddenly
broken by her father’s disappearance, and then the water, tossed from
rock to rock, broken into spray and driven in every direction, except
upward, would too truly represent their life hereafter. Raising her
gaze to the south, she caught a glimpse, through a gash among the trees
on the opposite bank where fire had levelled them, of a range of smooth
moulded hills, which, blue and soft in the sweet spring sunshine,
brought back to memory the dear old hills of her native land, and joy
mingled with her sorrow.

The afternoon wore away apace and still Mr Palmer did not return. Above
the noise of the rapids Jeanie heard, now and then, the shouts of the
lumbermen as they heaved the logs in forming their raft, and whom Mr
Palmer had gone down to see. Having finished her household duties and
spread the supper on the table, Mrs Palmer sat down beside Jeanie and,
with kindly craft, by talking of commonplace matters, strove to divert
her mind. By-and-by the appearance of a fine spaniel, the same that had
swam to the rat, indicated the approach of Mr Palmer, who, when he came
up to them, leading his eldest girl, a chattering child, seemed in no
hurry to answer the questioning eyes of the two women.

“Blessed if the dog don’t scent something,” said the worthy man, as he
watched the animal creeping to a clump of underbrush to the right.

“Bother the dog,” exclaimed Mrs Palmer, “what did the men tell you?”

“Waal, they ain’t jest sure, you know, but they guess ’tis all right,”
and as he drawled out the words slowly and reluctantly, Jeanie could
see that he was far from thinking it was all right.

“Oh, sir,” she said, “you are a father yourself and you are as dear to
your child as she is to you. Tell me the worst, and be done wi’ it.”

“Don’t take on, Jeanie; it may be all right yet. Your father helped
to tote the logs to the foot of the rapids, and left them, well and
strong, to walk home last night. I rather conjecture he lost his way,
but he will be home by this time.”

This was all Mr Palmer seemed disposed to tell, and, hoping for the
best, she tried to share in her host’s affected confidence as to her
father’s safety, and followed him in answer to his wife’s call “That
supper was ready.” A capital cook, and having a larder to draw from
replenished by the gun and rod of her husband, Mrs Palmer, in honor of
her guest, had spread a table that contrasted painfully with the meagre
fare to which Jeanie was accustomed, and made her think of the mess of
boiled corn of which her mother would then be partaking. After supper,
the canoe was launched, and bidding farewell to her hostess and her
little girl on the river’s bank, Jeanie stepped in, when, propelled by
the paddle of Mr Palmer, it began steadily to stem the current.

Who that has undergone the agony of sorrowful apprehension has not
noted how every trifling incident that may have occurred during that
period has become imprinted indelibly upon the memory? The watcher
by the sick-bed, over which death hovers, is puzzled how, at a time
when the mind is absorbed with one thought, the perceptions should be
so sharpened as to note trivial events and objects, down to the very
furniture and pattern of the wallpaper, which on ordinary occasions
leave no trace upon the memory. On that April evening Jeanie’s mind
was laboring under this intensified acuteness, and while brooding
continually over her father’s probable fate, to her dying day she
remembered every feature of the scenery she was now passing. The smooth
flowing river, swollen and discolored by the melted snow from the
hills, hemmed in on either bank by a thick growth of trees, many of
which, as if enamored with the beautiful sheet of water by which they
grew, bent over it until, in their leafy prime, their branches almost
kissed its surface. Now, though leafless, their tops were glorified by
the setting sun, which filled the still air with the lambent blue haze
which distinguishes the evenings of early spring in Canada. Keeping to
the Chateaugay at its union with Trout river, the canoe stole silently
beneath the shadow of the overhanging trees until the mouth of Oak
creek was reached, when Jeanie stepped ashore to pursue her way on foot
to her home. Before bidding her goodbye, Mr Palmer paused and said:
“Now, you keep up a good heart for whatever may happen, and we’ll be up
tomorrow to search the woods. Give that to your mother and--God bless
you.” Without giving her time to say a word, he pushed his canoe into
the stream and speedily glided out of sight, leaving Jeanie standing on
the bank perplexed by what he had said and holding the basket he had
thrust into her hands, which contained a loaf of bread and a string
of fish. With a heavier heart than ever, she began to trace her way
homeward by the creek. Once in that lonely journey she thought she saw
her father walking ahead of her, and once she thought she heard his
voice. She called out and paused to listen for a reply. The only sound
that reached her was the dismal croakings of the frogs. Knowing that
her imagination was deceiving her, she hurried on and, when she caught
the first glimpse of light gleaming from her humble home, it outlined
her mother’s figure seated on the doorstep waiting her return.

“You hav’na found him, Jeanie?”

“No, mother; and he hasna come hame?”

“What can hae come ower him!” exclaimed the mother, as she sank into a
seat by the open fire-place.

It was remarkable that in their conversation no conjecture was hazarded
by either as to the probable fate of the missing one. Both, plainly,
entertained the same painful surmise, which they were alike ashamed to
breathe. They sat by the glowing backlog for many hours, hoping against
hope that the wanderer might return, until Jeanie overcome by fatigue
sought her bed. Once she awoke during the night, thinking she heard a
voice. She listened in the darkness. It was her mother wrestling with
God on behalf of her father.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] These rapids were known to old settlers as “Palmer’s rapids.” The
quarrying of them for building purposes has greatly changed their
appearance.


CHAPTER II.

Early next day Jeanie and her mother saw a short, stout man emerge from
the woods. He was a stranger to them, but his aspect indicated he was a
lumberman. He had a towsy head of reddish hair and a matted beard and
whiskers of the same hue.

“A pleasant day, ma’am,” he said, in a voice so soft and insinuating,
and contrasting so strikingly with the roughness of his appearance,
that Mrs Morison was somewhat startled. “It is, indeed, a fine spring
day,” she replied.

“And the water is high, ma’am, and the rafts are getting away
finely--oh, very finely,” and the man stood complacently eyeing the
mother and daughter, and rubbing his hands.

“Hae ye seen ocht o’ my husband? Ye’ll hae come about him?”

“Oh, my dear ma’am, don’t fret; take it coolly and comfortable like.”

“I see ye ken aboot him; oh, dinna play wi’ me, but tell me at once.”

Not in the least discomposed, the little man, in more oily tones than
ever, replied, “Well, well, ma’am, there is no denying it, accidents
will happen, you know. You shouldn’t be supposing the worst, and taking
it easy, for”--

Before he could finish his sentence there was heard a heavy trampling
in the woods, and soon there came from beneath their cover half a dozen
men, four of them carrying a burden laid on two poles. They came in
silence to the door, when Mrs Morison saw their burden was her husband.
She snatched away the red handkerchief that covered his face, a glance
at which showed her he was dead. She gave a shriek that resounded
through the forest, and fell senseless upon the corpse.

The career of the dead man may be told in a few words. He had been the
son of a small farmer in the south of Scotland, a strapping, lively
fellow, who won the good graces of the daughter of a draper in the
neighboring village. Her parents opposed her keeping company with him,
not merely because his circumstances were indifferent but because
his habits were not of the steadiest, he being fond of convivial
gatherings, at which, more than once, he had got overcome by drink.
Their opposition seemed only to strengthen their daughter’s affection
for the free-hearted, good tempered young fellow, and the upshot
was, that one morning she was not to be found, and before evening
they learned she had been married. The imprudent match resulted as
the parents had anticipated; the young man was unequal to the task
of supporting a wife and his habits did not mend. Moving to a mining
village, he got work as a laborer, and out of his scanty earnings a
large percentage went into the till of the whisky shop every Saturday
night, so that his wife, to eke out a living, had to exert herself to
do something also. Quietly and uncomplainingly she took in sewing,
washed, or spun, as opportunity offered, to earn an honest shilling,
and did what lay in her power to keep things decent. Children came but
none lived to maturity save Jeanie. The village was unhealthy, its
fumes and murky smoke were not favorable to childhood, typhus was a
regular winter visitor, and, more than all, the narrow means at her
disposal afforded not the necessaries of life in the abundance children
need, so, to her heart-sorrow, one after another was taken away. Time
passed, and her father died, leaving her a small legacy, and with
this she determined they should emigrate. She fondly thought were her
husband removed from his boon companions, were all his old associations
broken, and he transplanted into a new sphere, he might reform. Often
had she striven with him, often had hope kindled in her bosom that
he was going to keep the good resolutions he so often formed; always
doomed to bitter disappointment. To emigrate was the last chance, it
seemed to her, and for Canada they accordingly sailed. Deplorable to
relate, on the day of their arrival at Quebec her husband got drunk
with several of his fellow-passengers who went to take, as they termed
it, a parting glass, and before he got over his spree the greater part
of their little stock of money was gone. Instead, therefore, of being
in a position to go to Upper Canada and take up land, as intended, he
had to engage at Quebec with a lumberman who was getting out masts
and square timber on the Chateaugay, and thus it came that, two years
before the opening of our narrative, he had made a home, a poor one
as we have seen, in what is now the township of Elgin. Altho their
privations were great, Mrs Morison did not regret the change from
the dirty, squalid, mining village in Scotland to the lonely woods
of Canada. Her husband had fewer opportunities of getting drink and,
on the whole, they lived happily. Possessing a superior education
herself and having moved before her marriage in respectable society,
she brought up her daughter very differently from what might have been
expected from their circumstances, and Jeanie, despite her home-spun
dress, had acquirements and manners that qualified her to move in any
station of life. As already stated, on the Monday morning Morison had
gone to assist in running logs out of the creek. On the evening of the
succeeding day his employer settled with him for the season’s work,
and, in addition to the small balance of wages that was coming to him,
gave him a few pieces of pork to take home and, fatal parting gift, a
bottle of rum. He left the raftsmen in high spirits, an able-bodied if
not very active man, taking the track that led to his humble dwelling.
What followed no human eye witnessed. He never reached his home, and
the searching-party that morning had discovered his body a few yards
from the creek, stretched upon the ground, with his face immersed in a
pool of water--a pool only an inch or so in depth, left by the melting
of the snow and gathered in a cavity formed by the roots of a tree. Had
he, when he stumbled and fell, moved his head ever so little, he would
have breathed and lived. The more than half empty bottle, found in his
stony grasp, showed he had been too overcome to stir a hairsbreadth,
and there, in a basin of water, so small that a squirrel could have
leaped it; so shallow that a robin, in pruning his wings, could have
stepped through without wetting a feather; this stalwart man, before
whose axe the loftiest pines had fallen and whose vigorous oar had
stemmed the rapids of the Chateaugay, had ignominiously met his death,
within hail of the faithful wife and loving daughter who were anxiously
waiting his return. Jeanie, in going home the preceding evening,
had unconsciously passed within a few paces of the body which once
contained her father’s spirit. On finding it, damp from the exposure
of a day and two nights, the searching party had made the body as
presentable as possible, and sent ahead one of their number to break,
as gently as might be, the news to the wife and daughter. With what
success he, who was chosen on account of his smooth tongue, acquitted
himself, the reader knows.

So long did Mrs Morison remain in her swoon that once the dreadful
thought darted through Jeanie’s mind that she was not going to recover,
and at one fell swoop she was to be deprived of both parents. She did
not cease her exertions, however, and while bathing the rigid temples
she rejoiced to see the flush of returning animation. Slowly did Mrs
Morison raise herself to a sitting posture, and looked in a dazed
manner, as if wondering why they were there, at the rough lumbermen
grouped around her, who stood in silence and with the awkwardness of
people who were anxious to help but did not know how. Unconsciously
she moved her glance from one to the other until it fell upon the
body of her husband. Recollection returned in a flash, and drawing
the inanimate form to her lap she pressed the bloated and discolored
features to her lips.

“Oh, Willie,” she exclaimed, unconscious in her overwhelming passion of
sorrow that there was a listening ear, “lang did we ken ane anither and
braw and gallant were you ance; my pride and joy. Sair hae oor trials
been and muckle hae ye been misguided, but aye faithfu and true to me.
Oh, that I had been wi’ you; oh, that ye had given me your last kiss
and deed in my arms! There hae been them wha despised you, wha tauld me
to leave you; little did they ken o’ the love that bound me to you. Oh,
that we should hae partit thus!”

Here she paused, and turning her eyes upwards she slowly and reverently
said: “Merciful God, as in your wise decree you have been pleased to
bring this affliction upon me, grant, in your pity, that I tarry not
long behind him whom ye hae taen awa.”

The solemn petition calmed the tumult of her mind, and reverently
disposing of the body, she rose to her feet and said modestly--

“You will excuse me, freens, for taking on sae sairly afore you, but I
couldna help it; this misfortune has come so sudden. I thank you for
what you hae dune, and, gin it be your pleasure, as you can do nae mair
noo, leave us alane and come the morn to bury him wha’s gane.”

The red-whiskered man was about to make a voluble reply, when he was
cut short by a tall lumberman, in whose eye there glistened a tear,
with the remark, “Yes, ma’am, we are at your service and mean to do all
we can for you.” Then, looking at his comrades, he said, “Let us go,”
and turning abruptly he led the way, leaving the mother and daughter
alone with their dead.


CHAPTER III.

It is true in the moral world as in the material that after a storm
comes a calm. The agony of suspense, the wild burst of passionate
sorrow had swept over them, and the morning succeeding the sad
discovery found mother and daughter composed and resigned. The worst
was now known, a worst there was no remedying, and so they bowed,
without needless fret or repining, beneath the trial. The sun had risen
in an unclouded sky and his beams were warmer than on the preceding
days, and as they came pouring down unstintingly on the turbid waters
of the creek and the uplifted branches of the forest, it seemed as if
summer was nigh and buds and leaves and green sward would speedily
succeed the birds whose noisy concert ushered in the rosy dawn.
Everything had been arranged in the humble shanty with all the deftness
of order-loving hands; on one side of it, beneath a white cloth, was
the corpse. Mrs Morison was seated on the chair at the window; Jeanie
sat at her feet on the doorstep.

“Wasna father a braw man when you first foregathered?”

“He was the handsomest lad in the countryside; a very pleasure for the
ee to rest on. Little dae they ken what he was like that didna see
him then, and a kinder or truer heart couldna be. O, Jeanie, I just
worshipped him when we were lad and lass.”

“But your father didna like him?”

“Dinna put it that way, Jeanie. He liked him but he saw a faut in him
that spoiled a’. I was wilfu. I said Willie would gie up the company he
keepit when he was merrit, and that it was guid-fellowship and no love
o’ the drink that enticed him. I dinna say that I regret what I did,
or that my lot hasna been as guid as I deserved--God forgive me that I
should repine or say an unkindly word o’ him that lies there--but young
folks dinna lippen to their parents in choosing partners as they ocht.”

“Hoots, mother; when a lad or lass hae found their heart’s love, what
for suld father or mother interfere?”

“Easy said, Jeanie, but think ye there is ony body in the wide world
loes son or dochter as a parent does? They are as the apple o’ their
ee, and his or her happiness is all they seek. Dootless there are
warld’s worms o’ parents who only look to the suitor’s gear and wad
break off the truest love-match that ever was gin he were puir. I dinna
speak o’ them, for they are out o’ the question. But take parents by
ordinar, who only seek their bairns’ welfare, and the son or dochter
wha disregards their advice in choosing a life-mate will hae mickle to
repent o’.”

“I dinna see hoo that is,” said Jeanie, “for surely their marriage
concerns only themselves?”

“True in a sense, Jeanie, that as we mak oor bed we maun lie on’t.
Think ye, though, o’ a parent’s experience, that nae glamor o’ love
blinds their ee, that their haill concern is for their bairn’s
happiness, and they may see fauts in the would-be partner o’ their
child that can only result in meesery. Young folks shouldna think
their parents are obstinate or stupid when they oppose their marrying
this ane or that ane. In maist cases they hae solid reason for their
opposition, and the son is foolish that winna get his parents consent
before he gangs too far and the dochter silly indeed who says Yes
without taking counsel o’ her mother.”

“Oh, but that wadna dae always,” replied Jeanie, deprecatingly, in a
tone as if such a course would rob love of its romance.

“Come, noo, Jeanie, tell me what better adviser can a dochter hae than
her mother, and hasna the father a richt to hae some say in a match
seeing that, if it disna turn out weel, he may hae a useless son-in-law
to sorn on him or, in his auld days, hae his dochter or a tawpy of a
son’s wife come wi’ a wheen bairns to seek shelter in his hame? Na,
na, the first commandment wi’ promise requires obedience in this as
in ither callings o’ life, and happy is the wedding whaur the true
love o’ the young couple is crooned wi’ the blessings (given without a
misgiving) o’ their parents, for there is, then, a reasonable prospect
that the match will prove what a’ should be--a heaven upon earth.”

“Mightna the parents be mistaen, mother?”

“Aye, and so might the lad or lass, and far mair likely that the young
should err than the auld. Had I taen the advice my father and mother
pressed on me, advice that came frae their lifelong experience and
their affection for me, it wad hae been different--no that I regret
what has happened for mysel but for you, Jeanie, that maun grow up in
this wilderness, and for your brithers and sisters wha hae gane to a
better land.” And here, as the remembrance of the years of poverty and
of wretchedness caused by her husband’s intemperate habits flashed upon
her, she burst into tears.

“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Jeanie, as rising and standing beside her she
clasped her bowed head to her bosom, “dinna tak on so. I wadna hae had
it otherwise, and wad suner hae bided wi’ you than had the queen on the
throne for my mother. We hae been very happy for a’ that has come and
gone, and sae will we yet. Were it to part us, I wadna marry the best
man in a’ Canada; I will aye be wi’ you and will aye be obedient to
your will.”

“I ken that, my bairn, but,” said the mother, raising her tear-stained
face, “promise me this--and it is a promise that him wha lies there wad
hae backed, for weel he kent his ain faut--that, nae matter hoo ye may
be drawn to him, you will never marry a man that likes his glass.”

“I promise,” said Jeanie with simple solemnity, and drawing up her
graceful figure to its full height, she, as if anxious to break off the
subject, turned to get a wet towel, with which she wiped her mother’s
face, “for,” as she remarked, “ye maun be decent when the folk come.”

It was nigh noon before any of the visitors made their appearance. In
the then unsettled state of the country news spread slowly even when
messengers were sent out expressly to carry it. Everybody came that
heard of the melancholy occurrence, for in those primitive days, when
only the young and healthy inhabited this section of country, deaths
were so rare that a funeral was regarded as an important event which
nobody missed. Straggling in from different points they came in twos
and threes, except the lumbering-party with whom the deceased had been
connected, who appeared in a body marching up the creek, carrying the
coffin--a rude box of unplaned boards--with Mr Palmer leading. Two
features in the assemblage were noticeable, one being that hardly a man
among them had a coat, the other the fewness of the women. The men,
great brawny fellows in home-made shirts and pants fastened by belts,
gathered in clusters in the clearing to exchange news and talk over the
circumstances attending the event that had brought them together, while
the women went into the house. The sun was sinking fast towards the
west before the preparations necessary for the burial were completed.
When the word went round that the grave was ready, one by one they
fyled into the house to take a last look of the face of their late
neighbor, after which the lid of the coffin was nailed down. There was
no clergyman to be had at the time and among those present there was no
one inclined, even if capable, to conduct religious services. If the
solemn observances of such occasions were absent, those present had not
come unprepared to maintain a custom which in those days was universal
in Canada, and, for all the writer knows, may still be in the Mother
Country--that of passing a glass of liquor before lifting the coffin.
A man, with a jar in one hand and a tin cup in the other, went round
the company, tendering the filled cup to each, which it would have been
bad manners to refuse and which nearly all emptied before returning.
When all out of doors had been helped, the man, a well-meaning, kindly
fellow, stepped into the shanty to regale those inside. Thinking
it good manners, he pressed to where Mrs Morison was sitting and,
deliberately filling the cup to the brim, tendered it to her first.

Mrs Morison gave him a piercing look. “What!” she exclaimed in a low
voice, so emphasized by deep feeling that every word sunk into the
minds of those present; “What! Do you ask me to take that which has
murdered my husband?”

“Take a taste, ma’am,” said the red-whiskered man, who was in the room,
“it will do you good.”

“Do me good!” she re-echoed, “then it will be for the first time in my
life. That do me good that took away the bread for lack of which my
bairns, noo saints in glory, perished! That do me good that robbed my
husband of his usefulness and good name; that made him fit for only
orra jobs and to be despised as a drunkard! That do me good the love of
which supplanted his love for me, for it was the stronger o’ the twa or
wad he no hae left it alane for my sake? That do me good that filled
his bosom with remorse, which hurt his health, and, last of all, has
taen his life! Oh, that it hasna caused the loss of his soul; that,
in the moment of his passing breath, he found time to seek acceptance
with God for the Redeemer’s sake! Take it away,” she screamed with the
energy of one who shrinks at the sight of a snake, “take it away, and
may the curse of the widow and the orphan rest upon them that make and
sell it--wha tempt decent men to destruction in order that they may
have an easy living.”

Abashed at so unexpected a reception, the man continued to stand
stupidly before her, holding the cup and jar. Seeing his puzzled look,
Mrs Morison, who had recovered her composure, quietly said, “I ken
you mean it kindly, and sae far I thank you, but gin you think o’ it,
you will see that the bottle may be your own worst enemy and they are
safest and happiest who leave it alane. As a favor, freen, I ask you no
to offer it in this house.”

A few minutes afterwards the coffin was borne out of doors, when four
lumberers lifted it on their shoulders, and, leading the straggling
procession, walked to the grave, which had been dug on a knoll close to
the creek, the only spot that could be found convenient sufficiently
free of trees and their roots. When the coffin was lowered, each man
lifted his hat for a moment, there was a pause, and then the grave was
filled in.

With thoughtful kindness those who came had brought some gift of food
to replenish the widow’s larder, and now, while all the rest departed,
the lumbermen remained, until sunset, chopping firewood and putting
the house and its surroundings to rights, so that, before they lay down
to sleep that night, Mrs Morison and Jeanie included in their prayer
thanks to God for having so bountifully provided for them.




LOST IN THE WOODS.


You have heard of my passing a night in the bush, and want me to tell
you about it. When we came to Hinchinbrook, which was in July, 1831,
the shanty my husband put up did not stand where this house is, but
on a ridge at the end of the lot. For the first two years we had no
neighbor nearer than half a mile, for though the lots on each side of
us were granted, nobody was then living upon them. From morning to dark
I saw nothing but the bush that encircled our house and the little
clearance of blackened stumps. Oh, but it was lonely! It was worse than
a jail, for the prisoner gets a blink out of his cell window of the
wide prospect without, and of houses and people, but I saw nothing for
several years but trees, and trees, until our clearance so extended
that it met that on the east side of our lot, and all at once we, one
fine day, came in sight of a neighbor’s house. The second Spring we
were on the lot, my husband left to help to take a raft down to the
Basin, leaving me alone with Henry, who was then the baby. He expected
to be back in four days, or by the end of the week at furthest. If it
had not been that I had so much work to do I would have cried my eyes
out, it was so miserable to be left alone in the woods, and William had
never been away so long before. The four days passed and Sabbath came,
but he did not. I got very anxious, and all day could scarcely keep my
eyes off the spot at which he would come out of the bush, and where the
track from the river crossed our lot, and at night I could not sleep
a wink, thinking every moment I heard his footstep. Once I was sure I
heard him moving outside. I got up and opened the door and called his
name. There was no answer, and it was so dark I could not see a rod
off. Lighting a bit of pitch pine at the fire, I held it up to look
again, when there was a patter of feet and something bounded by me. It
was sugar-time and there were a few trees tapped around the house. The
noise I heard was a few deer drinking the sap out of the troughs. I
knew not what to do. I wanted to go in search of William, but how could
I leave our small stock? They might starve before I got back, and that
would ruin us. It happened Monday afternoon, just when I had determined
to go over to the nearest neighbor and see if I could get some one to
go and enquire for my husband, though I knew it would be useless, for
every man and boy old enough had gone with the rafts. I was wrapping
baby in a shawl, when the door darkened and a strange voice bade me
good day. It was that of a young lad from the second concession. He was
on his way home, and had a message from William. In running Dumouchel’s
rapids the raft had bunted on a stone, throwing her crew off their
feet. In falling, William’s oar had struck his left arm and broken it.
I thanked God it was no worse. He told the boy I was not to be anxious,
that he felt so well he hoped to be able to leave for home in a few
days. I questioned the lad, and from what he told me, I guessed my
husband was worse than he let on. My resolution was made; I would go
and see him. The lad said he had to go home first, but promised to come
back next morning and tend the stock until I returned. Before going, I
got him to fell a few saplings for the young beasts to browse on their
tops, for the fodder was nearly done. Then I prepared for my journey;
cooking enough to keep the lad while away, and baking some cakes to
take to my husband. It would be past 5 o’clock in the afternoon when
I was ready to leave, but I considered I would be able to reach the
Chateaugay before dark, and once on its banks I would be safe to get
a night’s rest. With baby in my arms I started brave enough, but had
not gone many acres in the woods until I felt I had acted rashly. I
had gone over the path only a few times and never alone, so that I was
not so well acquainted with it as I thought I was, and, from the snow
having newly melted, it was not as plain as usual. I pressed on until
I felt that I had walked so far that, if on the right track, I should
have reached the river, while I had not even come to the Outarde. The
sunlight had long left the treetops and the stars had begun to glimmer,
when I gave it up, convinced that, likely in going to one side to pass
a wet spot, I had left the track, and that I was lost in the woods.
Assured I had lost my way, I knew it would be madness to walk farther,
and so, while I could see, I picked out a hemlock knoll, and choosing
a big hemlock that had some cedar bushes growing near, I sat down
beneath it. It was not very cold, though in the clearances I daresay
there was frost. Taking a cake out of my pocket I made my supper. Baby
was very good and lay asleep in his shawl. Wrapping him more warmly in
the long plaid I had around my shoulders, I clasped him to my bosom
and, so wearied was I, that I fell asleep. I awoke with a start. I
thought I heard some one calling. I listened and the sound soon came
again. It was the cry of a wolf at some distance. Another answered
from some other part of the woods, and another and another. You have
noticed, on a calm night, how, if a dog barks, every dog within hearing
answers; it is the same with wolves, only their cries are more varied,
ranging from a deep howl to a whine like that of a child in pain. I
shuddered for my babe, who still slept, and, kissing him, resolved I
should die before the brutes would reach him. For a long time I sat
and listened, until the cries died away, from the beasts apparently
hurrying to some distant point in pursuit of their prey. I again slept,
how long I do not know, but was awakened by something warm stroking
my cheek. It was our dog licking my face. I had shut him in the house
to be a watch on it, but he had broken out some way and, scenting my
steps, had overtaken us. I was so desolate and lonesome, and so glad
to have Collie’s company, that my heart leaped with happiness as he
cuddled down beside me and would not give over licking my hands and
face for very joy. I should be ashamed to tell it, but, sir, a good dog
is better than a false friend, and Collie was a most faithful beast.
After that I slept with confidence, and it was good daylight when I
awoke, cold and stiff with my first and last night’s rest in the woods,
but refreshed and confident. I would not touch more of my cakes, for
I wanted them for my husband, so, thanking God for preserving me so
far, I went on my way, baby crowing at the sight of Collie, as he
gamboled around us with yelps. Marking as well as I could from the
way his rays fell, where the sun rose, I went north, for I knew that
in that direction I would soon come across the Outarde. Sure enough,
I had not gone a quarter of a mile, when I came upon it, flowing red
and full, for it was high water. Knowing I was safe, and that I would
quickly come upon one of the settlers by its banks, I hurried on in
great spirits, and came out on John Hughes’ clearing, and was speedily
seated by their blazing log fire at breakfast. My troubles were now
over, and I saw that, instead of going north, I had wandered to the
east. A little boy went with me to Strachan’s, where I crossed the
Chateaugay, and resuming my walk got to the house, near Ste Martine,
where my husband lay, in the afternoon. It was well I went, for his
hurt had brought on a slight fever, and though the habitant’s family
were kind, they could not nurse him as I did. These were anxious but
happy days, for William was overjoyed to have me beside him, and I was
glad to be of service to him. In ten days Dr Syme told me he would bear
the journey, and getting a cast in one of Reeves’s canoes as far as
the Portage, we were safe back in our own house before night, to find
everything better than we expected. It was a drawback William’s arm,
for it was some time before he could do hard work with it, but we got
over that and many another backset, and, if we are now well-to-do, we
earned all we’ve got.




AN INCIDENT OF HUNTINGDON FAIR.


A LOST CHILD.

It was wearing on to three o’clock on the first day of the fair, and
the crowd was at its height. At a corner of the main building, where
the throng was thickest, stood a child, a girl of some four summers,
sobbing, not loudly or obtrusively, but with her face buried in her
pinafore. The passers-by, intent upon their own pleasure, took no
notice of her, until a gaunt, elderly man halted in front of her with
the query, “What are you crying for?” “For mama,” said the child
raising her tear-stained face from behind her pinafore. “Don’t you
know where she is?” “No,” sobbed the little one, “she’s goned away,”
and here her grief broke out afresh. Attention being thus directed
to the child, the standers-by grew interested. Among them were two
young ladies in rather loud costume. “Guess she’s lost,” remarked
one of them. “Want to know?” queried the other, “Ain’t she sweet?”
“Some; should say her mother don’t know much; such a looking hat.”
“You mightn’t do better, Ethie.” “I’d be sick if I couldn’t.”--“Well,
what’s to be done?” asked the man who first noticed the child. “Has
anybody seen anybody looking for a little girl?” Nobody had, and then
suggestions as to what to do were volunteered. “Ask her name?” was one
of them. “What’s your name, sissy?” “Roose,” sobbed the child. “And
where do you live?” “With mama.” “And where does she live?” “At home.”
“That’s not the way to ask her,” exclaimed a brawny young man, whose
lowest whisper would startle a horse, and bending over her he asked,
“How did mama come to the fair?” “With me and Toby.” “Is Toby your
father?” “No,” said the child, smiling through her tears, “Toby’s a
dear little dog.” “Did mama walk to the fair?” “We’s drove in a wagon
and Toby too, ever so long ways.” “What’s the name of the place you
came from?” The question was beyond the child, who simply shook her
head. “Don’t bother her,” interjected a bystander, “get your wagon and
drive her round the ground and the mother will see her.” “I can’t very
well,” said the man of the loud voice. “My horse has got the gorum,
and I want to watch the sheep judges.” “Well, take her home with you;
you’ve neither chick nor child.” At this a laugh rose, and suggestions
as to what should be done, each more senseless and impracticable than
another, began again. To send her to Grahamie as lost baggage, to seat
her in the centre of the horse-ring, at the head of the show-house
stairs, with the band, or among the fancy articles, where her mother
would be sure to go, were among the more reasonable. Each one was
clear that it was the duty of somebody else to exert themselves to
find the mother, and each one was equally clear he was not called upon
to undertake the task. And so precious time was slipping, and what to
do with the child remained undecided. At this juncture, a short and
somewhat stout woman broke through the ring. “Hech, what’s a’ this
about? A lost bairn, say ye.” Bending over, she lifted the child, and
sitting down on a bench pressed her to her bosom. “My bonnie doo, and
hae ye lost your mammie! Wha ocht ye?” The child, with staring eyes,
answered not. “You might as well speak Greek,” grimly remarked the
gaunt man. “Eh, what’s that! Do you think she disna understan the
English lang’age? Na, na, thae bonny blue een are no French. An hoo
did you lose yer mammie, my pet?” “Mama gave me penny to get candy,
and Toby ran after other dog, and I tried to catch Toby but he runned
a long way and was bad, and--and--I couldn’t find mama or Toby,” and
the recollection of her misfortune renewed her grief. “Eh, ma wee bit
lady,” exclaimed the good-hearted woman, as she clasped the sobbing
child more closely, “but hoo are we in this thrang to find Toby or
yer mither either. Hech but her heart will be sair for the loss o’ ye.
Will na some o’ ye gang and see if ye canna fin a woman lookin’ for her
bairn, instead o’ gapin there at us like so mony gomerils.”

“If you’ll give me ten cents I’ll go,” said a pert boy.

“Ha, ha, my man, ye’ll be a Conservative; ye want an office.”

“There’s the president,” remarked one of the bystanders.

“What! yon black-a-vised man wi the bit red ribbon? Hey, Mr Praseedent;
come yont: I want yer advice.”

“What’s this; what’s this?” asked the president.

“Jist a lost bairn, an hoo to fin the mother o’t I dinna ken.”

“Couldn’t be in better hands,” said the president.

“She micht be in waur, tho I say’t mysell. But that’s no what I’m
drivin at. Hoo am I to get her mither!”

“Oh, that’s not hard to do. You have seen a lamb lose its mother, but
did you ever see the ewe that failed to find her? You just sit where
you are, and the mother will come along.”

“I’ve seen the ewie seek her bit lammie ower knowe and heugh an never
fail to find the wanderer, but what could she do were as mony auld
tups thranging roun as are here? Na, na; yer comparison winna stan,
Mr Praseedent. Jest tell me what I’m to dae, an no be stanin’ there
twirlin yer whisker.”

“I’ll tell you what to do. Take the child home with you; she is tired
and not fit to stay here longer. The mother will be sure to come to the
office, and I will know where to send her. I’ll take your address,” and
he pulled out his notebook.

Glancing at the child, which had fallen asleep on her bosom, the woman
kissed the peaceful little face, and replied, “that’s gude advice.
Everybody kens me. I’m Mrs Crowdie, and I live on the ----concession
of Hinchinbrook, and if ye want to ken mair o’ me ye can speer at that
decent man, Mr Herdman, yonner, wha lifts my taxes, and as oor waggin
will be ready, I’ll gang noo. Sae gude day to ye.”

Tired with the day’s fatigue and grief, the child did not wake until
the wagon halted at Mrs Crowdie’s door, when, seeing everything new and
strange, she cried a little for her mother, but was easily soothed,
and, on supper appearing, she forgot her little sorrows in satisfying
her appetite. Though Mrs Crowdie had much to do “in settin things to
richts,” as she termed it, about the house, and scolded the man-servant
for “thinkin mair o’ what he saw at the fair than o’ his wark,” she
found time to lavish much attention on the waif, so curiously left on
her hands, and beguiled the smiles to her cheeks by kindly arts. When
it grew dark, she cried for her mother, but accepting Mrs Crowdie’s
promise that “she would see her the morn,” and that she would “let
pooshack sleep with her,” she lisped her artless prayer at her knee
and, laid in bed, dropped into the land of Nod with her arms around Mrs
Crowdie’s big black cat.


A NEEBOR LADDIE.

Little Roose was up by times next morning, and thought it grand fun to
help Mrs Crowdie to milk, to feed the poultry, and to get breakfast
ready. Everything was new to her, and enjoyed with such a zest as to
show that it was her first taste of country-life. To keep her company,
Mrs Crowdie had sent word to her neighbors to let their son come and
play with her, and by-and-by Johnnie made his appearance, and the two
had a rare time of it. It was in the afternoon, when, tired with play,
and to rest and enjoy the pieces Mrs Crowdie gave each of them, they
snuggled down behind a clump of bushes in the orchard.

“When I’m a man, Roose, I’ll have sugar on my bread like this all the
time.”

“When you’re a man, will you have a horse?”

“Yes; two of them and whiskers too.”

“And a farm like this?”

“A bigger farm than this, an’ a big house an’ a buggy, an’ pigs an’
sheep an’ hens.”

“And may I come to see you?”

“You’ll milk the cows and make butter.”

“Will it be long time ’fore you’re a man?”

“When I’m growed; two or three year; I’m six now.”

“How do cows make butter?”

“My, don’t you know? It ain’t the cows that make the butter, it’s the
girls.”

“And will you show me when I’m big?”

“Yes, an lots o’ things.”

“My mama has no cows.”

“Ain’t she! Why, my dad has lots o’ em and a bull, too.”

“I’d be ’fraid.”

“O, you are not a man like me. I could fire a gun an shoot a bear.”

“Has God cows?”

“Why, He makes em, an the horses, an the elephants, an every thing.
Don’t you go to Sabbath school?”

“No.”

“My! I went when littler than you, an learnt heaps o’ things, an got
raisins and candy at Christmas.”

“Without a penny?”

“Gimme for nothing.”

“My.”

“I was to have spoke a piece but got afraid.”

“I wouldn’t be ’fraid.”

“Oh, that’s nothing; you’re a girl.”

Here the conference was broken by Johnnie’s offering to show where
the ground hogs kept house, and off he and his companion trotted to
a remote stone-pile, and did not turn up till supper time, when they
burst in upon Mrs Crowdie with the appetite of hawks, and the girl so
full of the wonders she had seen that her tongue never rested until she
became sleepy. When laid away for the night, Mrs Crowdie sat in the
gathering gloom to think over what she should do. The day had passed
without any one coming to enquire for a lost girl, which very much
surprised her. So far as her own inclinations went, she would rather
nobody ever came, but she knew that somewhere a poor mother’s heart
was in agony over the loss, and she resolved that, next morning, after
breakfast she would drive to Huntingdon to find out if there had been
any enquiries.


A SHADE OF MYSTERY.

With many injunctions to Roose, that she was to “be a guid bairn till
she got back, an no go near the soos or the wall,” Mrs Crowdie next day
betook herself to the village, where she arrived in due course and went
first to the office of the president to find out whether he had heard
aught. Entering she spied through the net-work that surmounted the
counter a man in his shirt-sleeves leaning over a desk writing, with
his head turned away from her.

“Hey, man!” No response.

“Whar will I find your maister?” No response.

“Whatna ticket is this?” as her eye here fell on a card hung to the
wire-netting, and she spelt out slowly, “THIS--IS--MY--BUSY--DAY. Fegs,
by the look o’ him I should say it is. Hey, man!” No response, the man
of the big ledger calmly continuing to write.

“Eh, puir chiel!” exclaimed Mrs Crowdie, “he maun hae a hard maister or
be dull o’ hearin,” and she thereupon rattled on the counter with her
umbrella.

“Oh, were you wanting me. Want to pay your church seat, eh?”

“What na kirk? St Andrew’s, say ye? Na, na, I dinna gang there. Dod!
You dinna need to have a seat in ony kirk, for there are a’ kin o’
bodies that ca’ themselves preachers rinnin aboot. Says I to ane that
pit maist impertinent questions to me about my saul--an us Scotch folk
dinna show our hearts to every Jock and Tam--My man, ye pit me in mind
o’ a finger-post, ye pint the way ye dinna gang yoursel. Ye see, I kent
ocht o’ him.”

“That’s a good one,” exclaimed the man of the pen as he rubbed his left
arm.

“Gin I had my way, there wad be a riddle afore every college door
to try the coofs wha wad wag their heids in a poopit. I ken o’ some
chuckie heads it wad hae thrown aside.”

“Not a bad idea. And what can I do for you? You’ll want an organ?”

“Me an organ! I’d suner tryst a parritch pat.”

“It’s a nice thing to have a little music, and the young ladies soon
learn to play.”

“I’se ken ye noo. I saw ye at the show. Ye can blaw a horn but ye canna
blaw my lug. I want to see your maister.”

“What name?”

“My name’s Mrs Crowdie; kent by her neebors as ane that pays as she
buys an is due naebody.”

“Oh, yes, I have a memorandum. The boss left word you were not to
trouble yourself; it would be all right.”

“I’ll gang hame we nae such assurance. I have come ane errand to see
him and I wull see him.”

“We had a fine show, Mrs Crowdie?”

“Whaur’s your maister?”

“What did you think of the flowers?”

“Whaur’s yer maister?”

“Oh, it’s the boss you want.”

“Ay, an I’ll no gang till I see him.”

Calling a chubby-faced lad, he sent him in search, and the desired
gentleman soon entered.

“And how are you to-day, Mrs Crowdie?”

“I’ve naething to complain o’ except o’ sin an a touch o’ the
rheumatics.”

“And what can we do for you to-day?”

“Ye ken weel my errand, an I see by yer man ye’ve something ye dinna
want to tell me. Wha’s bairn is she?”

“We’ll speak about that by-and-bye.”

“We’ll speak about it noo.”

“Is the little girl well?”

“The lassie’s weel an I’d be laith to part wi her did I no ken there
are they wha hae a better richt to her. Noo, tell me; what hae ye
learned about her folks?”

“There have been some enquiries; her people know that she is safe.”

“Wha are they? I’ll gang an see them.”

“There’s no need. You go home and you’ll hear from them.”

A good deal of conversation followed, but Mrs Crowdie could get no
particular information about the parents, further than that they were
satisfied she was in safe hands, and they would call or send for their
child in a short time. Forced to be satisfied with this, she returned
home, and when Roose threw her arms round her neck in welcome, she
could not forbear the secret wish that the parents might never come.
There was some mystery and she hoped that it might result thus. She
watched the child pattering about during the afternoon, listened to her
prattle, and helped to amuse her, and when the evening gathered, and
the sun set beyond the forest, leaving the clouds burning in crimson
and gold, she sat with her in her lap. Something in the peaceful
scene stirred up old memories, and, with thin and quavering voice,
the old woman began the 23rd psalm. To her surprise, the child chimed
in, knowing both the words and the old world tune Mrs Crowdie sang
them to. “Wha taught ye that, ma dawtie?” she asked, as finishing the
psalm, she hugged the child in closer embrace, the moisture glistening
in her eyes. “Mama,” said the child. “She maun be a guid woman, and a
Presbyterian, too.” And clasping the child, Mrs Crowdie sat thinking in
silence and did not move into the house until it grew chill, when she
said “the bairn micht catch cauld.”


THE MYSTERY IS CLEARED UP.

The section of Hinchinbrook in which Mrs Crowdie lives is a very
pleasant one to look upon; the landscape being relieved from monotony
by low knolls and ridges which break the wide intervales. In the
middle of September, the bush, that runs as a straggling and somewhat
ragged fringe over the ridges, was still green, with only here and
there a branch or tree whose brilliant red foretold the coming glory.
The day was bright and warm, the sun’s rays being chastened by the
faint smoky haze that softened the distant features of the landscape.
Her work being over until milking time came round, Mrs Crowdie took a
seat by the open window and began knitting. Her little charge had gone
to watch a preposterous hen, which, after being given up as having
furnished supper to a fox, had appeared that morning clucking with joy
over the solitary chicken that followed her; the yellow hairy little
thing a source of delight to the child. While Mrs Crowdie’s fingers
moved actively with the needles, her thoughts were wandering away to
the past. The advent of the child had stirred her nature and wakened
memories, she knew not how, that she had stifled so long ago that
she thought they were dead. And to judge by her face, they were not
pleasant memories. Casually raising her head, she was astounded to see
a woman standing at the door intently watching her; a comely woman,
neatly dressed.

“What’s brocht you back?” demanded Mrs Crowdie, breaking silence, “I
told you I was dune wi’ you; that gin ye had made yer bed, you could
lie on it.”

“O, mother!”

“Na, ye needna beg; gin that useless man ye wad marry in spite o’ me,
has failed to provide for you, you maun look for help anither gate.”

“I have not come to beg; we have made ends meet so far.”

“Ay, by your wark. A fauchless, smooth-tongued haveril; hoo he threw a
glamor ower ye I ken na.”

“You are too sore on him.”

“Ower sair! A useless being that wad talk an flee round the kintry,
an dae onything but wark. To think that ye wad prefer sic na ane to
yer ane mither, you ungrateful hussy. But its aye the way; the best o’
women get the lavins o’ men.”

“It’s not for me to listen to such talk of my husband,” said the
daughter, coloring.

“A bonny husband! Merry’t ye, thinking he could hang up his hat in my
hoose and sorn on me. My certie, I sorted him! Gang back to yer husband
an wark yer finger-nails aff to make up for his laziness. You made your
choice, an I’m dune with baith you an him.”

Resentment struggled in the breast of the young woman with affection;
it was for a moment only; her better nature triumphed.

“I have not come, mother, to ask of you anything but your love and”--

“An what?” asked the mother, in a voice shrill from suppressed emotion,
“Did I no nestle you in my bosom an care for you as dearer than my
life? When, ane by ane, your brithers an sisters gaed awa an you were
left the ae lam oot o’ the flock; when God in his providence took your
faither to Himsel an I was left alane, it was you that gied me heart to
wrastle wi’ the warl, an I watched ower you an thocht you wad be a prop
to my auld age. Oh, hoo could ye have the heart to leave me?”

“I love you better than I ever did, mother, but you wouldn’t think much
of me as a wife were I to say I did wrong in marrying.”

“Aye, there it is; the shuffling creature wi his sleek manners that cam
between you an me.”

“Oh, mother, leave that alone. I am sorry to have vexed you today.
I never meant to trouble you, until you saw fit to send for me or I
thought you needed my help.”

“An what has brocht ye, then?”

“I’ve come for Ruth.”

The old woman sank back in her chair in speechless astonishment. At
last she whispered, “An she’s your bairn! I thocht there was something
aboot her that was familiar to me: that explains it a’. She’s yerself
ower again when ye were a bit toddler. O that thae days were back
again! An hoo did ye lose her?”

“It’s six years since I left you, mother, and my heart wearied among
the Yankees to see dear old Huntingdon again. I watched the Gleaner
when the show was to be, and arranging to be away a fortnight I came
with Ruth and stayed with cousin on the river. I saw you at the show,
but you did not see me. In the crowd I lost Ruth. I was here and there
seeking for her, when a man told me he had seen a little girl, dressed
like mine, in a wagon that drove towards the village. I followed and
found he was wrong. Thinking she had driven home with our friends, I
hastened to cousin’s, but she was not there. What a night I spent! Next
morning I went back to the show grounds, and was struck dumb when the
president told me where she was. I explained it all to him. He was
very kind and said if I would leave it in his hands he would manage it;
when you came in he would put you off for a day or two. Last night he
sent me word things had worked well, and I was to go out to you myself.
If there is any plot about it to bring us together without your will,
it’s none o’ mine,” and sinking before her mother she buried her head
in her lap and wept.

What Mrs Crowdie would have done; whether her resentment would have
returned and she again have driven away her daughter, God alone knows,
but at this juncture the patter of little feet was heard on the gallery
and Ruth, with her pinafore full of golden-rod, came shouting, “See
what I have got.” One glance at the tearful face upraised to see
her, and there was a glad scream of “Mama.” Clasping her child and
grandchild in her arms, Mrs Crowdie broke down. “It’s the Lord’s wark;
nane save Himsel could hae brocht us thus thegither, an I’se no fecht
against His will. By a lost child I’ve found my ain, an we’ll never
pairt. Ay, my bonny Ruth, I’m your grannie, and ye’ll bide we me, an
help me tak care o’ the hens an the turkeys, and the lave.”

“And, papa.”

“I’ll thole him for your sake; maybe I have wranged him in my
prejudices. We’ll sen for him.”

“An Toby, too?”

“That’s cousin’s dog, Ruth,” said her mother, smiling in her joy.

“Ay, Ruth,” said Mrs Crowdie, “we’ll get the dowg too, and we’ll let
byganes be byganes and begin a new life an ther’ll no be a happier
family in a’ Hinchinbrook. Eh, hoo true’s the Scripter in mair senses
than ane. An a little child shall lead them. Hech, but this’ll no dae.
There’s the nock chappin five, an the coos are comin up the lane, an
the fire’s to kinle. Let’s be steerin an get the wark dune an then
we’ll hae supper ance mair thegither.”




THE SUMMER OF SORROW.


LOOKING FOR THE BOOK.

You want to see the little buk I have? An who tould you about it?
You’ll do it no harm. Maybe you won’t get the chance. It’s not the
likes of you that should have it. You’ve driven from Huntingdon on
purpose and sure I won’t disappoint you. I didn’t ax you to come, did
I? You’ll print it. Yis, what suits you: laving out all that tells how
we poor Catholics were used in Ireland. Honor bright, you’ll print
every word of the little buk. Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn’t,
but it is not to everybody I would give a reading of my poor nevy’s
book, and, if you plaze, we’ll say no more about that same. Well, then,
I might tell you what I saw myself at the favor sheds. Did you ever
know anybody who seen a ghost like to talk about it? I tries to forgit
what I saw and heard, an thank nobody that brings me in mind o’t. Come
now, I’ll tell you a bettor shtory than about poor women and childer a
dyin by the score of favor an strong men alayin aside them too wake
to git thim a cup o’ wather. An its a thrue story, which is more than
can be said about some you’ve prented. Whin I wint to William Bowron to
buy my lot, I paid my money down for’t in goold. He wrote my ticket for
the lot an’ whin he hands it to me, says he, Now you’ve got a farrum,
my man, you’ll want a cow. Thrue for you, says I, I had always a cow in
Ireland an my father afore me. Confound it all, says he, then you must
have one in Canada; I have a heifer that’ll suit you. Gittin aff his
chair, he placed his stick across his back and hooked his elbows over
it, an tuk me into his yard, where he pointed to a beauty av a crathur.
How much? says I. Three pounds, says he, Done, says I, an’ puttin my
hand in my pocket I pays him the money in his fisht. Sure the baste
wud have cost tin poun in Ireland. Confound it all, says he, ye’re a
dacint fellow; come in an have a bite to ate. An afther I had my dinner
I started for my farm, adrivin my springer afore me through the woods,
feelin proud as Punch over my bargain. It was not until I stood afore
the bit shanty I had got raised, that the thought came on me all at
once, that I had nothing to feed the baste. Och, it takes an Irishman
to jump before seeing where his feet will fall. Well, I held my whisht,
and my woman and her good mother comes out and falls admirin the baste.
There was only another cow in the settlement; wan ould Armstrong had.
Sure, I cries, won’t the nabors be invying us! Thim here long afore us
an widout a four-footed baste, barrin pigs an dogs an cats, an here,
the firsht month we come, we have an illigant heifer, new come in.
“She’s a beauty, sure,” says my wife’s mother, “an as like the wan I
sould when I left the Ould Counthry (bad luck to the day I left it) as
a red wan can be like a black; lave her to me, I’ll look afther her.”
Indeed an I will, says I, for if you don’t she’ll die, for sorra a bite
hev I got for her. An so it was, the ould woman took charge and tended
her as if she had been her child, herdin her in the woods an atakin
her to the creeks where she could get a bellyful, a drivin her home
against nightfall. It divarted the ould woman, who had all the time
been lamenting laving Ireland, and sarved us, for me wife an mysilf
were workin hard in makin a clearance to get in a few praties. It was
on in August that wan night the ould woman an the cow did not come
home. She’ll hev lost her way, says my wife to me. Not at all, I tells
her, she knows the woods as well by this time as ever she did the bog
of Dorroghmore. Thin, why’s she not here? asks she. Och, she’ll have
shtrayed furder than ordinar an daylight has failed her. Niver throuble
yer mind; she’ll be here with the sun tomorrow. I was more consarned
than I let on, but what could I do? It was dark an there was no use
going looking for her in the woods wid a candle, seein’ we hadn’t wan.
My wife couldn’t get a wink o’ sleep, an sot at the door, shouting
whiniver she thought she heard a rustlin in the bush. The day broke
an the sun climbed up until he was high enough to look over the tree
tops at us an say Good mornin, an nivir a sign o’ the ould woman or
the cow. We waited an waited, expectin ivery minute to see her, until
I got afeard, an wint an tould the nearest nabors. They were consarned
at the news an agreed if she did come back afore, they would warn the
settlement an ivery man jack o’ thim would turn out next mornin to luk.
An they did; och but there was a crowd ov them, some wid guns an some
wid horns an some wid pitchforks. There was grain awaitin to be shore,
but not a sowl of mankind stayed away. What’s that you say? They’d be
Arangemen? What ilse was there in the sittlemint then? We didn’t talk
in thim days about what makes strife, but lived as frindly as nabors
could, helpin wan another, an niver askin what you were. Well, it was
a fine day, tho hot, an aff we started, watchin for foot tracks an
shoutin an blowin horns an firing shots, expectin the ould woman would
hastin to us on hearin where we were. It was niver a bit o’ use. Hours
wint by an we thravelled miles on miles an niver a sign. Whin we found
a track we soon lost it, for the woods were cut up by slues. It was
agrowin late whin a few o’ us met to talk it over. “We’ve gone north
an east an wist,” says Sam Foster, the ouldest settler ov us all an
a knowledgable man, “an havn’t found her or the cow. That shows me
she has crossed the swamp to the south an gone towards the lines.” We
agreed to this rasonin an shtarted aff for the swamp, which was as
dirthy a puddle o’ black wather an green skum as there was in Ameriky.
Sam was our guide, or we might av been thryin to crass it to this day.
He knew where it was narrowest an by creeping along fallen trees we
reached the ridge beyant, an hadn’t gone half a mile afore we struck
the footprints of an ould woman an a cow. How did I know it was the
footprints ov an ould woman? Hould yer whisht or I won’t be atellin
you any more. It was a blessin we did, for it wad soon hev been too
dark to have followed them up. I tell ye, we forgot our tiredness an
hunger, an hurried on in great spirits, an in half an hour Sam shouts,
“There she is,” apointin through the trees. I shouts Whuroo an dashes
ahead o’ them all an in a minit I had the ould woman in my arms an the
cow a lookin on as innocint as if it had niver played thricks whin a
calf. The saints be praised ye are not kilt and ded, I cries, as I
hugged her, for sure, though she was ould an wrinkled an bint, she was
the mother o’ my darlin wife. Ded I wad hev been, says she, cryin wid
joy, but for the crathur, an niver ben waked or buried. By this time
the rist o’ the min kem up an awl sat down to hear the ould woman’s
shtory. She tould us how, from the drouth, the cow found little to pick
and kept amovin on and on until she was floundering in the swamp, an
whin they got on solid land sorra the wan of thim knew where they were.
“How did ye keep alive?” asks a man, “for ye are spry and hearty.” “I
wunna tell ye,” says she. “Two days and two nights in the bush,” says
another, “an you not hungry: it’s a mysthery.” “Hould yer whisht,” says
another, “it’s a miracle: there be good people in thim woods as well
as on the hills ov Ould Oireland.” It was growin late an there was no
time for more talk an we shtarted for home, an, bedad, the ould woman
bate us all wid the nimbleness she tripped through the bush an over the
logs. Whin we got home, an glad my wife was when she hugged her ould
mother, an the nabors left, I axed again how she had kept body an sowl
so well together in the bush. “I wunna tell ye,” says she again, an aff
she wint to bed. I tould all to my wife an axed her to find out, and
by-and-bye she got it as a great saycret--the ould woman sucked the cow
for food an purticted hersilf from the cowld ov the night by sleeping
aside her.

“Are you done, grandpa?”

I turned, a girl stood behind us, having come unnoticed.

“Yis, yis; what is it?”

“Supper is ready, and I’ve been waiting ever so long to tell you.”

“Come,” said the old man to me as he rose, “an have a bite.”

I followed and when after tea I rose to take my horse for my homeward
journey, my eyes must have expressed what courtesy kept my tongue from
again asking. “Och, the little buk, is it. Well, I’ll trust ye wid it.”
Leaving the room he returned with what looked like a greasy and much
handled pass-book. “Take care of it,” he exclaimed with emotion, “an
don’t keep it long.” Placing it in my pocket we parted.


HOW THE BOOK WAS GOT.

On retiring to my room that night, I examined the book given me with
such reluctance and read every word of it before going to bed. I found
it to be the diary of an Irishman who had left his country during the
famine. In the ship on which he embarked for Canada typhus fever broke
out and the incidents of the horrors of the voyage and of the equal
horrors of the quarantine sheds on being landed at Grosse isle were
described with a simplicity and directness that alternately moved me to
tears and filled my bosom with indignation. Next day I set to work to
copy the diary. On considering the matter I saw it would be necessary
to learn somewhat of the writer, who he was, whether he survived the
plague, and if he did, where he was now. The first day I could get away
from duty found me on the road to interview the old man a second time.
On restoring to him the book I expressed freely my indignation at the
conduct of the landlords, of the ship-agents, and of the quarantine
officers, and my pity for those whom they oppressed. My words seemed to
be unlooked for.

“Begorra,” said the old man, “I didn’t expict this aff ye. I tuk ye for
wan that thought anything good enough for the likes of us.”

Explaining my wish to publish the diary I asked him to tell me what he
knew about its writer.

“Sure he was my nevy, an I will tell ye awl about him.”

Though it was mid-October the day was warm and the sun unpleasantly
hot, and the old man suggested we should go to the orchard, where he
could tell me what he knew without interruption. It proved a long
interview for I had many questions to ask and the substance of his
statement, though not in his words, I will now give as an introduction
to the diary.

It was in the year 1847 myself and wife were behind the house cutting
hay. There was no mowing-machine those days; no, not even a scythe
could be used because of the stumps, and we were picking the locks
of hay out atween the stones and stumps with our hooks. It was a hot
day and we had been at work since sunrise, so our backs were tired
enough, but we could not rest, for there was much to do and we had no
help beside ourselves. We were working hard and fast, when a voice came
ahint us that made us start.

“Uncle, wanna you look roun at me?”

There stood a girl, with a bundle in her right hand. By her figure you
might say she was 17 or thereabout; by her face she was an old woman,
for the bones were sticking out of the tight drawn skin and her skin
was a deadly grey, with black streaks above and below the eyes. My
first thought was the colleen was demented.

“God save you kindly,” says I, “but why do you name me uncle?”

“I am your brother’s child.”

You might have knocked me down with a feather, I was so astonished.

“What! me brother Jerry?”

“That same,” answers she in a wake voice.

“Where is he?” shouts I, throwing down my hook. “Lade me to him. Niver
a line did he send to tell us he was laving Ireland, but welkim he and
his as the flowers in May to the best I have.”

The girl didn’t stir; she seemed numbed and dead like and answered in
her hollow voice, “He’s dead thim three weeks.”

“God save us all,” I shouted, “you are mad my colleen, and ye’re mind’s
awandering. My brother Jerry is in Ireland with his wife and the
childer, and ye’re mistaen when you call me uncle.”

“No, no,” she says to me, “ye’re my own uncle for I axed at the house
next to you. My mother, my father, my brothers and sisters are wid the
saints in glory,” and wid that she lifted her eyes and crosses herself.

“When and where?” I shouted in desperation.

“They died ov the ship favor, part are buried in the say and part at
the favor sheds.”

With those words the truth of all she said burst on me and I staggered,
for my head swam, and I had to throw myself down on the meadow, but
my wife rushed past and clasped the poor child in her arms, “I’ll be
mother to you, and, God help us, it won’t be on our account if the tear
o’ sorrow come again to your eye.”

The poor thing didn’t respond as you might expect, but sank on my
wife’s bosom and looked about with that stony stare of hers. My wife’s
hot tears were raining on her face, when she whispered, “Wad ye give me
a bite to eat?”

Then we saw it all. The girl was starving. I caught her up in my
arms--she was no heavier than many a baby--a bag of bones--and I ran
with her to the house, crying to my wife to hurry and get something
ready. Had ye seen her look at the food as my wife brought it out of
the cellar, with the eye of a wild beast, you would have shivered.
“Draw in,” says I, “it’s coorse, but it is the best we have, an
there’s plenty av it.”

“Is the mate for me?” she asks doubtful like.

“Surely,” says I.

“I havn’t put a tooth mark on mate for three years,” says she simple
like.

I reached her a rib of cold boiled pork and she smiled for the
first time, and sucked it as a child does the orange it wants to
have the taste of as long as possible. When she had eaten as much
as my wife thought safe, she took and laid her on our own bed, and
willing she was, for she was clean beat out, and went to sleep when
her head touched the pillow. Then we had a talk. She had come from
the fever sheds and might give the disease to the children, who had
gone berrying, so I goes, as agreed on, and meets them, tells them
of their new cousin from Ireland, who had come to us sick, and takes
them to stay with a neighbor for the night. Next morning I off to the
hay before sunrise and worked excited like till the sun got high and
overpowering, when I says to myself, “I’ll take a rest and go and
see my brother’s child.” She was sitting at the door, where the hops
clustered round her, and looked another crathur. The fearsome glare of
hunger in the eye was gone and there was a glint of color in the cheek
as she rose to welcome me. “You don’t think me mad today, uncle?” she
asks me. “God forgive me,” says I, “for the word--.” With that she puts
her hand over my mouth. Oh she was the kindly crathur, and now that
she was clean and fresh dressed I could see would be a handsome lass
when there was more mate on her bones. My wife had been looking for my
coming and had the table spread, and after we had eaten we sat again in
the shade at the door and as I smoked my pipe Ellen told her story. It
was, more the pity, a common enough one in those days. The failure of
the potatoes had left my brother unable to get enough for his family to
eat let alone pay the rent. On the back of the hunger came sickness and
when things had got to be as bad as they could, the agent comes round
and tells him if he would give up his houlding and go to Canada the
landlord would forgive him the rent, pay the passage-money and a pound
ahead on landing at Quebec. He took the offer as his neighbors did and
went to Dublin, where they found a ship waiting for them. They were
not out of sight of land when the fever broke out and the children,
one after another, took it, and three died at sea. When quarantine was
reached they were all sent ashore, and there the rest of the children,
saving Ellen, died, with the father and mother. When the fever left
her she was put on board a steamer for Montreal, and got sorra a bite
from the hour she left until she landed, though it took the boat 36
hours. Faint and sick she was hurried ashore and when she made for
the city a policeman turned her back and she sat down on the wharf,
wishing to die. By and by a man comes along and by his dress she knew
he was a minister, though not of our sort. He spoke to her and she
told him she wanted to get to me, and showed my address on a bit of
paper she carried in her bosom. He read it and saying to follow him,
led to a steamer lying in the canal. He sought out the captain and
told him to take the girl and land her at Beauharnois, and the captain
promised he would to oblige the minister and refused the dollar he
offered. The stranger handed it to her with the words, “I must leave
you, for others are perishing,” and slipped away before she could thank
him. That evening she was landed at Beauharnois and when the steamer
left the wharf for the Cascades she felt more lost than ever, for she
heard nothing but French, and not a word she understood. She spied
a man putting bags of flour in a cart with a face that she thought
was that of an Old Countryman. She went up to him and he answered
her in English, or rather Scotch, for I know him well; he lives near
the Meadows. She told where she wanted to go. “You’ll be ane o’ thae
emigrants,” says he, “an may hae the fever.” “I’ve had it,” says Ellen,
“an am well again.” “Aye, but ye may give it to ither folk.” At this
a Frenchman came up to speak to the man and on seeing Ellen put his
hand to his mouth and drew back. “Louis,” says the Scotchman, “tak
this lassie hame wi you and give her a nicht’s lodgin.” Louis shook his
head. “I’ll pay you, man,” shouted the Scotchman. “No, no,” said Louis,
making a sign of horror, “me not let her in my house.” “You are a’ o’
ae kirk and suld be kind to ane anither.” Without replying, Louis left.
“Weel, lassie, gin they’ll no gie you cover in this town, ye maun gae
wi me,” and with that he went into the tavern at the head of the wharf
and came back with some bread in his hand for her. He spread his horse
blanket on the bags for her to sit on and off they started. It was a
long drive in the dark, for the horse walked every step of the way, and
Ellen fell asleep. On waking at the rumbling of the cart ceasing, she
found they were standing in a farm-yard. The night was clear but cold,
but she had not felt it, for the Scotchman had tucked his big coat
around her. He told her he dare not take her to the house for fear of
infecting the children. Lighting a lantern he showed her to a corner
of the barn, where she lay down to sleep, while he went to unyoke his
horse. On waking in the morning she stepped into the yard, where she
found the Scotchman unloading his cart. “I’ve been waitin for you,”
says he, “an dinna tak it unkind if I say you maun go at ance on yer
way. Were my naebors to hear o’ ane wha has been sick o’ the fever bein
here, my place wad be shunned.” Putting something to eat in her hand he
bade her follow him, and pointed out the road she was to take for her
uncle’s place, and by observing his directions had succeeded.

“An so there’s only yirsilf left?” asks my wife.

“Av our family,” says she, “but unless he’s dead since I left, there’s
my cousin Gerald in the fever sheds at quarantine.”

Gerald was my sister’s only child and I had heard after her death he
had gone to Maynooth to be a priest.

“Do you tell me my nephew, that rode on my knee the day I left Ireland,
is in Canada? Why did he not come wid you?”

Then she explained; told us of what he had been to the sick and dying
and how the day before she left he had been stricken himself. She
wanted to stay with him, but he told her to hasten to her uncle and
if he had a mind he might come and help him; she could do no good to
stay. I jumps up. “I’ll go,” I cries, “and will bring him back wid me
here safe and sound.” As I said that I caught my wife’s eye so pleading
like, not to go. But I did. I got my neighbors to look after my hay and
off I started next morning, bright and early, to catch the stage at the
Potash. When old Mr Oliver heard my errand, he told me to go back to my
family, but my mind was made up. When my own brother was adying I was
in comfort. I was determined my nephew would not suffer like him and
me so near. When the stage came along I jumped into a seat and before
darkening I was in the city. All the talk there was about the fever,
and how the poor creatures were dying by the hundred in the sheds at
Point St Charles. Everybody was in mortal dread of infection and the
police had orders to watch that none of the emigrants got past the
wharves or out of the sheds, but some did, and they were hunted down
and taken back. I kept my whisht as to my errand and listened in the
bar-room of the tavern to one story after another, that made the blood
run cold to my heart. After an early breakfast next day I left the
tavern and walked down to where the steamer sailed for Quebec. It was a
beautiful morning and I thought it the prettiest sight I had seen for a
long time, the blue river sparkling in the sun and the islands and the
other shore looking so fresh and green, with the blue mountains beyant.
It was going to be a while before the steamer was ready, for there was
a pile of freight to put on board, and I walked up a bit to look round
me. In turning the corner of a shed I sees lying on the ground a young
lad with a girl leaning over him. I went up to them. “What’s come over
you, my boy, that you be lyin on the ground?” asks I. Never a word from
either. I went close up and I sees his eyes closed and his face white
as death, with his head resting on the girl’s lap. “God save us, what’s
wrong?” Never a word. “Can I do anything for you?” I says, placing my
hand on her shoulder. She lifted up her head that was bowed down on the
young man’s, oh so slowly, and looked at me, her face white and sunk
like. “No,” she whispered, “he’s adyin.” “Dyin like this in a Christian
land,” says I, “I will get help.” I ran back to where the crowd was and
tould a policeman. “They’ll be escaped imigrants,” says he, “and must
be sent back, the villins,” and off he comes with me. I led him to the
place and he flourished his big stick, shouting, “What div ye mean,
coming among Christian people agin orders?” I caught his arm. “Don’t
touch them; he’s dyin,” for I heard the rattle in his throat. We stood
aside for a minute or so, there was a gurgle and a drawin up of the
legs, and all was over. “Oh, my brother, my brother, hev you died afore
me,” moaned the poor girl as she tighter clutched his body. “Come wid
me,” I said, stooping over and trying to lift her, “I am Irish like
yersilf, and will spind my last dollar if need be to bury your brother.
Lave him, and I will take you where you will find friends.” I could not
loosen her hould on the body. The policeman said he would go for the
ambulance and left me. I stroked her hair, I talked to her as if she
had been my own daughter; I tried to comfort her. Never a sign or a
word. There was a sound of wheels and I looked and saw the ambulance.
The men came and I grasped the girl to lift her off the corpse. I
caught a look at her face--she was dead too. The ambulance men said
that was nothing, that fever patients dropped dead every day without
a sign. I looked at the poor colleen as I helped to lift her into the
ambulance beside her brother’s corpse, and I knew it was not of the
fever alone she had died, but of a broken heart. Och, och, to come to
Ameriky to die on the quay. “Drive to the cimitry,” says I, “and I will
pay all expinses,” trying to get up beside the driver. “Have you lost
your sinses,” says he, “they wad not bury them in the cimitry; they
go to Point St Charles, and if yer wise ye’ll tell nobody you handled
faver patients and go about your business.” Wid that he cracks his
whip, and rattles aff at a great rate. “Well, well,” I said to myself,
“at ony rate they will be united in burial as they were in life and
death,” and they rest in the field where a big stone tells more than
3000 were buried. I turned with a heavy heart to the steamer, which
was ringing a warning bell to get on board and lying down on a pile of
bags fell asleep. It was afternoon when I awoke and soon after we were
at Three Rivers, where I went ashore and got something to eat. When we
had left it a while a steamer hove in sight, coming up the river. We
crowded to see her in passing. It was a sight that sunk like a stone on
my heart. Her lower deck was chuck full of women and childer and men,
all in rags, and with faces as sharp as hatchets from starvation, and
most all of them white or yellow from the fever. She passed between
us and the wind and the smell was awful. A sailor told me steamboats
passed every day like her on their way from quarantine, and never a one
reached Montreal without a row of corpses on her upper deck for burial
and a lot of sick to be carried to Point St Charles.

It was late in the night when we tied up at Quebec and I took the first
lodging-house I found. When I paid the landlord next morning, I asked
him how I would get to Grosse Isle. “Ye’re jokin you are,” says he,
“people lave it, they don’t go to it.” I tould him my errand. Says he,
“Go home, it’s no use; your nevy is dead by this time, an if he isn’t
he’ll be dead ony way. It’ll be the death of yoursel to go.” No, says
I, I have come awl the way from Huntingdon to save the boy and I wunna
go back widout him. Whin he see I was detarmined he told me how hard
it was to get to the island; that the city people were afraid of the
infection and watched everybody going and would let none come from
there. He pointed to the landing-stage where the quarantine steamboat
lay and I went to it. There was a sentry at the end and when I made to
pass him he ordered me back. “I’m going to quarantine,” says I. “The
divil ye be; shtand back; ye can’t pass widout an order.” I was pleadin
wid him to let me by whin a voice behind says, “What is all this
loud talk about?” I turns and sees a tall man in black, straight as a
hickory. “Yer rivrince, this man wants to go to quarantine and has no
permit.” “My good man,” says he to me, “you are seeking to rush into
danger if not certain death. The sentry does a kindness in turning you.”

“I have a good raison for wanting to go.”

“It would need to be in risking your life and endangering the safety of
the community by bringing back infection. What may be your reason?”

I saw he was a gentleman and his kind voice won me. I told him all.

“What is your nephew’s name?”

“Gerald O’Connor.”

“Has he been stricken! They did not tell me when I was last there. He
has been one of our best helpers. His only hope lies in instant removal
on convalescence and since you have come for that purpose, I shall see
you have opportunity.”

With that he says to the sentry, “This man is my assistant today,” and
putting his arm in mine he walks me on to the boat, where even the deck
hands saluted him. When he walked away with the captain, I axed who he
was. “Dat am Bishop Mountain,” says a Frenchman. “Bedad,” says I, “they
shpoiled a fine cavalryman when they made a preacher ov him.”

The order was given to cast off and on we went, the river smooth as a
millpond. When a long way off we could see rows of white tents and long
wooden sheds where the sick lay on Grosse isle, and off the landing we
found anchored 17 ships that had come from Ireland or Liverpool and
had fever aboard. The wharf was a poor one and we had trouble getting
ashore, for the steps were rotten and broken. The gentleman they called
the bishop beckoned me to follow him as he walked on, speaking with the
friends who came to meet him. When in front of the first shed, before
going in at the door, he says to me, “Dr Russell will take you to your
nephew,” and with a bow he passed into the shed. I followed the doctor
to another shed and, heavens! when we went in the smell nigh knocked
me down. The doctor must have seen something in my face, for he says,
“Never mind, my man, you’ll soon get used to it.” We passed along
between two rows of berths, everyone filled, and an odd man, here and
there, trying to attend to their wants. The doctor stopped before a
berth where lay a young man, with thick black hair. Seizing his arm he
felt his pulse. “This is your man,” says he. I looks at the worn face
and with a trimble in my voice I could not keep back, I asks, “Is he
able to go away wid me?”

“He’ll go to his grave in a few hours,” says he.

“Doctor, dear, don’t say that; you can save him. I’ll pay you well, if
I have to mortgage my farm to get the money.”

“There is no saving of him, poor fellow; he’s going as many like him
are going,” and with that the doctor moved away.

I knelt beside my nephew and put my hand on his forehead. It was
burning hot. His lips were going and he was muttering something, what
I could not make out. “Gerald, won’t you spake; I’m your uncle come
to take you home wid me.” Never a word. I went over to one of the men
in charge and he pointed where the water was. I filled a noggin and
pressed it to my nephew’s lips and wet his face. I watched by him
for what seemed a long while and saw others die and heard the groans
of those in pain and the screams of those that were raving, and the
beseechings for water to drink. I attended to those near by as well
as I could, and it was when I was coming back with a pail of water I
noticed the flush had left my nephew’s face. I was bathing his forehead
when he opened his eyes and stared at me. “I’m your uncle, me poor boy;
you feel better?”

“May God bless you,” says he, “but what made you come to this fearful
place?”

“Sure its nothing; its little to do for my own sister’s child.”

He squazed my hand and closed his eyes and I knew he was praying for me.

“Bring me a priest.”

A man that was passing told me I’d find one in the next shed. It was
worse than the one I left, for it had one row over the other of
berths. At the far end I saw a priest, and found he was giving the last
rites to an ould man, whose white hair was matted with dirt. I waited
till he was done and asked the father to come with me. I left Gerald
and him alone, and the priest had no sooner said the last prayer than
there was a message for him to go to another poor soul for whom there
was no hope. When Gerald saw me, he said, despairin’ like, “Take me out
o’ here; ye can carry me. I want to die in God’s free air.” These were
his very words.

“That I will,” says I, “and you’ll be home wid me in Huntingdon afore
three days.” He smiled a sorrowful smile, and said nothing. I lifted
him in my arms and carried him out of the shed. I was powerful strong
when I was young, and tho’ he was tall and broad-shouthered he was
wasted to skin and bone. I laid him down in the shade of a tree, for
the sun was hot. He didn’t look at the river or the hills beyant, but
fixed his eyes on a spot that I took to be a burying-place. “Go back,”
he whispered, “and bring the bag below my berth.” I went, and found a
woman had already been put in the poor bed I had lifted him out of.
I reached for the bag and took it to him. Pointing to a spot in the
burying-place he told me to go there and I would see a grave with a
cross at its head and the name Aileen cut on it. “You can read?” “Yes,”
says I. I did his bidding and coming back told him I had found the
grave. “Promise me, you’ll bury me beside that grave.” I promised him.
“Open the bag and you’ll find in it a little book.” I reached it to
him. “Take it,” says he, “there are pages in it I would tear out were I
able. Let it go. Save the book; it will tell to those now unborn what
Irish men and women have suffered in this summer of sorrow.”

He was wake and closed his eyes. “Is there anything more I can do for
yees?” asks I. “Nothing, uncle dear; the summer breeze is sweet.” He
never said another rational word, for the fever set in again and he
began to rave. He talked as if he were on ship again and then he would
change to ould Ireland and he would be aplayin with his comrades, and
his laughing was sore to hear. Then there came a long while when he
was quiet, just tossing uneasy like at times as he slept. My eyes were
on the river and the ships and the green fields bright beyant, when I
hears him whisper, “Mother, dear, have ye been long waiting here for
your boy?” and he spoke to her tender and soft as he must have done
manys the time in ould Ireland. Then it was Aileen he saw, and it
was true-lover talk. Oh, it was all so beautiful; the poor boy dying
there of the fever on the river bank talkin so sweet and loving with
the two women who had filled his heart, an its the lot of love a true
Irishman’s heart can hould. I was gripping his hand, watching him, when
all at once his jaw fell and I saw the soul had fled. I laid him out
as I best could, and rolling the blanket round him lifted the corpse on
my shoulder and carried it to the spot he told me. There were shovels
and picks in plenty and I set myself to dig the grave. The smell of
the fresh earth brought back to me my own family and farm that I had
clean forgot that dreadful day, and I determined to be back with them
at once. There were men at work near me finishing a long trench, and
I saw them watching me and I watched them and listened to their talk.
The sun was low before the grave was finished to my liking. There was
no use trying to get a priest, they had enough to do with the dying
without burying the dead, so I laid the corpse carefully in the grave,
said a prayer and filled it in. I drove in a cedar picket to mark the
spot, for I meant some day to put a headstone there, but I never did,
for I was never able to go back. When all was done I went over to one
of the men who had been digging the trench that I had seen by his
talk was an Irishman. He was smoking his pipe with the lave, who were
waiting for the burial. I got him by himself and told him my errand
on the island and now I was done, I wanted away at once. That’s not
easy, he said. There were guards to prevent any coming on or leaving
the island except by the steamer and with a permit. “Sure,” I says,
“if I stay here till tomorrow I may be a dead man.” “That you will,”
says he, “an thin you’ll hev to go as a passenger in the steamboat that
takes emigrants right on to Montreal.” “I’ll never go on an emigrant
steamboat,” says I, minding the one I had seen. He spoke in French to
two men near us. They lived above Beauport, he told me, and while they
came, like himself, to bury the dead for big pay, they broke the rules
by going home at night, when wind and tide served, in a small boat.
If I’d help them to get done, they would let me go with them. The job
was like to make me sick, but I wanted away, and agreed. By this time
they were beginning to carry the dead from the sheds and tents, and as
the men with the stretchers came up they dumped their load into the
trench. We straightened the corpses to make them lie close, shovelled
some lime over them, and then a few inches of earth, when we were ready
for another row. Then the trench was filled and smoothed over. I had
put on my coat and was cleaning my shovel when one of the Frenchmen
touched my arm and I followed him. We slipped into the bushes and went
to the north side of the island, meeting nobody. At the foot of a steep
bank we found a boat. We got in, and casting loose the tide, which
was making, carried us up until we were a good bit from the island,
when a sail was hoisted and we went at a great speed, for the tide had
brought with it a stiff breeze. On landing I did not follow the men,
for I had something to do I had on my mind. I stripped to the skin,
and spread my clothes on the bushes. Going into the water I rubbed my
handkerchief and shirt and washed myself as I have never done since. I
scrubbed my skin with the sand and sniffed the water up my nose until,
for the first time, since morning, I got the stink out of it. It was
such a warm night, I was in no hurry to put on my clothes, and didn’t
till I thought they were well aired. I may tell you, from the moment
I buried my nephew, the fear of the fever came upon me, though I had
never thought of it afore. Well, when I was ready for the road, I felt
sick, but I knew it was with hunger, for I hadn’t broken bread since
morning. Coming to a habitant’s house, the door of which was open, I
went to it, but when they heard my tongue, they slammed the door in my
face, taking me to be an escaped fever patient. Seeing it was no use, I
walked as quickly as I could to Quebec, and made for the lodging-house
I had left that morning. There was a light in it, though I knew it must
be long past midnight. I went in and there were some sailors drinking
and playing cards. The landlord lifted his eyebrows when he saw me,
and signed me to follow into a back room. He lit a candle “Were you at
the island?” “I was, and am right dead wid hunger.” He brought some
victuals and I told him how I had got on. When I had cleaned the plates
he showed me to a bed. I rose late next day all right, and left with
the steamboat that afternoon for Montreal. The second day after I was
home and thankful my wife was to see me. I held my whisht, and never a
one but herself knew where I had been.

Well, that is all I have to tell. For a long while after, the sights
I had seen followed me, and at night I would wake trembling from my
dreams. That passed away, but I never cared to speak of what I saw,
and tried to keep the island and its sheds out of my mind. Did any
die of the fever in Huntingdon? Yes, Dr Shirriff told me he attended
45 cases, of whom 5 died. Not many were Irish. Emigrants strayed into
farmers’ houses and gave the infection. Father Kiernan was that year
priest in the old church at John Finn’s. He had gone on duty to attend
the emigrants at Lachine. Feeling ill one day he knew he was in for
the fever. If he stayed where he was, he would die in the sheds, so he
waited till the stage came along, got in, and rode home. When he got
off at his lodging, he told the people Geordie Pringle did not know
what kind of a customer he had. Next day he could not lift his head,
but he pulled through all right. What came of the colleen? She left
us that fall. Her mother’s brother in county Kent wrote for her. She
married a storekeeper in Chatham, who left her well off. The little
book is all I took belonging to my nephew. There were more things in
the bag. I was afeared of the infection and never touched them. He
must have had a chest or two, but I never asked for them. He was a good
man, and I’ve been thankful ever since I went to see him die.


Driving home in the dark I thought over what the old man had told me,
and felt how much more interesting his narrative made his nephew’s
diary, a faithful reprint of which I now present to the reader.


THE JOURNAL OF GERALD KEEGAN.

“The famine was heavy upon all the land.” According to the
chronologists more than three thousand years have passed since the
event recorded in these words. Strange that, after so long a period of
time has gone, the world has made so slight an advance in providing
food for the mouths it contains. At school today there was not a
scholar who was not hungry. When I told Mike Kelly to hold out his
hand for blotting his copy, he says, “I did not mane to: it was the
belly gripe did it.” I dropped the ferule and when the school was
dismissed slipped a penny into his hand to buy a scone at the baker’s.
The poor school I have had this winter takes the heart out of me. My
best scholars dead, others unfit to walk from their homes for weakness.
For men and women to want is bad enough, but to have the children
starving, crying for the food their parents have not to give them,
and lying awake at night from the gnawing at their little stomachs;
oh, it is dreadful. God forgive those who have it, and will not share
their abundance even with His little ones. I came home from school
this afternoon dejected and despairing. As I looked round me before
opening the door of my lodging, everything was radiantly beautiful. The
sunshine rested on the glory of Ireland, its luxuriant vegetation--its
emerald greenness. Hill and valley were alike brilliant in the first
flush of spring and the silver river meandered through a plain that
suggested the beautiful fields of paradise. Appearances are deceitful,
I thought; in every one of those thatched cabins sit the twin brothers,
Famine and Death. As I opened the door, Mrs Moriarty called to me
that my uncle Jeremiah had been twice asking for me. Poor man, I said
to myself, he will have come to borrow to buy meal for his children
and I will not have a shilling in my pocket until the board pays me
my quarter’s salary. I respect Jeremiah, for both he and his brother
in Canada were kind to my poor mother. How I wish all the family had
gone to Canada; cold in winter and hot in summer, they say, but there
is plenty to eat. I took up a book and had not long to wait for my
uncle. He did not need to say a word, his face told me he knew what
starvation meant. I called to my landlady to roast another herring; my
uncle would share my dinner. He came neither to beg nor borrow, but to
ask my advice. After high mass on Sunday the proctor got up on a stone
and told them their landlord had taken their case into consideration,
and went on to read a letter he had got from him. In it Lord Palmerston
said he had become convinced there was no hope for them so long as they
remained in Ireland, and their only means of doing better was to leave
the country. All in arrears, who would agree to emigrate, he would
forgive what they were due and pay their passage to Canada. Are you
sure, I asked, this letter was really from Lord Palmerston?

“We have just the proctor’s word for it. Well,” my uncle went on to
say, “the most of us jumped wid joy when we heard the letter and we
all began talkin as soon as he druv aff in his car. Tim Maloney said
nothin. He’s a deep one, Tim, a pathriot, an rades the papers. What
hev ye to say, Tim? I’m considerin, says he, the likes o’ this must be
deliberated on. Sure, I spakes up, the besht we can do is to get away
from here. In the wan letther I iver got from my brother in Canada, he
tould me he had two cows and a calf and three pigs, an a pair o’ oxen
and as much as they could ate. That’s not the pint, answers Tim, this
affer prisints itself to me as a plot to get us to lave the land widout
an equitable equivalent.”

With doubt thrown on the landlord’s good faith, the poor people went
on arguing among themselves, until a majority decided to stand out
and demand better terms. On hearing this, the agent sent word they
must decide within a week. If they rejected the offer, it would be
withdrawn and no new one would be submitted. My uncle had come to
get my advice, “For sure,” he said, “you are the only scholard in the
family.” I comprehended the infamous nature of the offer. The people
did not own the land, but they owned the improvements they had made on
it, and had a right to be compensated for them. I knew my uncle when a
boy had rented a piece of worthless bog and by the labor of himself,
and afterwards of his wife, and children, had converted it into a
profitable field. Should I advise him to give it up for a receipt for
back rent and a free passage to Canada? I tried to find out what he
thought himself. Are you for accepting the offer, uncle?

“That depinds,” he answered. “Give me a crop of spuds such as we had in
the ould times, an niver a step wad I muv.”

I told him potatoes had been the ruin of Ireland; that placing sole
dependence upon them had made her farmers neglect the proper care
of the land and the raising of other crops. When the rot came or
even a hard frost, such as they had in 1837, when potatoes froze in
the ground, they had nothing. My uncle was a sample of his class.
The lessons of Providence had been lost upon them. They would go on
planting potatoes and hoping for days that would never return, for the
land had become, by years of cropping, potato sick. Now, uncle, that
Tim Maloney has had time for deliberating, what has he decided on?

“I mit him at O’Calaghan’s lasht night,” replied my uncle, “an he tould
us to rejict the affer an jine the Young Ireland min. There’ll niver be
peace and plinty in Ireland, ses he, until she’s free.”

“May be,” I remarked, “but you and your family will be dead from
starvation before Tim and his friends free Ireland.” I cast the matter
over and over in my head while we were eating our bite of dinner, but
could not decide what advice to give my uncle and those who were going
to be governed by what he did. Escape from the dreadful conditions
under which they suffered would be a great blessing. On the other hand,
my sense of what was fair revolted at the idea of their giving up their
holdings, their homes for generations, for a nominal consideration.
When my uncle rose to go, for he had a long walk before him, I said I
could not decide then; I would think it over and on Sunday I would go
and see them.

When Sunday came, I rose early, and let myself out quietly. It was a
misty, soggy morning. I stepped out quickly, for I had a good way to
go. The walking was heavy, so when I came in sight of the chapel, I saw
late comers hurrying in for high mass. At the altar, to my surprise
and joy, I saw my old companion, Tom Burke. When the sermon came it
was like his old self, strong and bold. He compared the afflictions of
the people of suffering Ireland to those of the Israelites in Egypt,
ascribing the famine to the alien government, which wanted to wipe
them from the face of the earth. It would prove as futile as all past
persecutions directed against the Irish race, which would continue to
cherish their faith and their love of country. He carried me away with
him, but his hearers listened with countenances stolid and heavy. It
was the hunger; they could think of nothing but their craving for food.
Father Tom had noticed me, for when I was going out at the door the
man whispered to me to step into the sacristy. Passing the word with
my uncle, that I would be at his house in the afternoon, I joined my
old fellow student, who would have me to break my fast with him. He had
come on temporary duty, and I went with him to the priest’s house. Over
the table we recalled old times at Maynooth and were living those happy
days over again with joke and story, when our laughter was checked by
the housekeeper coming in to say if we were done with our dinner Mrs
Murtagh was waiting to see for what his reverence wanted her. “Send her
here,” he ordered. A broken-down woman, haggard and in rags, stood at
the door. “O ye have come, have ye, Mrs Murtagh.”

“Yes, yer rivirence; Mrs Maloney tould me ye wanted me, and didn’t know
what for.”

“Oh, you know what I wanted you for, if Mrs Maloney did not. I wanted
to see what kind of a baste you were that would go to the soupers--what
kind of Irish woman you were that would sell your faith to thim
white-livered divils.”

Father Burke here rose to his feet, his face lit with wrath, and his
hand moving to grasp his cross. The woman sunk on her knees at his
feet. “For the sake of the dear mother of God, don’t put the curse on
me, yer rivirence,” she entreated.

“Why not? What have ye to say?”

“The childher were cryin all night for a bite, but it wasn’t that.
Little Tim was adyin on my breast, an I cudn’t bear to have him tuk
from me. I wint out, I tried everywhere, I could get nothin, an thin, I
wint to the soupers. It was to keep the life in Tim, yer rivirence; I
burned their thracks an never tasted myself what they gev me.”

With a piercing cry the woman fell prone on the floor. Father Tom’s
anger passed as quickly as it rose. “Take her away,” he said to the
housekeeper who hastened in, “I’ll see her after vespers.”

I rose to go; he was his old self again; and with a hearty word we
parted. At my uncle’s house I found a number of his neighbors waiting
and we were soon discussing the subject that filled their heads. The
agent had given out he had got another letter, in which the landlord
mended his offer, by promising that his agent at Quebec would pay ten
shillings a head on their landing at that city, and saying the Canadian
government would give each family a hundred acres free. There was to
be no breaking or separating of families; all would go in the same
ship. Against the lure of the free passage, the ten shillings, and the
hundred acres, they put leaving Ireland for such a wild, cold place as
Canada, and to people in rags the thought of its frost and snow was
terrible. My uncle fetched his only letter from his brother and I read
it aloud. I had to do so several times, as they argued over particular
statements and expressions in it. The account it gave of his comfort
weighed with them. After a great deal of talk my uncle says, “Well,
boys, my brother never told me a lie an I believe every word of his
letter. If ye says, I’ll go wid ye, I’m for takin the offer an lavin at
onct.” His decision carried them by storm, and the listless downcast
men became bright and energetic with the new hope born within them. As
I walked home, I thought it over. There was the possibility of their
being deceived by the agent. They were ignorant of business and could
easily be imposed upon. Should I not go with them and protect their
interests? What was there to keep me in Ireland? Everything I had tried
had gone against me. When I was in a fair way at Maynooth, the thought
had possessed me the priesthood was not my vocation and I left its
loved walls. Failure and disappointment had marked every effort made in
other callings since. To give up my situation as teacher would matter
little; its salary was a mockery. I would see Aileen.

Feby. 28, 1847.--Aileen consents. Like myself an orphan, she has no
ties to bind her to dear old Ireland beyond those common to all her
children. We will be married the week before the ship sails. Gave up
my school today. As I mean to keep a journal of the voyage, I sat down
tonight and wrote the foregoing, to remind me in future years of the
causes that led to my decision.

March 8.--Uncle came to see me this morning. What he tells me raises
doubts of the good faith of the landlord. The agent was round yesterday
with an attorney who got them to put their mark to a paper. A ship is
promised beginning of April.

10.--Walked to town to see the agent. He was not for showing the paper
at first. It was a release of all claims on the landlord and a promise
to give him peaceable possession on the 1st April. The remission of
what is due for rent and the free passage are specified as the quid
pro quo of the landlord, but not a word about the ten shillings a head
to be paid at Quebec or the 100 acres per family from the Canadian
government. Nothing can now be done; the poor people are at Lord
Palmerston’s mercy.

April 9.--We were married Monday morning, and spent three happy days
with Aileen’s cousin in Limerick. Arrived here in Dublin today. The
ship is advertised to sail tomorrow. Took out our tickets for second
cabin and drive tomorrow morning to where the ship is lying.

10.--When the car drove alongside the ship, instead of finding her
ready for sea she was a scene of confusion, carpenters at work on her
hull and riggers perched in her cordage. There is a mountain of freight
to go on board, which she is not ready to receive. It was a shame to
advertise her to sail today when she cannot leave for several days. Our
second cabin proves to be a cubby-hole in the house on deck. We might
as well have gone in the steerage and saved £5. It was late in the day
when uncle and his neighbors arrived; they formed a large party, and
were footsore with their long tramp. The captain refused to allow them
to go on board and they will have to spend the night on the quay. The
weather fortunately is dry.

11.--I spoke to the captain on behalf of the emigrants. I showed him
they had come on the day advertised and had a right to maintenance.
He curtly told me to go and see the ship’s broker, who has his office
far up in the city. I waited over an hour in an outer room to get an
interview with the government emigration inspector. I implored him to
put in force the law on behalf of the poor people shivering on the
quay. He haughtily ordered me out of his office; saying he knew his
duty and would not be dictated to by a hedge schoolmaster. Came away
indignant and sore at heart. Looking over the emigrants I can see why
Lord Palmerston confined his offer to those in arrears for rent and
who had small holdings. Such persons must needs be widows or old men
without proper help. His lordship has shrewdly got rid of those likely
to be an incumbrance on his estates. The company is made up largely of
women and children, with a few old or weakly men. The number of widows
is surprising.

12.--The weather is cold and showery and the poor people are most
miserable--wet, hungry, and shivering. I went to Dublin to see the
ship’s broker. He received me very smoothly and referred me to the
charterer, without whose instructions he could do nothing. The
charterer I found to be out of town; the owner of the ship lives in
Cork. I returned disconsolate. An infant died today from exposure. On
going to see about the innocent’s burial, the priest told me it was
common for ships to advertise they would sail on a day on which they
had no intention of leaving. It was done to make sure of getting all
the passengers they could pack into the vessel. They get £3 a head
from the landlords, children counting as half, and the more they can
force on board the greater their profit. His experience had been that
charterers of vessels for carrying emigrants were remorseless in their
greed, and, by bribing the officials, set the government regulations
at defiance. Scenes he had seen on the quays drew tears from all save
those whose hearts were hardened by the lust of gain.

14--The poor people are homesick and heartsick. Today a number of
them tried to get on board and take possession of the berths between
decks, which were finished yesterday. They were driven back by the mate
and the sailors. One man was brutally kicked by the mate. It seems
if the passengers got on board they would have a right to rations,
hence their being denied shelter. Some of the men have got work along
the quays, and every sixpence is a help to buy bread. Again ventured
to remonstrate with the captain. He said he had nothing to say to an
informer, referring to my visit to the government agent. I told him I
would report his conduct to Lord Palmerston, and have just written a
letter to his lordship.

15.--Matters have been going on from bad to worse. Two more children
have died from cold and want. Not a soul in the crowd has had a warm
bite since they left home. Their food is an insufficiency of bread,
which is poor sustenance to ill-clad people camped in open sheds. The
ship is ready for sea yet they will not let us go on board.

16.--This morning we were ordered to go on board and gladly hurried
up the long plank. We had not been fairly settled in her until there
was a hurroo, and looking ashore I saw a great crowd of men carrying
bundles and babies, with women and children. They were worse clad and
more miserable than our own people. To my surprise they headed for
our ship and were soon crowding into her until there was not room to
turn. No sooner was the last chest got on board than the sailors began
to unmoor the ship. Before they were done a tug steamed up to us and
passed her hawser. We had moved out into the bay some distance, when
the paddles of the tug stopped, and we saw a six-oared cutter making
for us, and when alongside the government inspector, in blue uniform
with gilt buttons, leapt on board. He looked neither to left nor right,
but walked with the captain across the quarter-deck and went down into
the cabin. My mind was made up. My people had already suffered much at
the hands of the shipping-men, and I resolved to protest against their
being overcrowded. I knew the law, and knew full well that she had all
on board she was competent for before this new arrival. I waited my
opportunity, and when I saw the inspector emerge from the companion-way
and head straight for his boat, I rushed forward. I had just shouted
the words, “I protest--,” when I was tripped from behind. As I fell
headlong, I heard the inspector say, “Poor fellow, has had a drop too
much. Good-bye, captain; prosperous voyage.” When I rose to my feet he
was gone, and the mate faced me. “Damn you,” he shouted, “try to speak
to an outsider again and I’ll brain you.” Mortified at my failure and
indignant at my usage, I left the quarter-deck. The tug was in motion
again, and we were sailing down the bay--fair Dublin bay, with its
beautifully rounded slopes and hills, bright with budding woods and
verdant sward. To our surprise, for we thought we had started on our
voyage, the tug dropped us when we had gone down the bay a bit, and our
anchor was let go. Late in the evening the word went round the reason
of our not sailing was that the crew, from the captain down to the
apprentices, believed the ship would have no luck were she to begin her
voyage on a Friday.

17.--At daybreak we were roused by the clanking of the capstan as the
anchor was weighed. There was a light air from the north-east. Sails
were spread and we slowly beat out of the bay and took a long slant
into the channel, dropping our pilot as we passed Kingstown. Stores
were broached and biscuit for three days served. They were very coarse
and somewhat mouldy, yet the government officer was supposed to have
examined and passed them as up to the requirements of the emigration
act. Bad as they were, they were eagerly accepted, and so hungry were
the people that by night most of them were eaten. How shamefully the
ship was overcrowded was now to be seen and fully realized. There were
not berths for two-thirds of the passengers, and by common consent they
were given up to the aged, to the women and the children. The others
slept on chests and bundles, and many could find no other resting place
than the floor, which was so occupied that there was no room to walk
left. I ascertained, accidentally, that the mate served out rations
for 530 today. He counts two children as one, so that there are over
600 souls on board a ship which should not legally have 400, for the
emigrant act specifies 10 square feet of deck to a passenger. Why was
this allowed? What I heard a man telling this morning explains all. The
government had sent £200 to be spent on relief works in his townland
by giving employment at a shilling a day. When £50 had been paid out,
the grant was declared to be exhausted. Where did the £150 go? Into the
pockets of a few truly loyal defenders of the English constitution and
of the Protestant religion. The British parliament has voted enough
money to put food in every starving mouth in Ireland. Half and more of
the money has been kept by bloodsuckers of the English garrison. I get
mad when I think of all this. The official class in Ireland is the most
corrupt under the sun. A bribe will blind them, as I saw yesterday,
when the inspector passed our ship and stores. Wind continued light
all forenoon, and fell away in the afternoon to a calm. After sunset a
breeze sprung up from the west, but did not hold, and as I write we are
becalmed in mid-channel.

18.--Light and baffling breezes from the west and north-west prevailed
all day, so we made little progress on the long journey before us. One
of our many tacks brought us close to the English coast. It was my
first and likely to be my last view of that country. Aileen has made
our cabin snug and convenient beyond belief. Her happy disposition
causes her to make the best of everything.

19.--The westerly breezes that kept us tacking in the channel gave
place, during the night, to a strong east wind, before which the ship
is bowling at a fine rate. Passing close to the shore we had a view of
the coast from Ardmore to Cape Clear. Aileen sat with me all day, our
eyes fixed on the land we loved. Knowing, as it swept past us, it was
the last time we would ever gaze upon it, our hearts were too full for
speech. Towards evening the ship drew away from it, until the hills
of Kerry became so faint that they could hardly be distinguished from
the clouds that hovered over them. When I finally turned away my eyes
from where I knew the dear old land was, my heart throbbed as if it
would burst. Farewell, Erin; no matter how far from you I may roam, my
heartstrings are woven to you and forget you I never shall. May the
centuries of your sorrows soon be completed, and peace and plenty be
yours forever. Land of my fathers, shrine of my faith, a last farewell!

20.--When I awoke this morning I became sensible of the violent
motion of the ship. Going out I saw we were fairly on the bosom of
the Atlantic and the ship was plunging through the ocean swell. The
east wind still held and we were speeding on our course under full
sail. I found my fellow-passengers to be in a deplorable condition.
The bulwarks were lined with a number who were deadly seasick. Going
between decks the scene nigh overcame me. The first time I went below
I was reminded of a cavern--long and narrow and low in ceiling. Today
it was a place for the damned. Three blinking oil lanterns cast light
enough to show the outlines of forms that lay groaning on the floor,
and give glimpses of white stony faces lying in the berths, a double
tier of which surround the sides of the ship. A poignant wail of misery
came through an atmosphere of such deadly odour that, for the first
time, I felt sick, and had to beat a retreat up the narrow ladder. The
cool ocean breeze revived me and Aileen, who proved a good sailor,
had our modest breakfast ready when I joined her. On revisiting the
steerage later in the day I found there were passengers down with more
than seasickness. There are several cases of dysentery. I asked the
steward to tell the captain. He informs me the captain can do nothing,
having only a small medicine-chest for the crew. However he told him,
and the captain ordered the steward to give them each a glass of
whisky. I had plain proof today of my suspicions that drink is being
sold, and on charging the steward he told me it was the custom for
the mates of emigrant ships to be allowed to do so, and he would get
me what I wanted at any time for sixpence a noggin. I told him I had
taken the pledge at the hands of Father Matthew and considered drink
unnecessary. My remonstrances fell on stony ground, for the steward, a
decent, civil fellow, sees no wrong in drinking or in selling drink.

21.--The first death took place last night, when a boy of five years
succumbed to dysentery. In the afternoon a wail suddenly arose from
the hold--a fine young woman had died from the same cause. Both were
dropped into the sea at sunset. There are fewer seasick today, but the
number ill from dysentery grows. Cornmeal was served out today instead
of biscuit. It was an injury instead of a sustenance, for it being
impossible to make stirabout of it owing to no provision having been
made for a galley for the passengers, it had to be mixed with water and
eaten raw. Some got hot water, but most had to use cold. Such food when
dysentery threatens is poison. Today was cold with a headwind that sent
the spray flying over the bows. Had a long talk this afternoon with a
very decent man who is going to Peterborough, Canada West. He thinks it
is not disease that ails the children, but cold and hunger. Food and
clothes is what they need, not medicine. The number of sick grows.
Sighted 2 ships today, both too far away to speak them.

22.--Why do we exert ourselves so little to help one another, when it
takes so little to please? Aileen coaxed the steward to let her have
some discarded biscuit bags. These she is fashioning into a sort of
gowns to cover the nakedness of several girls who could not come on
deck. The first she finished this afternoon, and no aristocratic miss
could have been prouder of her first silk dress than was the poor child
of the transformed canvas bag, which was her only garment.

23.--This is Sunday. The only change in the routine of the ship that
marks the day is that the sailors gave an extra wash down to the decks
and after that did no work except trim the sails. They spent the
forenoon on the forecastle mending or washing their clothes. During
the afternoon it grew cold, with a strong wind from the northeast,
accompanied by driving showers. Towards sunset the sea was a lather of
foam, and the wind had increased to a gale. When the waves began to
flood the deck, the order was given to put the hatches on. God help the
poor souls shut in beneath my feet! With hatches open, the hold was
unbearable to me. With them closed, what will it be by morning? It is
growing so dark I cannot see to write more, for a light is forbidden
to us. The wind is still rising and the thump of the waves as they
strike the ship’s side grows more violent. The shouting of orders,
the tramp and rush of the sailors to obey them, the swaying of the
ship, the groaning of her timbers and masts, and the constant swish of
water rushing across the deck, combine to make me most melancholy and
forebodings of evil darken my soul. Aileen is on her knees, the calm
and resignation of a saint resting upon her face. There is a faith in
God that rises above the worst of the world’s trials.

24.--We had a dreadful night, and I slept only by snatches. At midnight
the tempest seemed to reach its heighth, when its roar drowned all
other sounds. The ship swayed and rolled as if she would capsize,
while ever and anon she shipped a sea that flooded our little cabin,
and threatened to tear the house, of which it forms part, from its
fastenings and carry it overboard. How I prayed for daylight! When
at last the dawn of another day came, the wind lessened somewhat in
its force, but the waves were higher and stronger, and while the ship
was still shuddering from the dreadful blow dealt by one, another
struck her, and made her stagger worse than before. Peering out of the
side-scuttle I could see naught but a wild tumult of waters--yawning
abysses of green water and moving mountains crested with foam. The
writhing, ceaseless activity of the raging waters deeply impressed
me. Our ship at one time seemed to be about to be engulfed; the next
moment she towered above the highest waves. So far as I could make
out she was driving before the gale under her foresail, close reefed.
It was noon before it was safe to step out on deck. The wind was dying
away but the ocean was still a wild scene. With little way on the ship,
she rolled and pitched, so that to keep from falling I had to clutch
at whatever I could get a hold of. The sails were slatting against the
masts with a noise like thunder. It was late in the day when a breeze
came up, which steadied the vessel and caused her to ship no more
water, when the mate ordered the hatches to be opened. I was standing
by, concerned to know how it had gone with my people. The first man to
come up was my uncle. He had been waiting anxiously to see me. His wife
had taken ill during the night, and he was afraid her trouble was the
fever. I hurried down with him and found her pulse high and her body
racked with pains. All that we had in our power to do for her was to
give a few drops of laudanum from a bottle Aileen had brought with her,
which eased her pains and gave her some rest. Aileen wanted to go and
see her but I would not allow her, the sights and stench of between
decks being revolting and past description. Uncle says the passengers
passed a dreadful night. The seams opened in the forepeak, and the
water coming in caused a panic, the belief being the ship was about to
sink. One old man was thrown against a trunk and had three ribs broken
and a girl, ill from dysentery, died during the worst of the storm.

25.--Tired and worn out as I was, I had a broken night’s rest. I woke
with a start from a dream that uncle’s wife was dead. So impressed was
I that such was the case, that I dressed hurriedly to go and see. As I
stepped on deck 8 bells were struck, indicating midnight. It was clear
though cold, and the stars could be seen to the horizon. The column of
heated air that rose from the hatchway was peculiarly fetid, but I did
not hesitate to descend. Except for the cries and groans of the sick
stillness prevailed. Exhausted by the watching of the preceding night
all who could were asleep. On getting to uncle’s berth, I found him
sleeping heavily, his wife tossing by his side with the restlessness of
her disease. She was dosing and muttering, showing she was not herself.
I tried to catch the words she uttered, and found in her delirium she
was back in Ireland and to the happy days when uncle was a wanter
and was coming to see her. I searched high and low before I found a
pannikin of water. I raised her head and held it to her lips. She drank
it to the last drop. Slipping back to my bunk, I slept until it was
late in the day. My first thought on opening my eyes was, that it was
my duty to speak to the captain, and as I took breakfast with Aileen I
thought how I could approach him with some hope of success. I kept on
deck watching my chance. The captain came up only for a short time at
noon to take the sun, and then the mate was with him. I knew it was no
use to speak when that fellow was near. After dinner I saw the mate go
to his cabin for a sleep, and waited anxiously for the captain. When he
did step from the companion and had taken a round or two on the poop,
I stepped up. He looked surprised and as if he resented my intrusion.
Before he could speak I said--“Pardon me, captain, for coming here. I
thought you might not know what is on board ship.”

“What do you mean?” he asked roughly.

“There is fever on board,” I answered quietly. He paled a little, and
then shouted, “You lie; what do you know about fever? You are not a
doctor.”

“Come and see for yourself,” I said, “you have not been ’tween decks
since we left Dublin.”

With an oath he retorted “Do you mean to tell me what I should do? I
want you to understand I know my duty.”

“For heaven’s sake, captain, do it then. Fever is on board and unless a
change is made half the passengers may die.”

“What change?” he asked sulkily.

“The steerage wants cleansing and the passengers need better food and
more of it.”

“Grumbling, eh; what do they expect? Roast beef and plum pudding? The
beggars get the government allowance. Begone, sir.”

I was trembling with repressed indignation but for the sake of
those I pled for I kept cool. “Captain, the poor people ask nothing
unreasonable. Go and see for yourself the biscuits and water served out
to them, and I am sure you will order a change.”

“Complain about the water, too! What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s foul,” I told him, “it smells and bad though it be, there is not
enough served out. The sick are calling for water and not a drop to be
got.”

“Not enough served out--what do you mean?”

“That the allowance is scrimped.”

He clinched his fist and raised his right arm as if to strike me. “This
to me, on my own ship; that passengers are cheated in measure!”

“Strike me, captain, if you will, but by our common faith I implore you
to consider the case of my poor people. There are children who have
died from starvation and they have been dropped into the sea. There are
more dying and you can save them by ordering a larger ration of sound
biscuit. There are men and women lying stretched in the fever, will
you not ease their agony by letting them have all the water they can
drink? They have suffered everything flesh and blood can suffer short
of death. In fleeing from the famine in Ireland, do not let it be said
they have found harder hearts and a worse fate on board ship. When you
know a cup of water and a bite will save life and will make hundreds
happy, sure, captain, you will not refuse to give them.”

“You vagabond,” he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with anger, “if you
insinuate I am starving anybody I will pitch you overboard. The
passengers get all the government regulations allow them and more they
shan’t have. Begone, sir, and do not dare to come on the poop again.”

“One word, captain. I have been told you have a wife and children. For
their sweet sake, have pity on the little ones and the women on board.”

“Do you hear me?” he shouted. “Leave the poop or I will kick you off.
I’ll have no mutiny on my ship.”

I turned and left more sorrowful at my failure than indignant at my
usage. My appeal did some good, however, for before the day was over
wind-sails were rigged at the hatchways, which did a little to freshen
the air ’tween decks. A sail ahead hove in sight during the afternoon,
and we rapidly gained on her. At six o’clock we were abreast of the
stranger, which was not over half a mile away. She was a small barque
and had lost her foretopmast during the gale. She signalled us, but
our captain took no notice, and we soon left her a long way astern.
Asking the boatswain why she wanted to speak us, he said she likely was
short of sails and spars to repair her damage and wanted to get them
from us. “And why did the captain not help her?” The boatswain smiled.
“They cost money and supplying them would have delayed us.” I had my
own thoughts about the sailor who would not give a helping hand to his
brother when overtaken by misfortune. If that ship be lost for lack of
spar or sail, then that little tyrant who struts our quarter-deck is
accountable.

26.--A beautiful morning, bright and milder than it has been. Every
sail is drawing and the ship is bowling along at a fine rate. I got up
early, being anxious about uncle’s wife. Found her no better. Worse
than that, learned there were five besides her ill the same way. There
is now not a shadow of a doubt that typhus fever is on board. Since
we left port, no attempt has been made to clear the steerage, which
is filthy beyond description. When I speak to the men to join in and
shovel up the worst of the dirt, they despondently ask me, “What’s the
use?” The despondency engendered of hunger and disease is upon them
and they will not exert themselves. The steward is the only one of the
ship’s company who goes down the hatch-steps, and it would be better
if he did not, for his errand is to sell the drink for which so many
are parting with the sixpences they should keep for their landing in
a strange country. The day being passably warm in the afternoon the
children played on the deck and I coaxed Paddy Doolan to get out his
pipes and set them jigging.

27.--A dull, murky morning, with a mist that surrounded the ship as
the wrapping of silk paper does an orange. It was almost a dead calm
and the atmosphere was so heavy the smoke of the galley did not rise
and filled the deck with its fumes. The main deck was deserted, save
by myself and three old women who sat on the coaming of the main
hatchway, smoking their pipes. The cabin boy flitted backwards and
forwards carrying breakfast to the cabin, where the steward was laying
the table. The boy’s motions did not escape the women, and I noticed
them whispering and laughing as if concocting a plot. One presently
went down into the hold, while the other two turned anxious glances
for the return of the cabin boy. When he did come he loaded up with as
many skillets and pans as he could carry. No sooner had he disappeared
down the companion-way, than the women ran to the galley, which was
deserted, for the cook, having completed his morning’s work, had gone
to the forecastle, where the sailors were at breakfast, leaving the
dishes ready for the boy to take to the cabin as wanted. In a twinkling
the women were out again, one of them bearing a big copper teapot,
the steam from its spout showing in the morning air. Hurrying to the
hatchway they were met by the woman who had left them, ready with a
lapful of tins of every description. Into these the tea was poured and
handed below, as quickly as they could be handled. Curious to view the
scene I went to the hatch and looked down, seeing a crowd of grinning
passengers beneath, who carried off the tins as they got them. When
the last drop was out of the kettle, the woman who held it ran back to
the galley, and dipping it into an open copper of hot water replaced
it where she got it. The women did not disappear, but resuming their
seats on the edge of the hatch proceeded to discuss the tins of tea
they had reserved for themselves. By-and-by the boy hove in sight,
and, unsuspicious of the change in its contents, carried the kettle to
the cabin. He had been away five minutes when he reappeared kettle in
hand and went to the galley. I stood behind him. He looked bewildered.
“Bedad, I was right; there’s no other kettle.” “Anything wrong, my
boy?” “Och, yis; it’s hot say water instead of tay that’s in the
kettle.” Going to the sailors’ quarters he returned with the cook who,
on tasting what was in the kettle, looked perplexed. Accompanied by the
boy he made his way to the cabin to report a trick had been played upon
him. Telling Aileen of what was afoot, she drew a shawl over her head,
came out and took her place by me in lee of the long boat, awaiting
developments. The mate, followed by cook, steward, and boy, emerged
from the companion. Striding the deck with wrathful haste the mate went
to the galley and after hearing the explanations of the cook, shouted
“I’ll flay the----thieves with a rope’s end.” Coming back, he asked
me, “What do you know about this?”

“That I had no hand it,” I replied, “nor, I’m sorry to say, even a
taste of it.” Aileen laughed, and eyeing me malignantly the mate
retorted, “You know who did it; tell me right away.”

“Of course I know, but I would not tell a gentleman like yourself who
hates informers. Remember Dublin bay.”

He ground his teeth and had Aileen not been there I believe he would
have attempted to strike me. Wheeling round to the three old women who
sat quietly on the hatchway he asked them.

“Is it the tay ye are askin afther? Sure an it wasn’t bad; was it, Mrs
O’Flaherty?”

“Dade it was comfortin this saft mornin, Mrs Doolan, an good it was ov
the gintlemin to send it to us. It’s a captain ye should be instead ov
a mate, my dear.”

“Tell me who stole the tea-kettle from the galley,” yelled the mate.

“Och, dear, don’t be shoutin so loud,” replied Mrs Doolan, “if I be
old, I’m not deaf yet. An as for stealin yer dirthy ould tay-kittle,
sure I saw the boy with it in his hand this minit.”

“Come, no prevaricating. You know what I mean. Who stole the tea?”
cried the mate.

“Mrs Finegan, ye sit there niver saying a word; can’t ye tell this
swate gintlemin who stole the tay.”

“You’ll be manin the tay the landlord tould us he paid tin pounds into
the hands of the mate to give us on the voyage. Where that tay wint to
I don’t know at awl, at awl. Do you, Mrs O’Flaherty?”

“For shame, Mrs Finegan, to be purtindin sich a gintlemin wad kep the
tin poun. He’s agoin to give us tay reglar afther this, an (here she
raised her tin and drank the last drop) this is the first token. If ye
plaze, sir, it would taste betther were ye to put a grain o’ shuggar in
it.”

At this, Aileen, who had been quivering with restrained merriment,
burst into a ripple of laughter, loud and long, and an echo from
beneath showed there were amused auditors at the hatchway. The mate
grew purple with wrath. Seizing Mrs O’Flaherty by the shoulder he
fairly screamed, “You old hag, you know all about it; show me the
thief.”

The woman rose to her feet, her long grey hair hanging damp and limp in
straggling locks. With a twinkle in her eye she composedly regarded the
mate and dropping him a curtsey, said, she could “not refuse so purlite
a gintlemin. Thravellin in furrin parts is as good for manners as a
boardin-school eddication, Mrs Finegan.”

With an oath the mate shouted, “Show me the thief.”

“It’s that same I’m going to do,” she replied, “Come afther me,” and
she put her foot on the ladder that led into the hold. The mate shrank
back as if shot. “Are you not acomin?” asked Mrs O’Flaherty. “Indade
its proud we will all be to see yer bewtiful face below for ye have
never been down to see us yet.”

“He’s bashful,” interjected Mrs Doolan, rising, “come wid me, if ye
plaze, Mr Mate, an I’ll interjuce you.”

The mate was glaring with a look in which fear mingled with baffled
rage. The crones noted his state of mind and enjoyed it. “Can ye tell
me, Mrs O’Flaherty, where that fine parfume is comin from?”

“Is it the sint aff the mate, yer smellin?” remarked Mrs Finegan, who
had relit her pipe and was looking on with a solemn face. “Sure it’s
camfire, an he shmells av it like an ould maid’s chist o’ drawers.”

“Beggin yer pardon, Mrs Finegan,” retorted Mrs O’Flaherty, “it’s a
docthur he be, an he is comin down to see thim sick wid the favor.”

With a volley of curses the mate turned away. As he went towards the
poop he was followed by a chorus of cries from the old women, Wunna
ye come an git the thafe? How did ye like hot say wather for tay?
Remimber, an send us our tay reglar afther this, not forgittin the
shuggar. There’s a favor patient wants to see ye, sir.

When he disappeared I said to Aileen “none but Irishwomen could have
so settled a bully.” “And no other,” she laughingly replied, “have
captured a cup of tea so neatly.” Towards noon the fog cleared, and the
ship made some progress under a light breeze. There was no death today,
but there are more cases of fever. The boatswain told me that the sight
of the sun today showed we were 600 miles from Newfoundland. Saw the
topsails of a full-rigged ship at the edge of the horizon before sunset.

28.--Rained all morning and miserably cold. The light breeze we had
died away and we rolled helplessly until after dinner, when the wind
came up from the south-east, which sent us bowling on our course. A
huge staysail, that had been bent by the sailors two days ago between
the main and foremast, was hoisted for the first time, and added
perceptibly to the ship’s speed. Sickness increases and the body of a
boy of 5 years of age was dropped into the ocean in the forenoon. The
frequency of deaths has made the passengers callous, and, especially
those of children, call out little comment. When men and women have
sounded the deepest depth of wretchedness, as they have done, they seem
to lose both hope and fear. Uncle’s wife is no better; so far as I can
judge she is sinking. She might rally had we suitable nourishment to
give her, but we have nothing. She has not even fresh air, but with
every breath inhales the stench of a pestilence. Uncle, unable to do
anything else for her, sits at the head of the berth, her hand clasped
in his. We had a wonderful sunset. The change of wind brought warmth
and dappled the sky with fleecy clouds. The forecastle being deserted
Aileen went with me and we sat where, looking down, we could see the
cutwater flashing the waves into foam, or, looking up, see the cloud of
canvas and tracery of rope and block crimsoning in the waning sunlight.
The sun was setting so directly ahead of us that it might be supposed
the man at the wheel was steering for it. The glittering, burnished
pathway it threw across the ocean, our ship sailed up.

“Sure,” whispered Aileen, “it is the road to the land of promise and
the sun himself welcomes us as we pursue it.”

“Heaven grant it may be so, but for some on board the land of promise
will never be.”

“Don’t be looking at the dark side, Gerald. See yonder clouds, their
downy edges touched with pink. Let us fancy them the wings of the
angels who are beckoning us to homes of plenty and content beyond that
western wave, and cheer up.”

As I looked into her face, bright with enthusiasm, I felt if angels
beckoned I had also one at my side to encourage me. We gazed in silence
at the glowing scene, marked the sun’s disappearance, and the deepening
colors in cloud and water. Turning our gaze to the ship we could trace
the sun’s departing rays as they creeped up the tall masts. “Who
would think,” I said, “to look upon this most beautiful of all man’s
creations, a ship in full sail radiant in the sun’s richest tints, that
in her hold she is bearing an unspeakable mass of misery and woe? How
dark within; how bright without. How deceiving are appearances!”

“Nay, Gerald, rather look at it this way: How God in his goodness
beautifies what man mars. Nothing so loathsome the sun will not bathe
in the fullness of his brightness and glory.”

And in that I thought, the sunshine is type of woman’s love, which
is not withheld by what is repulsive and like the sunshine takes no
defilement from what it touches.

29.--Uncle’s wife died this morning. It would not be correct to say
the fever killed her, for it had not reached its crisis. She was
weakly when she left home, and the sojourn on the quay, waiting to get
on board ship, gave her a bad cold. Her system was so reduced, she
could not withstand the onset of the disease. Uncle wanted a coffin,
and the carpenter agreed to make one for five shillings, but when he
asked permission of the mate he refused, so she was buried like the
others, slipped into the ocean. I recited the prayers for the dead,
and the deck was crowded, many being there who had not left the hold
since we sailed. Just as they were about to lift the corpse over the
gunwale Aileen suddenly burst into song--that mournful, consolatory
hymn of the ages, Dies Iræ, to whose strains so many millions of the
faithful have been carried to the grave. It was her magnificent voice,
sounding from the choir-loft of our chapel, that first drew me to her,
and, never before, did I hear her put more feeling into her voice than
now. When the last strain of melody floated over the waters, there was
a hush for a minute, my uncle laid his hand for the last time on the
head of her he so dearly loved, there was a plunge, and all was over.
The breaking out of the fever has produced, even among us hardened to
misfortune, something like a panic. The crew are in mortal terror of
the infection and will not allow passengers to go on the forecastle,
as was their wont. The ship being sent to sea purposely shorthanded,
the owner relying on saving something by getting the emigrants to
help, a few of our lads, who had been given bunks in the forecastle
and allowed sailors’ rations, have been warned, if they go down the
hatchways to see their people, they need not return. The captain and
cabin passengers never leave the poop. As for the mate, he seems to put
his faith for protection against infection on camphor, and so smells of
it that he must have a piece in every pocket. Uncle’s sorrows are not
ended, for two of his family are very ill.

30.--Cold and rainy with fog. A north-west wind is blowing that drives
the ship at a good rate, though not straight on her course. The fever
spreads and to the other horrors of the steerage is added the cries of
those in delirium. While I was coming from the galley this afternoon,
with a pan of stirabout for some sick children, a man suddenly sprang
upwards from the hatchway, rushed to the bulwark, his white hair
streaming in the wind, and without a moment’s hesitation leaped into
the seething waters. He disappeared beneath them at once. His daughter
soon came hurrying up the ladder to look for him. She said he had
escaped from his bunk during her momentary absence, that he was mad
with the fever. When I told her gently as I could that she would never
see him again, she could not believe me, thinking he was hiding. Oh
the piercing cry that came from her lips when she learned where he had
gone; the rush to the vessel’s side, and the eager look as she scanned
the foaming billows. Aileen led her away; dumb from the sudden stroke
yet without a tear.

May 1.--Wind still from northwest; ship beating against it in short
tacks. Most disagreeable motion. Cast lead at noon. At 150 fathoms
found no bottom. A whale crossed our bows, not a hundred yards away.
During the afternoon wind veered to northeast and before dark developed
into a gale, before which we are driving. May it last long enough to
bring us to land. Two deaths today, which has been a truly miserable
May-day.

2.--There had been a flurry of snow during the night, so that yards
and deck were white when I went out. The gale still holds and boatswain
said if the weather cleared we would see Newfoundland. Two small booms
cracked but that has not deterred the captain from keeping on all the
sail the ship will bear. At times her lee rail almost touches the
water, and the deck slants so it is difficult to cross it. The captain
is anxious to end the voyage, and no wonder, for the fever spreads. One
child and two adults have died within the last twenty-four hours. Their
bodies were dropped overboard when the ship was going 12 knots an hour.
A cold, miserable day.

3.--The gale blew itself out during the night and today it is calm, the
ship pitching and rolling on a glassy swell, and the sails flapping as
if they would split. There is a mist, and it is very cold, which, the
boatswain tells me, indicates ice near. Lead cast and soundings found,
showing we are on the Banks. Some of our people, who are fishermen,
bargained with the cook for a piece of salt pork and using it as bait
cast their lines. Their patience was tried for a while, until we struck
a school of fish, when for half an hour they caught cod and dogfish
as fast as they could haul them in. The school then left and few were
caught afterwards. They gave a few of best fish to the cook and in
consideration he cooked what they had, so for one day all between decks
had enough to eat. The drinking-water has been growing daily worse,
and now the smell of it is shocking. The barrels must have been filled
from the Liffey near a sewer. Repugnant as it is to sight, smell, and
taste it continues to be doled out in such meagre measure that the sick
are continually crying for water with not a drop to give them. The
number now sick is appalling--the young of dysentery, the old of fever,
the cause of both diseases starvation. Uncle’s second boy died this
afternoon of dysentery. Poor uncle, his lot is a sore one, yet he never
complains. Wind came from southwest towards evening bringing milder
temperature with light rain. Sighted several fishing schooners and saw
sea-birds for first time since left coast of Ireland.

4.--This has been a variable day; at times bright and warm, at others
foggy and chilly, according as the wind blew, and it has veered from
west to southwest. Sailors busy getting anchors off forecastle and
bitted to the catheads--a slow and laborious task. Passed a number of
fishing smacks today and sailed through a school of porpoises. Our own
fishermen did pretty well today, The fish they catch is a great boon to
our starving people. No death today.

5.--Weather thick and bitterly cold; no child played on deck today.
Passed large fields of ice requiring great skill in handling the ship
to avoid them. Captain remained on deck all day. While I have no
respect for him as a man, he is an excellent sailor. Passed two ships
caught in the ice. Boatswain says they will have to drift with it until
the wind opens a channel by which they can escape. Steady wind from
north-east all day. One death this evening, body buried by moonlight.

6.--No ice seen today. Boatswain tells me the captain has brought the
ship well south of it. Weather continued thick, with wind from east,
and frequent showers of rain. Passed a beautifully shaped two-masted
vessel, painted white. She hoisted the stars and stripes. Sighted two
large vessels, one like ourselves crowded with emigrants, for her lee
bulwark was black with them, looking at us. A patch of floating sea
weed drifted by before dark, showing we must be near land. There were
three deaths today. If it please God, may this agony soon end.

7.--Stepping on deck this morning to my astonishment saw land on
either side--cape North and St Paul island, the sunlight bringing the
lighthouses into sharp relief. Both spits looked desolate, but were
a cheering sight, for they were the first land we have seen since we
lost sight of the Kerry hills. Thank God for his goodness in bringing
us to land, the sight of which cheered me beyond expression. It sent
a thrill of excitement even through the steerage. During the night
the wind changed to the southeast and the ship makes great progress,
the water being smooth, for now being in the gulf of St Lawrence we
have left behind us the swell of the Atlantic. As the morning wore on
it grew warmer, and when the sun had climbed to his heighth his rays
became almost unpleasantly hot. Passengers not seen on deck since we
sailed, crawled up to have a sight of the land, which we quickly left
astern, and to bask in the sunshine, until few except the sick remained
below. It was wonderful the change heat and prospect of soon being on
land, wrought on the spirits of us all. Hope sprung afresh, and the
misery of the past was forgotten. Children played about the deck and
the hum of conversation filled the air. There were a number of ships
in sight, bound, like ourselves, for Quebec. The hours sped and we
were bearing down on the Bird-rocks--lonely islets of rock, worn into
fantastic shapes, shooting sheer up from the sea and whose cliffs give
a foothold to sea fowl, squadrons of whom were careering above them.
While intently watching these sentinels of the gulf of the mighty river
we had entered, my eye chanced to fall on the face of an old woman
whom Aileen had persuaded to stay on deck. More pinched and sallow it
could not be, for she was wasted and worn, but, to my alarm, I saw its
lines assuming the rigidity of coming death. I touched Aileen’s arm
to direct her attention. She was down on her knees by her side in a
moment. “Mother, dear, are you not feeling well?” The eyelids lifted
and the answer came, “I thank God for his goodness,” and then they
drooped over the poor dazed eyes. I stepped into my cabin for a tin
of water and Aileen held it to her lips. She feebly motioned it away.
The slip of a girl who belonged to her, a grandchild, now realizing
the coming change, clasped her round the neck. “Granny, dear, don’t be
aleavin me all alone; sure we see Ameriky now and will soon be walkin
on it.” The soul was quitting its frail tenement but the child’s voice
so far recalled it, that a slight look of recognition lightened the
face. “Och, stay wid me, granny, an I’ll do yer biddin and nivir vix ye
agin. We’ll soon be havin lashins of meat an wather, an ye wunna need
to be givin me your share. O stay wid me!” At that moment there was a
report of a musket fired near by. The passengers, grouped around the
dying woman, raised their startled eyes and saw it was the mate, who
had fired at the sea fowl on the rocks we were now passing. The angry
scowl at the interruption melted again into sorrow when Aileen, lifting
the gray head from her lap, reverently straightened it on the deck,
and leaving the body to the care of the women who crowded near, led
the sobbing girl, doubly orphaned, to our cabin. At sunset we buried
the body and with it that of a poor cripple, who had been suffering
from dysentery. We sat late that night, for the breeze was warm and
the speed of the ship exhilarating, while the waters sparkled in the
moonlight. I had been in bed some time, when voices outside wakened
me. It was the boatswain and a sailor who were talking, and the sound
of their voices seemed to express astonishment. I dressed and hurried
out. “Is there anything gone wrong?” I asked. “Did you ever see the
like of that?” the boatswain replied, by pointing to the sky. The wind
had fallen and glancing up the masts I saw sail, and rope, and block
were motionless. Above hung clouds the like of which I had never seen.
There were thousands of them, all about a size, all spherical, and all
placed together as exactly as the panes in a cathedral window. Though
hid from view, the moon was in the zenith, and its downward rays fell
on the cloudlets, illuminating them and transmitting a ghostly light,
reflected by a ghostly sea. From the horizon to the apex the illusion
of the clouds was perfect in representing the ship as standing beneath
the centre of a great dome composed of spheres of grey glass, through
which streamed a light mysterious and fearsome, revealing the face
of a glassy sea, dark and dread. “What weather does this portend?” I
whispered. The boatswain shook his head. “It ain’t weather, sir,” said
the sailor, “It’s death. You see if the fever don’t grow worse.”

8.--I had sat so long on deck during the night that it was late in
the day when I awoke. Aileen had gone out but returned when I had
dressed and we had breakfast. A western breeze was blowing and the
ship was tacking. The boatswain told me the gulf was over 200 miles
wide so there was plenty of sea room, but before night we found there
was not. As the day wore on the wind increased and the weather became
thick, so that the men on the lookout kept sounding the horn nearly all
the time. The captain was more afraid of ice than of a collision with
another ship, and did not leave the deck after dinner. It was about
6 o’clock, when everything seemed to be going well, the ship tearing
through the water on her northern tack, when the fog suddenly thinned,
and to our surprise we saw land ahead. We were not over a mile from it.
The captain shouted to the man at the wheel, who brought the ship up
to the wind, the sails slatting like to break the masts. The yards of
the foremast were soon braced round, and the question was whether the
ship would wear in time to avoid striking, for the land was now so near
that we could see the foam of the breakers on the shore. There was a
dreadful period of suspense, during which the ship drifted broadside
on towards the land, until the sails of the foremast bellied out on
catching the wind, when she turned on her heel, and the order tacks and
sheets given, when everybody who had been able to get a grip of the
ropes hauled with all their strength. The ship was now on the other
tack, when we left the land astern, and which presented a desolate
appearance, a foreground of rock with low hills behind on which were
patches of snow. The boatswain said it was the eastern end of the
island of Anticosti, and had we struck the rocks, those who escaped
drowning would have starved to death, for the island, save a lighthouse
or two, is uninhabited. I thought it, but did not say it, for he is not
responsible, that 500 people were being starved to death on board ship.
Our having got out of our course, for the captain supposed he was well
clear of the island, is blamed on the currents and tides of the gulf.

9.--Uncle’s oldest son died of the fever soon after daylight. The blow
is a crushing one, but I have yet to hear the first murmur from uncle.
His submission to the Divine Will is most touching. The body along with
two more we dropped overboard when the sailors were at dinner. Tho’
near the end of our voyage, the little tyrant on the poop has given no
order to increase the supply of water or biscuit. I did not think the
stench of the hold could become worse, but the heat we had a day ago
has intensified it. To descend into the hold has become more than I can
well bear. I told Aileen today she must not even go near the hatchways.
Wind unfavorable all day, and ship tacking.

10.--Wind again in the south but very light. Today in making the
weather tack we came close to the south shore, which seemed to be a
succession of ranges of high hills with trees to their tops. This was
a sad day, five having died. Exchanged signals with a ship. She said
she was from Liverpool with emigrants and many were sick. Lead was kept
going all day.

11.--In beating across the gulf this morning, the wind being ahead, and
cold enough to chill to the marrow, we noticed a small schooner bearing
down upon us. It was a pilot boat that had sighted us. When alongside,
a row boat left her and soon a pilot was climbing to our deck. He was a
Frenchman and spoke broken English. When he saw he had got on board an
emigrant ship, he seemed to hesitate, and looked as if he wished he was
back, with the bundle he had in his hand, on the schooner again. The
boat, however, was by this time near the schooner. “Any seek?” he asked
the captain. What the captain answered I could not hear, for he turned
and took the stranger to the cabin. When the pilot reappeared he took
command, and I noticed he never left the poop. In the afternoon it grew
foggy and from the forecastle the dismal sound of the fog horn came.
Being now well up the gulf we were in the neighborhood of many vessels,
and a collision was possible. We sighted no ship, however, until late
in the afternoon, when we saw masttops above the fog. She proved to
be a large vessel in splendid order. Ranging close to us, her captain
asked if we had a pilot. Answered yes, he replied he had none. Our
captain told them to follow us. Instead of that, the order was given
to set more sail and in a few minutes she was lost to sight. Our pilot
shook his head as he remarked, “She heading for Mingan rocks.” When
it began to grow dark, order given to let go the anchor. The noise of
the rattling cable was like thunder. A child died today, a sweet girl
toddler that Aileen was fond of. Many of the sick are sinking tonight,
not one of whom but might have lived with proper sustenance, for it is
the period of convalescence that proves fatal in nine cases out of ten.
Mouldy sea biscuit of the coarsest kind and foul water simply kill the
patient who has got over the fever, yet we have nothing else to offer
to satisfy their cravings.

12.-Anchor was weighed at daylight and when I came out on deck found we
were tacking towards south shore, which was concealed by a fog-bank.
Afterwards the wind veered to the east, and a drizzling rain set in.
Weather thick all day, cold and disagreeable, with satisfaction,
however, of knowing we are making good progress. The pilot, like the
captain, is anxious to make all possible speed, and even the top stun
sails were set. This was a sad day between decks. There were four
deaths and the number of sick greatly increased. No wonder: the air is
that of a charnel vault and the people are so weak from want of food
that they have no strength to resist disease.

13.--During the night was roused by the noise of the anchor being let
go. On leaving my cabin was astounded, for I stepped into brilliant
sun shine, in whose beams the waters danced, while, like a panorama, a
lovely landscape was unrolled on either side. No longer a weary waste
of water, with an unchanging horizon, met my view, but a noble river,
rolling between picturesque banks. The north was rugged, with lofty
hills, wooded to the summit; the south was an undulating slope, along
whose lower edge ran a line of small white-washed houses, so near each
other as to form a street. The fields were flushed with green and some
of the tree-tops thickened with bud and bursting leaf. Evidently the
occupants of each house had a farm, which ran like a riband from the
river to nigh the head of the slope, which was crowned with woods.
At regular intervals in the line of houses there is a church--plain
stone edifices with high pitched roofs, which, with steeples, are
tinned, giving them a foreign look. We were waiting for the tide to
turn, the breeze being insufficient to enable the ship to beat against
the current. On the other side of the river were four large ships, at
anchor like ourselves. As the morning wore on a boat was seen to leave
the shore and row towards us. The gunwale of our ship was crowded with
passengers watching her approach. On coming near us, the two men in
the boat did not seem to fancy our looks, for they did not throw their
line to us. They had evidently come to sell us the provisions they
had aboard. “Lay to, what are you afeared of,” shouted the boatswain.
One of the men shook his blue cowled head. “Parley vous Français?” he
cried “What does he say?” the boatswain asked me “I think he wants to
know if you speak French.” “Blast his himpudence; what does he think my
mother was? I wants none sich lingo,” retorted the salt. Scared by the
row of white faces the men had plainly decided to forego the profits
of trade from fear of infection. One had seized his oar to bring the
boat’s head to shore when, recalling all the French words I had ever
heard, I shouted “Lait,” and held out a pail with one hand and sixpence
with the other. They swung round, and one of the men caught my pail,
filled it and handed it back. Pointing to some loaves he gave me one
for a sixpence, and several other passengers bought the rest of them.
This done, the boat left. With that milk Aileen hopes to save the
lives of the few infants left. The bread was welcome, though it was
heavy and had a peculiar sourish taste. When the tide began to make,
the order to weigh the anchor was given. The ships to the north of us
were doing the same, and the sailors’ songs came over the water with
beautiful cadence, blending with the chorus of our own crew, which
began with “haul in the bowline, the black ship’s arolling,” and ended
declaring that “Katie is my darling.” With a large spread of canvas
we moved slowly up the mighty river for the wind was light. In spite
of our dismal surroundings, this was a day of quiet delight to Aileen
and myself. The extraordinary width of the river, said to be over ten
miles, its waters, pure and of deep blue color, clasping at intervals
a picturesque island, the boldness of the wooded hills on the north
shore and the brightness and softness of the cultivated landscape on
the south, were a constant feast for eyes wearied of the sea. The depth
and tender blue of the sky, so much more transparent than in the dear
old land, particularly impressed Aileen. As we made our way up the
glorious river, the shores trended nearer, the hills on the north grew
loftier and the southern bank less steep. The sun had set in a glory
of gold and crimson beyond the hills when the order was given to let
go the anchor, the tide no longer serving us. Quarter a mile ahead
of us a large ship did the same. The evening being calm Aileen got
a wrap and we sat watching the darkening waters and the shores that
loomed momentarily more faint, until the lights from the house windows
alone marked where they were. “What is that?” she suddenly exclaimed,
and I saw a shapeless heap move past our ship on the outgoing tide.
Presently there was another and another. Craning my head over the
bulwark I watched. Another came, it caught in our cable, and before the
swish of the current washed it clear, I caught a glimpse of a white
face. I understood it all. The ship ahead of us had emigrants and they
were throwing overboard their dead. Without telling Aileen, I grasped
her arm, and drew her to our cabin.

14.--An eventful day, the consequences of which I fear, although,
recalling every detail, I do not see how I could have acted otherwise.
Anxious to see this country, so new and bright to me, I rose at
daylight. The ship was under plain sail, beating against a northwest
wind, and making little headway. One of our lads who had been taken
to help the sailors was ordered by the mate up the foremast to put to
rights some tackle that had got entangled in the last tack. The boy
blundered, and the mate repeated the order with his customary oaths.
Again the lad tried to do what he was bid and failed. Ordering a sailor
to go up and do the work, the mate shouted to the boy to come down.
He did so reluctantly, for he saw the mate had grasped a rope’s end.
Cursing him for his slowness, the mate seized his feet while still in
the ratlines. He fell violently on the deck, when the mate proceeded to
shower blows with the heavy rope on the head and back of the boy, who
cried piteously for mercy. I could not stand it; my blood was boiling.
“Stop,” I shouted, “have pity on the boy; he did not mean to disobey
your order. It was his sorrow for his mother who died last night that
confused him.” The mate paused in his lashing of the lad and glared at
me with such a malignant look as I pray the saints I may never again
have cast on me. “Mind your business, damn you, or I’ll have you put
in irons for mutiny,” he shouted and again laid the rope across the
lad’s quivering body with fiercer strength. It was, perhaps, foolish
for my own interests but I could not help it. I sprang at the mate and
dealt him a blow in the face. He clutched hold of me and we grappled.
He was strong, with muscles toughened by fighting sea and wind, but
a Sligo boy of my inches will take odds from no man in a wrestle. We
fell time and again, he beneath me, but he always managed to wriggle
up again, until I got a good hold of his neck, then I bent him under
me and rained blows on every part of him my right fist could reach.
All that the cheating villain had done, his cruelties to my people,
his brutal indifference to their sufferings, flashed across my mind,
and lent vim to every blow I dealt. How the scoundrel howled for help
and, finally, for mercy. Not one of the sailors interfered. They drew
off to the forepeak and looked on, glad to see his punishment. The
passengers who were on deck formed in a circle around us, delighted at
the sight. One of them, I recall, popped up from the hatchway and held
out a blackthorn to me with the explanation, “To finish him off wid,
yer honor.” I needed no shillelah. The fear that I might fatally injure
the bully alone caused me to pause. I gathered him up in my arms for
a final effort, when a strange thing happened me. I saw in my mind’s
eye, as they passed before me, the white face of one after the other
of the dead I helped to drop into the sea. It was one of those freaks
the imagination plays when the mind is intensely excited. This could
not have taken over a moment or two, but I saw them all, plainly and
distinctly. Solemnized yet strengthened by the sight, I was given a
power I had not. I raised the craven, who was whining and sobbing, as
high as my breast and flung him away as far as I could. Fortune favored
him, he fell on a coil of rope, where he lay helpless. The steward
went to him, wiped the blood from his eyes, and finally he was able
to rise and, leaning on the steward’s left shoulder, shuffled to the
cabin. By this time every man of my people able to leave the hold was
on deck, an excited throng, eager for fighting. “If they lay a finger
on yees for what ye’ve so nately done, we’ll break the heads av ivery
wan o’ thim,” said a county Leitrim man to me, and I knew that was
the spirit of them all. Softly opening the door of our little cabin I
was thankful to find Aileen asleep. Getting a change of clothes, for
those I had on were torn and bloodstained, I slipped out, had a wash
in a bucket of saltwater, and then dressed myself. At breakfast I told
Aileen all. She was much shocked at the danger I had run, and when
satisfied I had received no greater injury than sundry black and blue
bruises from kicks and blows and some handfuls of hair the coward had
torn from my head, she became alarmed for the result. Assaulting an
officer on shipboard I knew was a serious offence in the eyes of the
law, and so did Aileen. “I don’t think,” I said to her, “you need fear
their punishing me according to law, for they know if I am taken before
a court, all the villainy of captain and mate towards the passengers
would come out. They have broken the law in fifty ways, and know it.
What I fear is the captain trying to take the law into his own hands
before we reach Quebec.” We passed the day on deck as usual, appearing
as unconcerned as might be. Whether the captain entertained any notion
of arresting me, I cannot say, for he made no sign. The sight of a
score or so of my people keeping nigh me wherever I moved, from whose
coats peeped the end of what they called “a bit av a shtick,” may have
had some influence in deterring him, but the real cause I opine to be
what the boatswain whispered to me in the evening, that the steward had
told the captain the sailors to a man would refuse to put a hand on
me. They hate the mate, who, by the way, according to the cabin boy,
is lying in his berth, alternately groaning with pain and swearing
from rage. We made little progress today. The wind was ahead and we
kept tacking every half hour or so. In beating up the river thus, a
ship overhauled us. She was a Clyde trader, and being shorter she wore
more quickly and being heavier laden sailed more closely to the wind,
and owing to these advantages she outsailed us. As she passed us, her
captain stood at the stern and dangled a rope to us, as if offering
to take our ship in tow. Our captain, with an oath, rushed down the
companionway to hide his mortification. In the afternoon a discovery
was made that sent joy to the heart of every passenger. A boy had
hauled up a pailful of water to douse his head in, after getting his
hair clipped, when he got a taste of it and found it was fresh. The
tide was out, and at the point we now had reached, at the slack, the
water is fresh. Pailful after pailful was hauled on board, and the
sick were supplied without stint, with water sweet, clear and cool.
Alas, the refreshing draught came too late for seven, who died during
the day. I wanted to keep the bodies on board in hopes of giving them
burial, but the boatswain advised otherwise, as he said, although we
were within a short distance of quarantine with the present wind we
might be two or three days of making it. Ship anchored at darkening,
close to shore.

15.--Remained at anchor all day. Cold with strong wind from north-west.
At intervals there were squalls, accompanied by driving showers of
rain and hail. Three hours’ fair wind would see us at quarantine, yet
here we are unable to advance a yard on our way. Five deaths today. I
resolved the bodies be kept for burial. Boatswain told me mate is worse
today, being feverish. The pilot bled him and the captain gave him a
blue pill. Not being needed to work the ship, all hands were engaged
in putting the vessel into her best trim, scraping, scrubbing, and
painting. Outwardly the ship is neat and clean, a sight to delight a
sailor’s eye, and to look at her from the deck it is hard to conceive
of the putrid state of her hold. The steward bribed several of the
passengers with whisky to clean the steps and alley-ways of the
steerage. A steamer painted white and with a house the length of her
deck, passed us, going east.

16.--The sound of the anchor being weighed awoke me and I heard it
with joy. I dressed and gave the sailors a hand. The wind had veered
into the east, and it looked as if rain was coming. The fore mainsail
having been set, the ship swept on, keeping the channel as easily as if
propelled by steam. When Aileen came out, the church bells were ringing
for early mass, and we could make out the people driving along the
roads to attend. Reports from the steerage are gloomy. There have been
three deaths during the night. It seems as if a number of the sick had
reached that point that their dropping off is inevitable. The river
was dotted with ships following us, and the sight of so many large
vessels moving majestically in a column in our rear fascinated me. By
and by the rain came on, when Aileen left to pack our trunks, for we
are fully persuaded the wind will hold and that we will land in Quebec
before dark, bidding farewell to this ship of misery. When quarantine
was sighted, I dropped in to see how she was getting on, and finding my
help not needed, wrote this, in all probability, the last entry I will
make on board.


Grosse Isle, May 31.--Fourteen days since I penned a line in this
sorrowful record. I wish I had not lived to pen another. God’s will
be done, but, oh, it is hard to say it. Yet I ask myself, what right
have I to repine? Grievous as has been my loss, what is it compared
with that of many of those around me, whose quiet submission rebukes my
selfish sorrow. Enough of this, let me resume my record. When the ship
came abreast of the quarantine buildings, all fresh from a new coat of
whitewash, the anchor was dropped. It was nearly an hour before the
quarantine officer came on board, and I heard him on stepping from
his boat apologize to our captain for the delay, owing to his waiting
for breakfast. The captain took him down to the cabin and it was a
long while before he re-appeared, when he stepped down to the main
deck, where all the passengers, able to be out of bed, were waiting
him. He walked round us, asked a few to hold out their tongues, and
then went down into the hold, where he stayed only a minute or so.
Passing a few words with the captain, he re-entered his boat and was
rowed back to the island. No sooner had he left, than the boatswain got
orders to have all boats made ready to take the sick ashore. First the
dead were brought up. The sailors shrank back, there was a muttered
consultation, and the boatswain, taking me aside, told me they would
not touch them or even row a boat that held them, and I had better drop
them overboard. “Never,” I cried, “shall it be said that the bodies
of the faithful did not receive Christian burial when it was possible
to give it.” Calling out from among my people four men whom I knew
were fishermen, I asked them if they would row the dead ashore, and
on saying they would, the boatswain let me have a boat. Decently the
bodies were passed over and we made our way to the landing. We had
trouble in getting them out of the boat, for the steps of the quay were
out of repair, but we managed it and carried them to what, from the
cross on it, we saw was a church. The priest came out, and I told him
our purpose. Leaving the dead in the church, we went back to the ship
for the others. By this time the sick were being landed, and roughly
handled they were. As it would be awhile before the graves would be
ready, I lent a hand--the most miserable, heartrending work I had ever
engaged in. With indecent haste they were hurried from the ship deck
into the boats, and tossed on to the steps of the quay, careless of
what injury they might receive. Most were unable to help themselves
in the least, a few were delirious. Men, women, and children were all
treated the same, as so much rubbish to be got rid of as quickly as
possible. It was no better on land. The quarantine had only two men to
spare to help the few relatives who came ashore to carry them from the
wharf to the buildings, and many lay an hour in a cold pelting rain.
It signified little as to their getting wet, for they were all doused
by the waves in landing them on the quay. Small wonder two died on the
quay, and were borne to the chapel to add to the number awaiting burial
there. The priest was very considerate, and, although I did not ask it,
said mass, which I knew would be a great consolation to the relatives.
Leaving the cemetery with the priest, I thanked him from my heart, and
ran to the quay. My heart was in my mouth when I saw on it Aileen,
standing beside our boxes, and the ship, having tripped her anchor,
bearing up the river. “What makes you look so at me, Gerald? I have
come as you asked.”

“I never sent for you.”

“The steward told me you had sent word by the sailors for me to come
ashore, that you were going to stay here. They carried the luggage into
a boat and I followed.”

I groaned in spirit. I saw it all. By a villainous trick, the captain
had got rid of me. Instead of being in Quebec that day, here I was left
at the quarantine-station. “My poor Aileen, I know not what to do; my
trouble is for you.” I went to see the head of the establishment, Dr
Douglas. He proved to be a fussy gentleman, worried over a number of
details. Professing to be ready to oblige, he said there was no help
for me until the steamer came. “When will that be?” Next Saturday. A
week on an island full of people sick with fever! Aileen, brave heart,
made the best of it. She was soaking wet, yet the only shelter, apart
from the fever sheds, which were not to be thought of, was an outhouse
with a leaky roof, with no possibility of a fire or change of clothing.
How I cursed myself for my rashness in making captain and mate my
enemies, for the penalty had fallen not on me, but on my Aileen. There
was not an armful of straw to be had; not even boards to lie on. I
went to the cooking booth, and found a Frenchman in charge. Bribing
him with a shilling he gave me a loaf and a tin of hot tea. Aileen
could not eat a bite, though she tried to do so to please me, but drank
the tea. The rain continued and the east wind penetrated between the
boards of the wretched sheiling. What a night it was! I put my coat
over Aileen, I pressed her to my bosom to impart some heat to her
chilled frame, I endeavored to cheer her with prospects of the morrow.
Alas, when morning came she was unable to move, and fever and chill
alternated. I sought the doctor, he was not to be had. Other emigrant
ships had arrived, and he was visiting them. Beyond giving her water
to assuage her thirst when in the fever it was not in my power to do
anything. It was evening when the doctor, yielding to my importunities,
came to see her. He did not stay a minute and writing a few lines told
me to go to the hospital steward, who would give me some medicine.
Why recall the dreadful nights and days that followed? What profit to
tell of the pain in the breast, the raging fever, the delirium, the
agonizing gasping for breath--the end? The fourth day, with bursting
heart and throbbing head, I knelt by the corpse of my Aileen. There
was not a soul to help; everybody was too full of their own troubles
to be able to heed me. The island was now filled with sick emigrants,
and death was on every side. I dug her grave, the priest came, I laid
her there, I filled it in, I staggered to the shed that had sheltered
us, I fell from sheer exhaustion, and remember no more. When I woke, I
heard the patter of rain, and felt so inexpressibly weary I could think
of nothing, much less make any exertion. My eye fell on Aileen’s shawl,
and the past rushed on me. Oh, the agony of that hour; my remorse, my
sorrow, my beseechings of the Unseen. Such a paroxysm could not last
long, and when exhausted nature compelled me to lie down, I turned my
face to the wall with the earnest prayer I might never awaken on this
earth. How long I slept I know not. Some motion of one leaning over me
brought back consciousness.

“Pax tecum,” said a voice I seemed to recall. “Et cum spiritu tuo,” I
mechanically responded.

I opened my eyes. Could I believe them? It was Father Moylan. I put my
arms round his neck, and kissed him a score of times.

“Father, dear; sure it must be the Blessed Virgin herself sent you to
console me for the loss of her daughter, my Aileen, my love.”

“My consolation would be of little aid; but as an unworthy servant of
the church I may be the channel of communicating the consolation that
doth avail. May the Mother of Sorrows, whose heart was pierced by the
sight of her son’s death, heal thy wound. I knew not Aileen was dead.”

“Did Father McGoran not tell you?”

“Like everybody else in this wretched place his hands are too full
to permit of speech that can be dispensed with. A lad called on me at
Quebec to tell me of how you had been left behind and besought me to
help you and your wife.”

“His name, father?”

“Michael Fagan.”

“The grateful soul; the boy I stopped the mate from lashing.”

“He it was, for he told me all and of what you had been to the sick
on the voyage. I intended coming anyway to see what I could do for
our poor country people, but when I knew of my pupil being here in
distress, I went to the bishop to ask to be sent at once.”

“And how did you find me?”

“By searching. The last hour I have gone through every building looking
for you and came in course to this outhouse.”

“May the saints ease your dying hour for this kindness, father. Oh that
you had come while Aileen was alive!”

“Fret not over the past, Gerald; there is work calling for you which
you must rise and do.”

“I have no heart to lift my head: I want to die and be with Aileen.”

“A wish natural to the flesh, my son, but I taught you to little avail
if I did not ground you in the belief that it is the duty of the
Christian to so direct the blind sorrow of fallen humanity that it
become an impulse to more strenuous discharge of our daily duties.
Aileen is dead; requiescat en pace. Is your sorrow for her to be a
selfish sorrow that will add to your load of sin; or shall it become an
incitement to you to do for those around you what she would wish you to
do could she speak?”

“Do not ask me; I cannot forget her.”

“You are not asked to forget her. May you ever see her in your mind’s
eye, beckoning you on to works of faith and mercy; may her precious
memory be your inspiration to do what duty calls from your hand.”

“There is no need of my help now.”

“No need! I tell you every hour there are Irish men and women dying
within a furlong of you for lack of the commonest help. Before I came
here, I found sick who had not had their fever assuaged by a drop of
water for 18 hours; children who had not tasted a bite since yesterday;
the dead lying beside the living, and all because there is none to
help.”

“I do not understand why that should be on land. There is plenty of
food and help in Quebec.”

“Yes, and so there was on your ship, but a heartless captain and a
greedy mate stood between the food and water and the passengers. There
is abundance of everything within sight of here, yet our countrymen are
perishing by the score, because the government of Canada is deaf to
their cries.”

“What interest can the Canadian government have in acting so?”

“No interest. It is more heedlessness than intent. The politicians are
too absorbed in their paltry strifes to give heed to a few thousand
Irish emigrants dying at their door.”

“It sounds incredible.”

“That is because you do not know politics and politicians here. I
tell you, Gerald, I have been in Canada now three years, and (always
barring the tools of the Irish landlords) if there be a more despicable
creature than the office-hunting Canadian politician, I have yet to see
him.”

“If I must act, I should go first to Quebec to see after my people.
They were promised ten shillings a head, to be paid by Lord
Palmerston’s agent at Quebec, and a deed from the Canadian government
for a hundred acres a family.”

“Faugh! Not a shilling, not an acre did they get. I saw them. Lord
Palmerston has no agent in Quebec, the government will give no free
grant of land. Mere lies told the poor crathurs to get them to leave
Ireland.”

“Well, then, I could at least make an example of the captain of our
ship.”

“Not a bit of it; you are deceiving yourself. The prosecution would
have to be taken by the emigration agent, and he would not, if he could
help it. Then, where are your witnesses? You would be bled of your last
dollar by the lawyers and do nothing. No, Gerald, there is no use of
thinking of leaving here. Providence has guided you to Grosse isle and
here is your work. Come, man, get up and do it.”

I sank back with a groan. I did not want to move, the father insisted,
however, and, after many remonstrances, grasped my hand and raised me
to my feet. He took me to where the resident priest lived, insisted
on my washing myself and gave me, out of his bag, one of his clean
shirts. Then we sat down to dinner, Fathers McGoran and Taschereau
joining us. The conversation was of the deluge of emigrants, every
day bringing new arrivals, and every ship with its quota of sick and
dying. Every available place having become crowded, the ships had to
remain and become floating hospitals. The calamity with which they
were face to face was so unexpected and appalling that how to devise
means to grapple with it staggered them. They spoke of the need of
urging the government to erect sheds and send plenty of nurses and
doctors. I listened in silence until Father Taschereau asked me for
my opinion, as one who was an emigrant. I said many had died on the
voyage and many more had been landed who would certainly die, but of
this I was confident, there would not have been a death from fever or
dysentery on the voyage or one sick of these diseases landed at Grosse
isle, had there been enough to eat. The solution of the difficulty
therefore seemed to me simple. Give all who arrive plenty of wholesome
food. Starvation is the cause of dysentery and fever. Remove the cause
and these diseases will disappear. It is not medicine and nursing
that are wanted, but food. The people fled from starvation in Ireland
to be worse starved on board ship where their lot was made worse by
the lack of pure air and water, of which they had no lack in Ireland.
They asked me many questions about the treatment of the emigrants on
shipboard. Father McGoran said he was inclined to believe I was right,
that Dr Douglas was making the mistake of fighting the fever instead of
removing what caused the fever. The fever was not to be looked upon as
was the cholera visitation of 12 years before. I left the table with
Father Moylan and as we went out at the door, he stood for a minute to
look at the sight on the river. The clouds had cleared and the sun had
come out strong, with a marvellously soft and clear atmosphere. So far
as we could see from where we stood, the blue waters of the river bore
a column of vessels of which neither head nor end was visible. “Let us
take a step over and see them,” said Father Moylan. When we reached the
bank, the sight was striking, and would have been most inspiring had
we not known that each of these noble ships was a floating pest-house.
There was a shout from the vessel opposite us. A man stood on the
gunwale, and steadying himself with one hand grasping the rigging,
gesticulated with the other. His agitation was so great neither of us
could make out what he was saying. “Speak slowly,” cried Father Moylan,
when clear the response came across the water, “For the love of God,
father, come aboord; ye’re needed.” There was only one rowboat in
sight, and it belonged to Dr. Douglas. The oars were out of her and the
chain locked. “You’ll have to send a boat,” cried the father. There was
a long delay, ending in a boat putting off from the ship. He wanted me
to go with him, but I said I wished to find my uncle.

With heavy heart and unsteady step I turned to the buildings where
the sick were. The nighest was the best. I looked in and to my joy
espied my cousin Bridget sitting alongside a bunk. She started and
gave a cry of fright when she saw me, for, she explained, she thought
I was in Quebec and I looked like a ghost. It was her father and her
sister Ellen who were in the bed. The latter had been landed sick of
the fever; uncle had been stricken by it the day after arrival. He did
not know me, and I feared the worst from the sound of his moaning. The
girl seemed to be doing well. “Comfortable they be,” said Bridget,
“this is the best place; the sheds are bad as the ship.” I told her
to go and take the air for a while, and sat down to watch in her
place. I was hardly seated when I distinguished a murmur of plaintive
cries from every part of the room, mostly--“Wather, if ye plaze.” I
bestirred myself, and when the poor souls found there was somebody to
help, requests increased, and I was kept going from bed to bed. When
Bridget returned I remarked that I saw none of our ship’s people in the
place. She said there was only room for her father and Ellen and the
others were in the sheds. It was growing dark when Father Malloy came
to the door and beckoned me out. He had such a distressed and wearied
look that I went with him without asking any questions. When we came
near the outhouse I had lodged in, I turned towards it. He gripped
my arm. “No, Gerald, not there; you’d lapse into your old mood.” He
took me to the priest’s house, and a shake-down was made for me in the
kitchen. I had a wakeful night and went out of doors before sunrise.
To my surprise I saw Father Malloy walking up and down in front of the
house, prayer-book in hand. When done he joined me. “Now, Gerald, we
have work to do; we must make an examination of everything, for no plan
can be laid until we know the actual state of affairs.” Re-entering
the house with him, he got a loaf and a jug of milk. “I am going to
tell you something you should never forget; when you have to go where
there are sick, do not go with an empty stomach. Fasting and infection
go together.” Having broken our fast, we started, the first thing to
be done, the father said, being to see what the island was like. The
morning was delightfully fresh and we walked briskly. We found the
island larger than we supposed, and having a good deal of land fit
for cultivation. Pausing at a field where a man was harrowing, the
father had a conversation with him in French. He told him the island
was about three miles long by one in width, and that Doctor Douglas
farmed a considerable part of it, keeping a number of cows. Standing
on its north bank a wide expanse of the St Lawrence lay at our feet,
the blue waters ruffled by a western breeze. Beyond rose a chain of
wooded hills, which swelled into a lofty peak, overhanging the river.
“That is called cape Tourmente,” said Father Malloy. “Is it not a
glorious scene! Who, looking upon it, would dream there is concentrated
within ten minutes’ walk the misery of a nation? Gerald, we must give
Ireland’s woe on this island a voice that will bring the help of
Christian people.”

“I am afraid it will be hard to interest them. Everything is against
the poor emigrant, father. He is not looked upon as a human being. The
very sailors treat him as they would a steer given to carry from one
port to another.”

“True, my boy, and you don’t know it all, for you have not lived in
this country yet. I’ve seen in New York men and women shrink from the
newly landed emigrant as an unclean thing, and at Quebec over there
the very bar-room loafers sniff their noses in disgust at him. Unless
they have money nobody makes them welcome; and if they have money
everybody tries to get it from them. I buried a woman who had been left
to die on the wharf at Quebec. The captain bundled her out, nobody
would touch her, let alone give her shelter, and the poor sick crathur
afore sundown found rest and is now where those who despised her will
have little chance of going.”

I asked Father Malloy about his visit to the ship the day before. He
told me the man who shouted for him had a brother dying, who wanted the
church’s last rites. “It was my first visit to a fever-stricken ship,”
he went on to say, “and it was a revelation. I could not stand upright
in her hold, for it was not much over 5 feet high, and there was little
more elbow than head room. Every side was lined with berths and I saw
dead lying in them with the living. The stench made one gasp, and the
sight of the vermin crawling over dead and living made my flesh creep.
An Irish priest is used to the sights of disease and want, but the
emigrant-ship, fever-stricken, embodies every form of wretchedness and
multiplies them a ten-fold.”

The quarantine-buildings are huddled together at the upper end of the
island and each we examined during the day. Except the one in which
uncle lay, they are flimsy affairs, a shelter from the heat of the
sun and no more, for the boards are shrunken and the roofs leaky. In
one the berths are in double tier, like those of a ship, the result
being the patient in the lower berth is made uncomfortable by the one
above, and he, in turn, from weakness, can neither get out nor into it
without help, which he seldom gets. Every place is crowded with sick,
even the two churches being occupied. The government had prepared for
200 sick; already there are nigh a thousand, and many more on the ships
who cannot be landed for want of room. Without regard to age or sex
they are huddled together in the sheds, and left to die or recover. The
attendance was hardly worth speaking of. At long intervals a man or
woman would come round with drink and food, but there was no pretence
at coming for their comfort. We were told by many nobody had been near
them for hours. We saw the dead lying next the living, for the bodies
are removed only night and morning, and in many cases there were two
and three in a berth. Over all this sad scene, from which hope had
fled, shone the virtues of patience and submission to the divine will.
No querulous word was heard, no grumbling; the stricken flock bowed
beneath the rod of affliction with pious resignation. Workmen were
busy building a new shed and there were tents lying round, but all the
preparations were wofully insufficient. Father Malloy agreed with me
that the lack of nurses was even worse than the lack of shelter, and
thought a supply might be had from the healthy emigrants. I thought
not; emigrants in health were too eager to escape after being bound to
scenes of horror on shipboard for a month and more. We labored to do
our best, and many a pail of water did the father carry from the river
to serve out in cupfuls in the sheds.

The weather has been sorely against the sick, rain with high east
winds, adding to their discomfort. Nearly every day there is a fresh
arrival of a ship, and not one without sick on board. The wind had been
from the east the day before and on the morning of the 25th a whole
fleet was seen bearing up the river, of which a dozen had emigrants. At
Father Malloy’s request I spent a day with him going from ship to ship,
a boat having been lent him by a friendly captain. The passengers cried
with joy when they saw him and clustered round the holy man, whose
services in administering the last consolations of the church were
needed at every step. I spoke with the passengers while he was below,
and it was an unvarying tale of starvation on the voyage and cruel
usage. I found the passengers on ships that had been lying at anchor
over a week to be still starving, for the captains had not increased
the rations and Dr Douglas said he could not supply provisions from the
shore unless authorized by the Canadian government. One of the new
arrivals had 13 dead on board. The 40 ships now at anchor, have nigh
15,000 emigrants: of these I am sure one-third would not be passed as
healthy. Sailors are at work on shore erecting a sort of shelter with
spars and sails, where the ships will leave their healthy to perform
quarantine, while they go on to Quebec.

June 3.--Father Malloy has left with the design of making
representations to the government about the condition of things here.
He intended, if his bishop consented, to go direct to Montreal, and
speak to the ministers themselves. The forwarding of emigrants passed
as healthy has begun. They are crowded on to the steamers until there
is barely room to move. The reason for this is, the passage money is a
dollar a-head and the more packed on board, the more profit. Truth to
tell, this class of emigrants are eager enough to leave, and get away
from this place. The meanness of the Canadian government in dealing
with them is shameful. Instead of allowing healthy passengers to go on
with the ship as at first, they are now landed. Being compelled to land
and stay here by the government’s orders, it would be reasonable to
expect the government would provide for them. It does not; all it has
done is to send an agent who offers to sell them provisions at cost.
Uncle’s recovery is hopeless; his strength has gone.

5.--Poor uncle is dead. He was buried yesterday. Ellen keeps hovering
between life and death; she has youth on her side. Poor Bridget is worn
to a shadow, waiting on the sick. Being told a ship that came in this
forenoon was from Sligo, I watched a chance to get on board, expecting
to find some I knew among her passengers. I found her deck crowded with
emigrants, watching the sailors fish up from the hold with boat-hooks
the bodies of those who had died since entering the river. I soon
learned there was bad blood between the crew and passengers, all of
whom who could do so had left the steerage two days before and lived
on deck. The hold had grown so loathsome with the warm weather that it
became unbearable. The crew resented their living on deck. The captain
stood at the poop rail, and proved to be a civil man. He told me he
had done his best for the passengers on the voyage, but the charterers
had poorly provisioned the vessel and he could not therefore give them
the rations he wished. For the bad feeling between the sailors and
passengers he could not blame either. Staying on deck the emigrants
were in the sailors’ way, yet he could not order them back to the hold.
Three sailors had caught the fever during the week, which incensed
their comrades against the emigrants. He was to pay the sailors a
sovereign for each body brought up. I told him of Captain Christian of
the ship Sisters, who, the week before, when emigrants and sailors
refused for any money to go into the hold to bring up the dead, went
down himself and carried them to the deck on his shoulders. I hope he
may live to know that Irishmen are grateful, for he is now down with
the fever. I recognized none of the passengers, for they were from the
northwest end of Lord Palmerston’s estates. Their poverty was extreme.
They had no luggage and many had not rags enough to cover their
nakedness. So haggard and white were they, so vacant their expression,
that they looked more like an array of spectres, than of human beings.
Coming back, I had painful evidence of the brutal indifference of the
authorities in dealing with the sick. They continue to be brought from
the ships to the quay in rowboats, and the line of ships being now two
miles long, the journey is a long one, and often fatal in bad weather.
A small steamboat for transferring them would be a godsend, but the
government does not get one, does not even spend ten shillings to
replace the broken planks of the steps on the quay, although the want
of them causes many a feeble one to slip into the river.

6.--Dr Douglas exemplifies how a man may be estimable as an individual
yet unequal for his duties as an official. He is so obliging and
gracious personally that it is unpleasant to find fault with him, yet
it is apparent he does not grasp the magnitude of the affliction he
has to deal with and is unable to devise means to meet it. All the
steps taken are ridiculous in their petty nature. I have been told
that it is not him but the Canadian government that is to blame, that
it will not allow him a free hand in meeting the emergency, does
not respond to his calls, and warns him to be careful in incurring
expenditure. Probably that is true, but the government is not
accountable for the foolish rules by which the island is governed.
There is now a large colony of supposed healthy emigrants confined to
the northwest corner of the island. When one falls sick, instead of
being taken to the fever-sheds, he is conveyed to the ship in which
he was a passenger, and from her is taken to the sheds. The delay and
the fatigue of the journey by land and water, if it does not kill the
patient makes his recovery more doubtful. Although the population of
the island has doubled in a few weeks, the boat with supplies from
Quebec continues to come once a week only. We may be starving, many
are starving this day, yet until the steamer comes there is no help.
The dead are being buried in trenches, three tier deep. Men and women
whose strong arms would add to Canada’s wealth are being held here by
its authorities to die of want when within sight of plenty. I look at
the row of farm-houses on the opposite bank of the river, on the little
town whose roofs I see, and knowing there is comfort and plenty over
there, marvel at the stupidity, the criminal disregard, that leaves us
without bread to eat or even straw to die upon. Steamers pass daily but
they are not allowed to stop at the island; my poor people are kept
prisoners to perish amid the rocks of this island. The Almighty will
surely have a day of reckoning with the rulers of Canada, for it is
Canada’s territory we are on and it is Canada’s quarantine in which we
lie bound. The sick are everywhere and are neglected. I found the body
of a man in a thicket where he had crawled like a scared beast to die
in peace. Bodies are taken from the tents daily where the healthy are
supposed to lodge. The sheds have become repugnant to every sense, and
the sick are worse off than on ship, for few have relatives to attend
them, and they lie for hours without being helped even to a drink of
water. The inmates of a tent told me nobody had been near them for two
days, and not one among them able to stand for a minute. Everything
is against us, for the weather is windy and wet. I go to spend the
night in the old shed. My brain is overburdened with the sorrows of my
people, and I would I were at rest with Aileen.

10.--A steamer came in this morning to take away emigrants, and I am
sure over a thousand were packed on board. Her purser brought a package
of letters; one of them was for myself.


     Montreal, June 8, 1847.

     My Dear Gerald,--I had it in mind to have written you several days
     ago, but postponed taking pen in hand day after day in expectation
     of being able to convey to you the intelligence that would cheer
     your heart--that the government had decided on adopting a policy
     of adequate relief. That, it grieves me to say, they have not
     done, although I have exerted myself to arouse them to a sense
     of their duty, but it is little a poor priest can do with our
     public men. When I reached here I went first to see the premier.
     After waiting my turn for an hour with a crowd of visitors, I was
     admitted. He was civil, but is a dull man, and did not seem to
     realize what I was telling him. He told me to go to the provincial
     secretary, to whose department emigration belongs, and see him. I
     left in no good humor, to do as Mr Sherwood bade me. Mr Daly was
     not at his lodgings; he had gone to the back of the mountain to
     dine. I have learned since, he is better at dining and wining than
     attending to his duties. I had an interview with him next day.
     You may not know that Mr Daly is of ourselves. He is a Galway man
     himself and his lady is from Kilkenny. Appealing to an Irishman
     and a Catholic I expected him to fall in with me--that all I had
     to do, was to seize him of the actual facts of the situation at
     Grosse isle and he would act with energy. That was what I expected
     of him but all I got from him, Gerald, was soft words and
     promises, and neither the one nor the other will feed the starving
     or cure the sick. He told me to call next day, as he wanted time
     to go over the reports. When I went, his servant man said he was
     out, and I never found him in again for me. When the house opened,
     I managed to get in, to hear what the governor would say about the
     emigrants. The words put in his mouth about them made me angry.
     The government pretended they had made ample preparation for the
     expected influx and that everything was going on well. Beside him
     stood two men smiling among a bevy of ladies who knew better,
     for I had told them all. In the debate since then, when a member
     on the opposition side referred to the rumors of the state of
     matters at quarantine, Mr Daly begged the house not to give heed
     to alarmist reports and to rest assured the government was doing
     everything that was required, had appointed a commission of three
     doctors to visit Grosse isle, and would act on their report. I
     had little respect before for Canadian politicians, I have less
     now. I was advised to wait on the new minister, John A. Macdonald,
     the youngest member of the government. I told my friend that if
     Mr Daly would not do the decent thing by his countrymen, I was
     not going to ask the member for the Orange city of Kingston, who,
     like all the others of them, is engrossed in intrigues to keep his
     party in office. The talk of the city is whether the ministry
     will stand, for its majority is only one or two, and there is a
     good deal of excitement about it. More attention is being paid to
     the ribaldry of The Pilot than anything else. This will not be for
     long. The evil has come to the door of this city. The forwarding
     by wholesale of all emigrants able to move, has brought the fever.
     The emigration sheds are at Windmill point, an inconvenient place,
     for there is not water enough to permit the steamers to come up
     to the wharf, and the emigrants have to be landed by scows, which
     is sore on the sick. I am not going to say that the journey from
     Grosse isle to here is as bad as the voyage across the Atlantic,
     but it has a few features worse than it. The steamers come in
     with emigrants packed on their lower deck like herrings in a
     fish-box. The steamers are chartered by the government from their
     supporters, and a few of them are old, worn-out tubs, that take
     two days to a trip that ought to be made inside 20 hours. Without
     food or cover, blistered by the sun in the day and chilled by the
     river breezes at night, the poor creatures are landed here more
     dead than alive. Many who went aboard feeling well, are carried
     off in a dying state. My curse and the curse of every Irishman be
     on the government that allows the helplessness of our countrymen
     to be traded upon to make money for their followers. If their
     transportation was left open to all ship-owners, the emigrants
     would be brought here in large and speedy steamers, and a limit
     could be put to the number they carry. Once landed, the emigrants
     are decently treated. I am thankful to be able to say that. It
     is the city and not the government that manages. For sick and
     well there is plenty of wholesome food, and no lack of doctors
     or nurses. The food, to be sure, is coarse and the cooking not
     good, but you know the saying, The poor drink wather and the rich
     sip tay. After Grosse isle it is fine. What I have seen here has
     shown me the necessity of moving the quarantine to the flats below
     Quebec. If the sick were moved from Grosse isle to near the city
     they would get all the supplies and service needed. I expect to
     return to Quebec in a day or so, and before leaving here hope
     to get the bishop to wait on the premier, to ask that the new
     fever sheds be placed on the outskirts of Quebec. I hear from the
     emigrants as they arrive of you, and as they speak they bless you.
     I hope to see you soon.

     YOUR OLD PRECEPTOR.


12.--A ship that came in from Sligo has many of my old neighbors. They
say after we left, the agents gave out that all who refused to emigrate
would have the relief taken from them, which was all they had to keep
life in them until next crop. The more that went, the more eager were
those left behind to go. At the rate they are coming, Lord Palmerston
will have his land clear of people by Michaelmas, and be able to lease
it to Scotch cow-feeders. Most of the emigrants come expecting free
land from the Canadian government and a pound a-head from the agents
of their landlords at Quebec. Oh, the deceivers, to cheat these poor
people with lies!

16.--Bridget is down with the fever, just when Ellen was recovering and
likely to be able soon to leave with her sister for uncle’s farm in
Huntingdon. It seems as if exposure, if long enough continued, is sure
to induce the disease. Doctor Douglas says few can withstand breathing
the air of the sheds for a fortnight without being laid down. I expect
my turn will come yet. A company of soldiers has arrived to act as a
guard over the camp of what is called the healthy emigrants to keep
them from going near the fever sheds. It is of a piece with everything
else. The fever is in the camp as well as in the sheds. Had they sent a
few hundred boards from Quebec to floor the tents, it would have been
more sensible than to supply a guard. The weather is still wet, and the
ground under the tents is soaking, yet the people have nowhere else to
lie. I was telling the head of the Church of England clergymen, Doctor
Mountain, of what my friend had said about quarantine being moved
near the city. He agreed it ought to be done, although the people of
Quebec would resist. The cellar of the marine hospital having become
full to overflowing with emigrants, workmen came three days ago to
erect sheds on the hospital grounds. The people of St Rochs assembled,
scattered the lumber, and drove away the workmen. Lamenting the lack of
nurses, he told me it was partly due to the government’s not offering
sufficient wages. Placards on the Quebec streets asking for nurses at
60 cents a day met with no response. Doctors were offered only $3.50 a
day. A dollar a day for nurses and $5 for doctors would get a supply,
but the authorities would not consent. I can believe anything of them.
They will not send us a supply of straw, even, and many of the sick are
lying without anything below them.

18.--I was witness today of an incident I want to preserve some note
of. I was attending to an old neighbor, Mr Monaghan, who came in the
ship from Sligo six days ago. He is mending, though still poorly. While
bending over him, he gave a start, and turning I saw they were carrying
in a new patient. They placed him in an adjoining bed. Wasted and
sallow as he was, I recognized in him a man I had seen from boyhood,
but had never spoken to. He had a farm in our townland and was a bitter
Orangeman. With Monaghan he had a feud, which they tried to fight out
on many a market day. Stanhope had led a party that beat his oldest son
and four other boys nigh to death one St John’s eve, and had heaped
insult on him and his times without count. I will not say Monaghan did
not pay him back. If he did not, somebody else did, for he had his
stackyard twice burned and one fine morning found four of his cows
houghed. How would these mortal enemies meet now, far from their native
land and laid side by side in deathly sickness? Stanhope was overcome
with the fatigue of bringing him from the ship, and lay exhausted with
his eyes shut. I held up his head to give him some cordial, and then
he sank back and fell asleep. I kept my eye on him as I went about the
shed, watching his waking. On Dr Mountain’s coming in, I told him of
the new Protestant patient and of the circumstances I have here set
down. We went to where the couple lay and were looking at them when
Stanhope awoke. He gazed helplessly around until his eyes met those of
Monaghan, which had been fixed on him from the time he came in. The
glitter of the old fire sprung up in Stanhope’s eyes and a flush passed
over his white face. Neither said a word for quite a while. During the
pause the defiant look faded from Stanhope’s face, and I could see
recollection of old neighborhood and a sense of community of suffering
filled his bosom. The stern, hard features relaxed and a bony hand was
thrust across.

“Is that yersilf, Monaghan; will ye shak hans wid me?”

“Glad an proud to do that same, and let bygones be bygones, Mr
Stanhope.”

There was a moistness in Dr Mountain’s eyes as he said, “Love is the
fulfilling of the law. May the Good Shepherd, who has sheep in every
flock, bless you both, and in His own time gather you into His heavenly
fold.”

“Amen,” I said with all my heart. “Dr Mountain, I have learned
something in this island of horrors--that goodness is not bounded by
creed, for I have seen you and your clergy nurse the sick and feed the
hungry day after day although not one in a score of them are of your
church. The thanks that have been in my heart for your kindness to my
countrymen I am not ashamed now to speak.”

He clasped my hand. “My dear Mr Keegan, say not another word; when a
man comes to die the most painful reflection he can have is, that he
did not embrace every opportunity he had during his lifetime of doing
good. You and I have simply done our duty, and, after all, have to
confess we are unprofitable servants of the one God whom we worship
at different altars.” Having said this he turned away to resume his
visitation of the sick elsewhere.

26.--The weather has been steaming hot for a week, with heavy showers,
and fog at night, making our situation worse and spreading infection.
There is a stench both in and out of doors. Ships continue to come
in and the number of sick to grow; a doctor told me there are over
2000. The nurses, both men and women, that come from Quebec, are a
bad lot. They neglect their duties, smuggle in drink to those of the
sick who can pay for it, and rob the dying. On this lone island, where
everything else is so scarce, whisky can be got by whoever wants it.
The greed of gain overcomes the fear of infection, and it is smuggled
in by small boats from Quebec. Last night there was an uproar in the
camp of the healthy, caused by drunkenness. The military guard is a
hurt to the emigrants. Like soldiers everywhere, they have neither
morals nor decency. Bridget grows worse and poor Ellen is making a bad
recovery, for she exhausts her strength by trying to nurse her sister.
Monaghan and Stanhope talk by the hour, and their converse has put new
heart in them. Hope is better than medicine. Indeed, I have seen scores
die from despondency or indifference to life, who, to all appearance,
ought to have recovered. The two old enemies are the most cordial of
friends and will soon be able to leave. They have agreed to go with
the survivors of their families to the London district and take up
land together. Both are industrious and steady and having buried their
senseless hatred will be of mutual help to one another. Both have money
enough to start them.

24.--Father Moylan has got back for a few days. There is need for more
like him, but Irish priests are few in this part of Canada, and our
people want them alone. The ships now arriving report larger mortality
than those that came in May. This is due to the heat. The condition of
the holds of the ships that come in is unspeakably revolting. Several
buried over a hundred in the ocean, equal to a fifth of the number of
their passengers.

July 2.--Father Moylan wanted me to go to Montreal as a witness before
a committee of enquiry appointed by the legislature. I have no heart
to leave here, and I told him if they would not believe him they would
not believe me. There is no improvement in caring for the sick; the
callousness of the Canadian government to the sufferings of God’s poor
on this island I cannot understand. The weather is now settled, and
beyond the sun being scorchingly hot at midday is as fine as could be
wished.

9th.--This evening I took a walk to the far side of the island and
enjoyed the solitude and the peace of nature. Sitting on the beach, I
watched the sun sink behind the hills. I have a feeling that my own
sun will soon disappear, for I am sad and disheartened beyond all my
experience. Dr Fenwick told me the other day I should leave; that
I needed a change. I cannot, indeed I will not, for I cherish the
secret wish to die where my Aileen left me. A ship has arrived with
31 dead on board; she lost over a fourth of those who embarked on
her at Liverpool. Another out of 470 emigrants, dropped 150 into the
Atlantic. Sure, tragedies like these ought to direct the eyes of the
civilized world to what is happening. My heart is broken at the sight
of thousands of my own dear people, men, women, and little children,
dying for lack of a crust on Canada’s shore.

14.--I think the end has come. Tonight my head throbs and my bones are
sore. Bridget, after hovering a long while between life and death,
sank to rest this morning, and is buried. Ellen leaves by tomorrow’s
steamer, and will be in Huntingdon in a few days. I gave her a message
to uncle. My life has been a failure. May God have pity on me and on
my poor people. Oh, that Aileen were here; that I felt her hand on my
racked forehead.


THE END.




NOTE TO THE SUMMER OF SORROW.


The immigration to Canada in 1847 was the largest on record. During
the season of navigation vessels hearing 90,000 arrived in the St
Lawrence. Of these 20,000 were English, Scotch, and Germans, and on
the vessels that carried them there was no unusual sickness, so that,
in considering the calamity of 1847, they are to be set aside, and the
remaining seventy thousand alone to be dealt with. They were mainly
Irish Roman Catholics, and it was among them that disease and death
reigned. Fifty thousand of them sailed from ports in Ireland; twenty
thousand came by way of Liverpool. 129 ships were required to carry
them. On every vessel fever and dysentery broke out; the emigrants who
sailed from Liverpool faring worst. In crossing the Atlantic these 129
vessels dropped 4092 of their passengers into the deep; while anchored
off Grosse isle 1190 died on board; out of those they sent ashore upon
the island 3389 perished. A monument in its cemetery records that there
was buried, in less than six months, 5424 persons “who, flying from
pestilence and famine in Ireland, found in America but a grave.” That,
however, is only a portion of the mortality. Streaming past Grosse
isle, after a detention that was harmful to them and of no benefit
in protecting the Canadian community against disease, the advancing
army of immigrants swept westward, and wherever it bivouaced, left
a cluster of graves. At Quebec city 712 died, at Montreal 6330, at
Lachine 130, at Cornwall 52, at Kingston 1900, at Toronto 863. Only
where the authorities prepared places of shelter, was any record kept
of the deaths, and these places closed in October. Of the mortality
during the winter no count was kept nor of the hundreds who died
by twos or threes along the routes of travel or in remote country
districts, to which the sorely smitten people penetrated in the hope
of relief. The official record gives the total at 17,000; actually,
about 20,000 died. Adding those who died on shipboard, the number
rises to 24,000. That is, out of every fourteen who left Ireland, five
died--a rate of mortality without parallel in modern times. For this
appalling destruction of human life, the Irish landlords were primarily
responsible in compelling or inducing their tenants to leave Ireland
without making adequate provision for their sustenance. For their
treatment on shipboard, the owners, or charterers of the vessels, and
the officers in command are accountable. It is humiliating to state
that no effort was made by the officials at Quebec to punish the
captains and mates of vessels who had maltreated passengers. It was
notorious that the poor emigrant had been robbed in measuring out his
scanty allowance of biscuit, meal, and water, and that the quality
was detestable, yet there is only one case on record of a captain
being brought to account. The master of the Birnam was charged with
cheating in the allowance of water. By confessing judgment and paying
a paltry fine, he avoided trial and went free! No class of men more
abuse the power their position gives them than the officers of ships.
The emigrant has always been badly treated; is to this day shamefully
used. Steam has shortened the voyage and made it more bearable, while
government requirements as to space and accommodation are more liberal,
but there are steamships which come to Quebec whose passengers tell
of their voyage being an ordeal of starvation and neglect--of petty
tyranny on the part of hectoring ship-officers, of food being thrown
before them of such execrable quality and so badly cooked as to turn
the stoutest stomach. Desirous of hurrying to their destination and
knowing their inability to contend with powerful companies, the
grievances of the poverty-stricken and friendless immigrant are
unrecorded in our courts.

For the tragedy enacted at Grosse isle in 1847, and its sad scenes
re-enacted in every town and city west of it, from Quebec to Sandwich,
the Canadian government is accountable, and the responsibility for the
death of the twenty thousand laid in premature graves lies at the door
of Sherwood and his ministers. The letters and reports of Dr Douglas
show they were fully acquainted with the awful state of affairs at
Grosse isle from the landing of the first sick emigrants, yet took
no adequate steps in response. There never was a calamity that could
have been more easily averted; there never was waste of life that
could have been more easily prevented. The British government did its
part. Communication was slow then, and it was past the middle of June
before accounts of the dreadful state of matters at Grosse isle reached
Britain. On the 18th, the Imperial government sent a despatch asking
the Canadian authorities to take vigorous action to relieve it and
promising to pay the cost. On receipt of this despatch, the Canadian
government became lavish enough, and the following year presented a
bill for some $700,000, which the Imperial authorities paid without
enquiry. Where that money went, it is useless now to enquire; assuredly
little of it went to feed the famishing immigrant. The efficiency
of the action of the government can be judged by one fact--it was
not until the end of August it had provided sufficient sheds for the
sick at Grosse isle to permit of the sexes being separated. While
no Canadian can look back upon 1847 without a feeling of shame for
the conduct of our public men, they entertain an honest pride in the
devotion of the clergy and physicians. Thus, out of 42 Roman Catholic
priests who volunteered to visit Grosse isle 19 caught the fever, and
4 died. Out of the 16 Episcopal clergymen who responded to the call of
Bishop Mountain, 7 took ill and 2 died. Of the 26 doctors, 22 fell ill
and 4 died. The same devotion was shown elsewhere, doctors, nurses, and
ministers, in the hope of doing good to the sick and dying, walking
into danger. One clergyman associated with this district, Rev Wm.
Dawes, died from the fever at St Johns. The mayor of Montreal, J. T.
Mills, after doing invaluable work in providing for the sick, caught
the contagion and died.



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