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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.