AN UNHAPPY RIVER.
"Pools and shadows merge
Beneath the branches, where the rushes lean
And stumble prone; and sad along the verge
The marsh-hen totters. Strange the branches play
Above the snake-roots in the dark and wet,
Adown the hueless trunks, this summer day.
Strange things the willows whisper."
J. F. H.
"There is a story among the old people," said Agapit, "that a band of
Acadiens, who evaded the English at the time of the expulsion, sailed
into this Bay in a schooner. They anchored opposite Sleeping Water, and
some of the men came ashore in a boat. Not knowing that an English ship
lay up yonder, hidden by a point of land, they pressed back into the
woods towards Sleeping Water Lake. Some of the English, also, were on
their way to this lake, for it is historic. The Acadiens found traces of
them and turned towards the shore, but the English pursued over the
marshes by the river, which at last the Acadiens must cross. They threw
aside their guns and jumped in, and, as one head rose after another,
the English, standing on the bank, shot until all but one were killed.
This one was a Le Blanc, a descendant of René Le Blanc, that one reads
of in 'Evangeline.' Rising up on the bank, he found himself alone.
Figure the anguish of his heart,--his brothers and friends were dead. He
would never see them again, and he turned and stretched out a hand in a
supreme adieu. The English, who would not trouble to swim, fired at him,
and called, 'Go to sleep with your comrades in the river.'
"'They sleep,' he cried, 'but they will rise again in their children,'
and, quite untouched by their fire, he ran to his boat, and, reaching
the ship, set sail to New Brunswick; and in later years his children and
the children of the murdered ones came back to the Bay, and began to
call the river Sleeping Water, and, in time, the lake, which was Queen
Anne's Lake, was also changed to Sleeping Water Lake."
"And the soldiers?"
"Ah! you look for vengeance, but does vengeance always come? Remember
the Persian distich:
"'They came, conquered, and burned,
Pillaged, murdered, and went.'"
"I do not understand this question thoroughly," said Vesper, with
irritation, "yet from your conversation it seems not so barbarous a
thing that the Acadiens should have been transported as that those who
remained should have been so persecuted."
"Now is your time to read 'Richard.' I have long been waiting for your
health to be restored, for it is exciting."
"That is the Acadien historian you have spoken of?"
"Yes; and when you read him you will understand my joy at the venerable
letter you showed me. You will see why we blame the guilty Lawrence and
his colleagues, and not England herself, for the wickedness wrought her
French children."
Vesper smoked out his cigar in silence. They had left the village street
some distance behind them, and were now walking along a flat, narrow
road, having a thick, hedge-like border of tangled bushes and wild
flowers that were agitated by a gentle breeze, and waved out a sweet,
faint perfume on the night air. On either side of them were low, grassy
marshes, screened by clumps of green.
"We are arrived at last," said Agapit, pausing on a rustic bridge that
spanned the road; "and down there," he went on, in a choking voice, "is
where the bones of my countrymen lie."
Vesper leaned over the railing. What a sluggish, silent, stealthy river!
He could perceive no flow in its reluctant waters. A few willows,
natives, not French ones, swayed above it, and close to its edge grew
the tall grasses, rustling and whispering together as if imparting
guilty secrets concerning the waters below.
"Which way does it go?" murmured Vesper; but Agapit did not hear him,
for he was eagerly muttering: "A hateful river,--I never see a bird
drink from it, there are no fishes in it, the lilies will not grow here,
and the children fall in and are drowned; and, though it has often been
sounded, they can find no bottom to it."
Vesper stared below in silence, only making an involuntary movement when
his companion's cap fell off and struck the face of the dull black
mirror presented to them.
"Let it go," exclaimed Agapit, with a shudder. "Poor as I am, I would
not wear it now. It is tainted," and flinging back the dark locks from
his forehead, he turned his face towards the shore.
"No, I will talk no more about the Acadiens," he said, when Vesper tried
to get him to enter upon his favorite theme, "for, though you are
polite, I fear I shall weary you; we will speak of other things."
The night was a perfect one, and for an hour the two young men walked up
and down the quiet road before the inn, talking at first of the fishing
that was over, and the hunting that would in a few weeks begin.
Vesper would have enjoyed seeking big game in the backwoods, if his
health had permitted, and he listened with suppressed eagerness to
Agapit's account of a moose hunt. The world of sport disposed of, their
conversation drifted to literature, to science and art in general,--to
women and love affairs, and Agapit rambled on excitedly and delightedly,
while Vesper, contenting himself with the briefest of rejoinders,
extracted an acute and amused interest from the entirely novel and
out-of-the-way opinions presented to him.
"Ah! but I enjoy this," said Agapit, at last; "it is the fault of my
countrymen that they do not read enough and study,--their sole fault. I
meet with so few who will discuss, yet I must not detain you. Come in,
come in, and I will give you my 'Richard.' Begin not to read him
to-night, for you could not sleep. I believe," and he raised his brown,
flushed face to the stars above, "that he has done justice to the
Acadien people; but remember, we do not complain now. We are faithful to
our sovereign and to our country,--as faithful as you are to your Union.
The smart of the past is over. We ask only that the world may believe
that the Acadiens were loyal and consistent, and that we do not wish for
reparation from England except, perhaps--" and he hesitated and looked
down at the shabby sleeve of his coat, while tears filled his eyes.
"_Mon Dieu!_ I will not speak of the pitiful economies that I am obliged
to practise to educate myself. And there are other young men more poor.
If the colonial government would give us some help, I would go to
college; for now I hesitate lest I should save my money for my family.
If the good lands that were taken from us were now ours, we should be
rich--"
Vesper liked the young Acadien best in his quiet moods. "Don't worry,"
he said, consolingly; "something will turn up. Get me that book, will
you?"
Vesper paused for an instant when he entered his room. On a table by his
bed was placed a tray, covered by a napkin. Lifting the napkin, he
discovered a wing of cold chicken with jelly, thin slices of bread and
butter, and a covered pitcher of chocolate.
He poured himself out a cup of the chocolate, and murmuring, "Here's to
the Lady of the Sleeping Water Inn," seized one of the two volumes that
Agapit had given him, and, throwing himself into an easy chair, began to
read.
One by one the hours slipped away, but he did not move in his chair,
except to put out a hand at regular intervals and turn a leaf. Shortly
before daybreak a chill wind blew up the Bay, and came floating in the
window. He threw down the book, rose slowly to his feet, and looked
about him in a dreamy way. He had been transported to a previous century
and to another atmosphere than this peaceful one.
He shivered sensitively, and, going to the window, closed it, and stood
gazing at the faint flush in the sky. "O God! it is true," he muttered,
drearily, "we are sent into this world to enact hell. Goethe understood
that. And what a hell of long years was enacted on these shores!"
"The devils," he went on, in youthful, generous indignation; "they had
no pity, not even after years of suffering on the part of their
victims."
His eyes smarted, his head ached. He put his hand to his eyes, and, when
it came away wet, he curled his lip. He had not shed tears since he was
a boy.
Then he threw himself on his bed, and thoughts of his father mingled
with those of the Acadiens. An invincible melancholy took possession of
him, and burying his face in his arms, he lay for a long time with his
whole frame quivering in emotion.