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.”