If it had not been for the game shot in the woods and the abundance of
bass and pickerel caught in the bay, provisions would have been scarce
at the new fort before summer opened. The heavy stock brought overland
during the long march had served them well, but it was drawing near to
an end, and all awaited with interest, not to say anxiety, the return of
the messengers from York. When they did come, they reported that the
trail was open for pack horses, and that supplies already purchased
would soon be on the way.
In the meantime progress went on in the little settlement. The soldiers'
quarters were completed and made comfortable; the pile-driving for the
prospective bridge was finished, and even the stone walls of the new
fort were in progress of erection. In agriculture something had also
been done, for Indian corn and potatoes were growing well in the
habitants' clearings.
What little they heard of the progress of the war was satisfactory, and
during the long, bright evenings, the day's work being done, the
stringency of discipline was often relaxed. Then officers and men, with
the exception of those on duty, would give themselves up to relaxation
and pleasure.
Canoes had been purchased from the Indians, and swimming in the bay, as
well as spinning over its waters, soon became of nightly occurrence, and
none among the men enjoyed the sport better than Harold. So one evening,
when the woods were green, he took Helen for their first long paddle.
Captain Cummings and the Chaplain occupied a second canoe, while Sir
George and Captain Payne enjoyed a quiet smoke as they strolled along
the shore. The two birch-barks struck out past the northern end of the
island and paddled abreast toward the mouth of the harbor. In the west
the sun was setting in a golden flame behind the trees, while above them
the blue vault was dotted with little grey clouds, fretted with spangles
of silver. Scarcely a ripple disturbed the lake. Now and then a white
gull flew from side to side, and a sportive pickerel splashed the water
as he rose above the surface.
In a little while, Lieutenant Smith and the Doctor joined them, paddling
over from the opposite shore. They had been hunting for partridge.
"What success?" called out Harold.
"Only two brace," was the answer.
"Why not come with us for an hour's run?"
"All right," and they dropped to the opposite side of Harold's canoe.
"What a solitary outlook!" said Helen, casting her eye from shore to
shore. "Not another boat to be seen, and on land nothing but woods."
"It's a mighty picturesque spot, though," said the Chaplain, who was
using his paddle a few yards to the right. "It is like the sea of glass
spoken of in Revelations, reflecting the sky of the Orient."
"Or like the paradise of the houries," cried Captain Cummings, "where
the wood nymphs bathe in the lake and bask in the golden sunlight."
"It is the promise of a fertile country," said Lieutenant Smith, "which
needs the woodsman's axe to clear it, and the toil of the settler to
cover it with happy homes."
"Yes, and to make it yield its thirty, sixty and a hundred fold," echoed
the Chaplain.
"Mon Dieu! but you are all wrong," exclaimed Beaumont, taking off his
hat and shaking his curly head. "It is just the forest of Penetang,
where the Iroquois and Hurons fought for ages, and where the Jesuits of
my people shed their life's blood and died among a race of unbelievers."
"That means, Doctor, that it resembles itself," chimed in Helen, with a
laugh. "You are echoing ancient history--I would say it is like a
Quaker's hood, the water is the face of the wearer, the tall trees all
round it are the edge of the bonnet, the mouth of the harbor is the
chin, and the little islands beyond are the untied strings."
A general laugh followed.
"Bravo!" shouted Cummings. "But what are you going to do with my nymphs
in your Quaker bonnet?"
"Put them behind the island where they cannot be seen," was her answer.
"There are nymphs there already," cried the Doctor, "but instead of
behind the island, they are in front of it."
And, glancing back, they could see the Indian women bathing.
"I suppose the time will soon come when this little harbor will have
ships on it," said Helen, to change the subject.
"Yes," returned Harold. "Sir George brought instructions with him from
England to build here the first brig."
"And when will he commence?"
"As soon as a saw mill can be built--not long to wait."
"So there are lots of things in store for us, Mrs. Manning," put in the
Chaplain, with a laugh, "even if we have taken up our abode in a wooden
country."
"Not a wooden country, Mr. Evans, but a country of woods."
"And pray, what is the difference?"
"As much difference as there is between a horse chestnut and a chestnut
horse."
Again a ringing laugh was carried far out over the waters.
"We men should always have you with us, Mrs. Manning, to keep away the
blues!" exclaimed the Chaplain, "and to that end I am just praying for
that castle of ours to be speedily finished."
"One would think," returned Helen, elevating her eyebrows, "when the
builders work so hard, that the castle does not need your prayers. Would
it not be better to pray for the arrival of a lady companion for the
only lady in the camp, lest she might get the blues?"
"That's what I say," cried the Doctor, energetically. "It's a deuced
shame to have Madame alone at the fort without a single lady friend, and
the sooner we secure a suitable companion for her the better."
"Rather rough on you, Manning!" exclaimed Cummings, serenely.
"'Pon my word, Doctor, I'll have to call you out, even if you are a
Frenchman," said Harold, with a laugh.
"You know what I mean," returned the young man, his face flushing. "It
was a Frenchman's thought. I cannot think fast in English, you know."
"Worse and worse!" exclaimed Cummings, with a laugh.
Harold bit his lip.
"How pretty that sunset is, with its deep golden yellow, so different
from England!" said Helen, who did her best to repress a sigh. With all
these men around her, even with her husband by her side, she was still
alone.
"Yes, and with forest and lake, and sky and island, there is a
fascinating beauty."
"The Indians say that to the north and west throughout the Georgian Bay
the islands are like the leaves of the forest, they cannot be counted,"
Smith remarked.
"Still new fields to conquer," added Harold.
"New beauties to explore," said the Chaplain.
The canoes had almost reached the "glittering sands" to the right of the
mouth of the harbor. The sun had set, and the gloaming was coming upon
them with the placid stillness of a summer night.
"Suppose we return," suggested Helen. "It will be dark by the time we
reach the shore."
"Paddle gently," ejaculated Smith in a low voice. "Let us wait a bit.
You see those bushes beyond the sandy beach. Three deer come down there
every evening to water--a buck with growing antlers and two does. If you
sit still and do not speak they will not notice you. The Doctor and I
will creep up a little nearer."
Smith, who was the crack shot of the party, picked up his rifle, while
Beaumont, the skilled canoeist, paddled noiselessly toward the shore.
The former had only time to creep under cover of the bushes to a spot
where an open view could be obtained, when the deer, with heads erect
and led by the stag, marched slowly down to the water's edge.
Not a paddle of the watchers moved, and scarcely a muscle. Beaumont sat
in his canoe grounded on the beach, with eyes fixed on the deer, for he
could just discern them beyond a stretch of sand. But Smith was
invisible. A few moments of silence and suspense. . . with head bent
forward the stag waded into the water, a doe on either side. Bang! went
the rifle. The stag reared and fell forward with a splash. Quick as
lightning his mates turned and fled to the woods, while a cheer rang out
from the men in the canoes, as they paddled over to the spot.
"It was pitiful to see the poor does," said Helen, sensitively.
"But it was a capital shot," returned Harold. "I was doubtful if Smith
could do it in the gathering darkness. It will make a good addition to
our vanishing larder."
When they drew near Beaumont and Smith had dragged the handsome buck
further on to the beach.
"Will it be safe to leave him here until the men come for him?" Smith
asked, as he received the congratulations.
"I doubt it," said Beaumont. "Hark! yonder are wolves howling already.
They must be hungry to be out so soon."
"The buck is too heavy to take in our canoe," said Smith, "unless the
Doctor, the lighter man, can return in one of yours."
"Have him come with us," said Helen, turning to Harold.
"Certainly," was his answer. "There will be no danger with such a
perfect canoeist."
In a few more minutes they were paddling homeward. The half-moon was
hovering directly above them, and its sheen glowed in silvery light upon
the water.
"Give us a French boat song, Doctor," said the Chaplain, who knew that
he had a rich tenor voice.
"Not before miladi," was his answer. "If Madame will favor us first, I
will follow."
"What will you have?" said Helen.
"A song of the chase or a boat song, we don't care which," said Smith.
"Well," replied Helen, with a smile at the ardor of the men. "If you can
imagine it is morning instead of evening, perhaps Scott's 'Hunting Song'
will do."
The paddles almost ceased plying, and in the still night, her sweet
contralto voice filled the air from shore to shore.
"'Waken lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green.
Now we come to chant our lay,
'Waken lords and ladies gay.
"'Waken lords and ladies gay!
To the greenwood haste away.
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed.
You shall see him brought to bay,
'Waken lords and ladies gay.
"Louder, louder, chant the lay,
'Waken lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we;
Time! stern huntsman! who can balk,
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk?
Think of this and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay!"
Sweetly the echoes died away over the water, thanks of appreciation were
murmured, and they were calling upon Beaumont to fulfil his promise when
another song was wafted from the shore towards them.
"Why, that's Bateese," cried the Doctor. "He can sing better than I can.
Listen to him to-night, mine will keep for another day."
"Hearken!" whispered Helen. "How quaint it is!"
Plus jolie femme ees nice an' neat,
I sorry ven I leave 'er,
Mit eyes so blue an' lips so sweet
She's cunnin' as de beaver.
She love me well, dis gal of mine,
For her I toe de scratch, sir;
Ba gosh! her name is Emmiline
An' I will be her match, sir.
For she was reeche, wid pater's gold
An' farm down by de rivare;
But mon cheval, it had be sold
An' all my tings, pis aller.
But now I work so hard again
To make up for my losses;
An' nevare more will give her pain
But cover her wid kisses.
An' from dis time I'll work and wait
As never yet did lover;
An' pray Mon Dieu to bless our fate
An' make her mine forever.
Den my sweet vife, ma fille so true,
Wid my fond arms around her,
Vill bless ma life, sweet entre nous,
An' make me still de fonder.
An' when de leetle garcon come
An' fille so p'tite an' jolie,
We bless de Lord an' for de same
Will give him all de glory.
The last verse almost took Helen's breath away, and, forgetting all
about Beaumont's song, she bade the officers good-night, and with
Harold hastened on shore to their own dwelling.