Bedimm'd
The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war.
SHAKSPEARE.
At day-break, the vessels of La Tour and Stanhope spread their sails to
a light wind, which bore them slowly from the harbor of St. John's. The
fort long lingered in their view, and the richly wooded shores and
fertile fields gradually receded, as the rising sun began to shed its
radiance on the luxuriant landscape. But the morning, which had burst
forth in brightness, was soon overcast with clouds; and the light, which
had shone so cheeringly on hill and valley, like the last gleams of
departing hope, became shrouded in gloom and darkness. Still, however,
they kept on their course; and by degrees the wind grew stronger, and
the dead calm of the sea was agitated by its increasing violence.
The confines of Acadia, which were then undefined, stretched along the
borders of the bay, presenting a vast and uncultivated tract, varying
through every shade of sterility and verdure; from the bare and
beetling promontory, which defied the encroaching tide, the desert
plain, and dark morass, to the impervious forest, the sloping upland,
and the green valley, watered by its countless streams. A transient
sun-beam, at times, gilded this variegated prospect, and again the
flitting clouds chequered it with their dark shadows, till the dense
vapor, which hung over the water, at length arose, and formed an
impenetrable veil, excluding every object from the sight.
Night closed in prematurely; the ships parted company, and, in the
increasing darkness, there was little prospect of joining again; nor was
it possible for either to ascertain the situation of its partner. La
Tour's vessel had out-sailed the other, through the day; and he had so
often navigated the bay, and rivers of the coast, that every isle and
headland were perfectly familiar to him. But Stanhope had little
practical knowledge of its localities, and, not caring to trust
implicitly to his pilot, he proceeded with the utmost caution, sounding
at convenient distances, lest he should deviate from the usual course,
and run aground on rocks, or in shallow water. Though with little chance
of success, he caused lights to be hung out, hoping they might attract
the attention of La Tour; but their rays could not penetrate the heavy
mist, which concealed even the nearest objects from observation. Signal
guns were also fired at intervals, but their report mingled with the
sullen murmur of the wind and waves, and no answering sound was heard on
the solitary deep. Apprehensive that they approached too near the land,
in the gloom and uncertainty which surrounded them, Stanhope resolved to
anchor, and wait for returning day.
This resolution was generally approved; for, among the adventurers who
accompanied him, Stanhope could number few expert seamen, and the
natural fears of the inexperienced were heightened by superstitious
feelings, at that time prevalent among all classes of people. Many
seemed persuaded that they were suffered to fall into danger, as a
judgment for joining with papists, in a cause of doubtful equity; and
they expressed a determination to relinquish all further concern in it,
should they be permitted to reach the destined shore in safety.
Arguments, at such a moment, were useless; and Arthur, perplexed and
anxious, yet cautious to conceal his disquietude, passed the whole of
that tedious night in watch upon the deck.
Another dawn revived the hopes of all,--but they were only transient;
the tempest, which had been so long gathering, was ready to burst upon
their heads. Clouds piled on clouds darkened the heavens, the winds blew
with extreme violence, and the angry waves, crested with foamy wreaths,
now bore the vessel mountain high, then sunk with a tremendous roar,
threatening to engulph it in the fearful abyss. Still the ship steered
bravely on her course, in defiance of the raging elements; and Stanhope
hoped to guide her safely to a harbor, at no great distance, where she
might ride out the storm at anchor, for destruction appeared inevitable,
if they remained in the open sea. This harbor lay at an island, near the
entrance of the river Schoodic, or St. Croix; and was much frequented by
the trading and fishing vessels of New-England and Acadia. Already they
seemed to gain the promised haven, and every eye was eagerly directed to
it, with the almost certain prospect of release from danger and
suspense.
It was necessary to tack, to enter the channel of the river; and, at
that fatal moment, the wind struck the mainmast with a force which
instantly threw it over-board; and the ship, cast on her beam-ends by
the violence of the shock, lay exposed to a heavy sea, which broke over
her deck and stern. The crew, roused by their immediate hazard, used
every exertion to right the vessel; and Stanhope, who had not abandoned
the helm since the first moment of peril, managed, with admirable
dexterity, to bear her off from the dangerous shore, to which she was
continually impelled by the wind and tide. But another blast, more
fierce than the former, combined with the waves, to complete the work of
destruction. The vessel was left a mere hulk; and the rudder, their last
hope, torn away by the appalling concussion, she was driven among the
breakers, which burst furiously around her.
"The ship is gone!" said Stanhope, with unnatural calmness, as he felt
it reel, and on the verge of foundering; "save yourselves, if it is not
too late!"
A boat had been fortunately preserved amidst the general wreck; and with
the vehemence of despair, they precipitated themselves into it. It
seemed perilous, indeed, to trust so frail a bark, and heavy laden as it
was, amidst the boiling surge; but it was their only resource, and, with
trembling anxiety, they ventured upon the dangerous experiment. Stanhope
was the last to enter; and with silent, and almost breathless caution,
they again steered towards the island, from which they had been so
rudely driven. Some fishermen, who had found a refuge there from the
storm, and witnessed the distress, which they were unable, sooner, to
relieve, came to their assistance, and in a short time all were safely
landed, and comfortably sheltered in huts, which had been erected by the
frequenters of the island.
Stanhope's solicitude respecting La Tour was relieved by the fishermen,
several of whom had seen his vessel early on that morning, standing out
for Penobscot Bay; and though slightly damaged, they had no doubt she
would weather the storm, which was, probably, less violent there, than
in the more turbulent Bay of Fundy. Arthur was desirous of rejoining
him, as soon as possible; to report his own misfortune, and assist in
the execution of those plans, which had induced the voyage. But his men,
in general, were still reluctant to complete their late engagement; they
regarded the disaster which had so recently placed their lives in
jeopardy as a signal interposition of Providence, and they resolved to
obey the warning, and return to their respective homes. Stanhope, vexed
with their wavering conduct, and convinced that he could not place any
reliance on their services, made no attempt to detain them. The Scots,
and a few of his own people, still adhered to him: and he hired a small
vessel, which lay at the island, intending to proceed to Penobscot as
soon as the weather would permit.
The storm continued through that day;--the evening, also, proved dark
and tempestuous; but Stanhope, exhausted by fatigue, slept soundly on a
rude couch, and beneath a shelter that admitted both wind and rain. He
was awake, however, by the earliest dawn, and actively directing the
necessary arrangements for his departure. The storm had passed away; not
a cloud lingered in the azure sky, and the first tinge of orient light
was calmly reflected from the waves, which curled and murmured around
the beautiful island they embraced. The herbage had put on a deeper
verdure, and the wild flowers of summer sent forth a richer fragrance on
the fresh and balmy air. The moistened foliage of the trees displayed a
thousand varying hues; and, among their branches, innumerable birds
sported their brilliant plumage, and warbled their melodious notes, as
if rejoicing in the restored serenity of nature.
Arthur had wandered from the scene of busy preparation; he was alone
amidst this paradise of sweets, but his heart held intercourse with the
loved and distant object of his hopes, whose image was ever present to
his fancy. He stood against the ruins of a fort, which had been built
almost forty years before, by the Sieur de Monts, who, on that spot,
first planted the standard of the king of France, in Acadia.
Circumstances soon after induced him to remove the settlement he had
commenced there, across the bay to Port-Royal; the island was neglected
by succeeding adventurers, and his labors were suffered to fall into
ruin. Time had already laid his withering finger upon the walls, and
left his mouldering image amid the fair creations of the youthful world.
Fragments, overgrown with moss and lichen, strewed the ground; the
creeping ivy wreathed its garlands around the broken walls, and lofty
trees had struck their roots deep into the foundations, and threw the
shadow of their branches across the crumbling pile.
The lonely and picturesque beauty of the scene, and the associations
connected with it, at first diverted the current of Arthur's thoughts;
but Luciè soon resumed her influence over his imagination. Yet a
painful impression, that he had wasted some moments in this dream of
fancy, which should have been spent in action, shortly aroused him from
his musing; and, as he felt the airy vision dissolve, he almost
unconsciously pronounced the name most dear to him.
That name was instantly repeated,--but so low, that he might have
fancied it the tremulous echo of his own voice, but for the startling
sigh which accompanied it, and struck him with almost superstitious awe.
He turned to see if any one was near, and met the eyes of father
Gilbert, fixed on him with a gaze of earnest, yet melancholy, enquiry.
The cowl, which generally shaded his brow, was thrown back, and his
cheeks, furrowed by early and habitual grief, were blanched to even
unusual paleness. He grasped a crucifix in his folded hands, and his
cold, stern features, were softened by an expression of deep sorrow,
which touched the heart of Stanhope. He bent respectfully before the
holy man, but remained silent, and uncertain how to address him.
"You have been unfortunate, young man," said the priest, after a
moment's pause; "but, remember that the evils of life are not inflicted
without design; and happy are they, who early profit by the lessons of
adversity!"
"I have escaped unharmed, and with the lives of all my companions,"
returned Stanhope; "I should, therefore, be ungrateful to repine at the
slight evil which has befallen me; but you were more highly favored, to
reach a safe harbor, before the tempest began to rage!"
"Storms and sunshine are alike to me," he answered; "for twenty years I
have braved the wintry tempests, and endured the summer heats, often
unsheltered in the savage desert; and still I follow, wherever the
duties of my holy calling lead, imparting to others that consolation,
which can never again cheer my wearied spirit. Leave me, now, young
man," he added, after a brief silence; "your duty calls you hence; and
why linger you here, and dream away those fleeting moments, which can
never be recalled?"
"Perhaps I merit that reproof," said Stanhope, coloring highly; "but I
have not been inattentive to my duty, and I am, even now, in readiness
to depart."
"Pardon me, my son, if I have spoken harshly," returned the priest; "but
I would urge you to hasten your departure. La Tour, ere this, has
reached Penobscot; he is too rash and impetuous to delay his purpose,
and one hour may turn the scale to victory or defeat."
Stanhope answered only by a gesture of respect, as he turned away from
him; and he proceeded directly to the beach, where his vessel lay,
reflecting, as he went along, on the singularity of father Gilbert's
sudden appearance, and wondering why he should have repeated the name of
Luciè, and with such evident emotion. The agitation he had betrayed, on
meeting her in the garden at St. John's, was not forgotten; and Arthur
had longed, yet dared not, to ask some questions which might lead to an
elucidation of the seeming mystery.
The sun had scarcely risen, when Stanhope left the island of St. Croix;
the wind was fair and steady, and the sea retained no traces of its
recent turbulence, except some fragments of the wreck, which floated
around. Their vessel was but a poor substitute for the one which they
had lost, but it sailed well, and answered the purpose of their short
voyage; and the crew were stout in heart and spirits, notwithstanding
their late disasters. Stanhope particularly regretted the loss of their
fire-arms and ammunition, though he had fortunately obtained a small
supply from the people at the island. Early in the afternoon they
entered the bay of Penobscot, and Stanhope directed his course
immediately towards the fort; he ventured, at no great distance, to
reconnoitre, and was surprised that he had, as yet, seen nothing of La
Tour. The sun at length declined behind the western hills, leaving a
flood of golden light upon the waveless deep. The extensive line of
coast, indented by numerous bays, adorned with a thousand isles of every
form and size, presented a rich and boundless prospect; and, graced with
the charms of summer, and reposing in the calm of that glowing twilight,
it seemed almost like a region of enchantment.
The serenity and beauty of such a scene was more deeply enjoyed, from
the contrast which it presented to the turbulence of the preceding day;
and Stanhope lingered around the coast, till warned by the gathering
gloom that it was time to seek a harbor, where they might repose in
security through the night. Trusting to the experience of his pilot, he
entered what is called Frenchman's Bay, and anchored to the eastward of
Mount Desert island. Night seemed to approach reluctantly, and gemmed
with her starry train, she threw a softer veil around the lovely scenes,
which had shone so brightly beneath the light of day. The wild solitudes
of nature uttered no sound; the breeze had ceased its sighing, and the
waves broke gently on the grassy shore. The moon rode high in the
heavens, pouring her young light on sea and land; and the summit of the
Blue Hills was radiant with her silver beams.